“Good night, Sidney; there’s a good boy, go and kiss your aunt and make your bow; and I say, my lad, don’t mind those plagues. I’ll talk to them to-morrow, that I will; no one shall be unkind to you in my house.” Sidney muttered something, and went timidly up to Mrs. Morton. His look so gentle and subdued; his eyes full of tears; his pretty mouth which, though silent, pleaded so eloquently; his willingness to forgive, and his wish to be forgiven, might have melted many a heart harder, perhaps, than Mrs. Morton’s. But there reigned what are worse than hardness,--prejudice and wounded vanity--maternal vanity. His contrast to her own rough, coarse children grated on her, and set the teeth of her mind on edge. “There, child, don’t tread on my gown: you are so awkward: say your prayers, and don’t throw off the counterpane! I don’t like slovenly boys.” Sidney put his finger in his mouth, drooped, and vanished. “Now, Mrs. M.,” said Mr. Morton, abruptly, and knocking out the ashes of his pipe; “now Mrs. M., one word for all: I have told you that I promised poor Catherine to be a father to that child, and it goes to my heart to see him so snubbed. Why you dislike him I can’t guess for the life of me. I never saw a sweeter-tempered child.” “Go on, sir, go on: make your personal reflections on your own lawful wife. They don’t hurt me--oh no, not at all! Sweet-tempered, indeed; I suppose your own children are not sweet-tempered?” “That’s neither here nor there,” said Mr. Morton: “my own children are such as God made them, and I am very well satisfied.” “Indeed you may be proud of such a family; and to think of the pains I have taken with them, and how I have saved you in nurses, and the bad times I have had; and now, to find their noses put out of joint by that little mischief-making interloper--it is too bad of you, Mr. Morton; you will break my heart--that you will!” Mrs. Morton put her handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed. The husband was moved: he got up and attempted to take her hand. “Indeed, Margaret, I did not mean to vex you.” “And I who have been such a fa--fai--faithful wi--wi--wife, and brought you such a deal of mon--mon--money, and always stud--stud--studied your interests; many’s the time when you have been fast asleep that I have sat up half the night--men--men--mending the house linen; and you have not been the same man, Roger, since that boy came!” “Well, well” said the good man, quite overcome, and fairly taking her round the waist and kissing her; “no words between us; it makes life quite unpleasant. If it pains you to have Sidney here, I will put him to some school in the town, where they’ll be kind to him. Only, if you would, Margaret, for my sake--old girl! come, now! there’s a darling!--just be more tender with him. You see he frets so after his mother. Think how little Tom would fret if he was away from you! Poor little Tom!”