Carl’s cheeks were very red. “Why, father, don’t you know—surely you remember? I wrote about it.” “But surely, my boy, I wrote you about it! Did I not tell you I forgave you utterly?” “O, yes, sir! but then I thought—that you would think”—Carl stopped in confusion. “You thought I must remember the sin, and punish the sinner, even though I had forgiven him? Is that it?” “Yes, sir,” said Carl, low-voiced and troubled. “No,” said Mr. Hammond, and Carl noticed how tender his voice was; “I do not remember anything about it in the sense which you mean. Do you remember my telling you once that God meant fathers to be object lessons to their children, giving them some faint idea, at least, of what kind of a father God would be to those who trusted him?” “Yes, sir,” said Carl. “Very well, then, here on this card, which I would like you to keep in your Bible, is my answer to your question.” The card was a lovely blue celluloid, and had printed on it in gold letters, the words, “I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.” One evening, when Carl was twenty years old, he repeated that verse in a Christian Endeavor prayer meeting, and said that his father’s commentary on it had made him understand it. Then he told, in brief, the story which I have given you. MYRA SPAFFORD. [Illustration: HE REMEMBERED JUST HOW BUNCE LOOKED.] [Illustration: THE STATE HOUSE AT BOSTON.] HOWARD’S WAY. (_Character Studies._) THEY were all in the library after dinner, and were all talking at once, as the Edwards family were inclined to be. “I don’t see why we always have so much more to say than other people seem to,” Lora Edwards had once remarked, setting them all into shouts of laughter. Howard was not talking; his head was bent low over a Latin dictionary. They were waiting for some of the family, because they always gathered at this hour in the library for evening prayers; but Howard, while he waited, saved the minutes, remembering the hard lesson of the morning, and the liability to be interrupted in his study hour. The back parlor door was pushed open and Uncle Edward’s handsome form appeared. “Where is Ashman Square?” he inquired. Several voices at once attempted to answer him. “It is just off of Second Street,” said Lora. And Emma in the same breath said, “It is over by the river somewhere; near Park Street, isn’t it?” Then Dickie, “Why, Lora, it can’t be near Second Street, because Wyeth Avenue runs in there.” “No, it doesn’t; Wyeth Avenue crosses at Third Street.” Then exclamations from at least four: “Why, Lora Edwards! Wyeth Avenue isn’t near Third Street. I think Ashman Square is down by the Lincoln Statue; isn’t it, papa?”