Please God, our little Agnes must not grow up in this sullen habit, for all our sakes, but chiefly for her own, poor child; I felt that in this matter I might be of more use than Edward, who simply does not understand a temper less sunny and open than his own. I pondered and pondered, and, at last, some light broke in upon me. I thought I should get hold of one principle at a time, work that out thoroughly, and then take up the next, and so on, until all the springs of sullenness were exhausted, and all supplies from without stopped. I was beginning to suspect that the laws of habit worked here as elsewhere, and that, if I could get our dear child to pass, say, six weeks without a “fallen countenance,” she might lose this distressing failing for life. I meant to take most of the trouble of this experiment upon myself, but somehow I never can do anything without consulting my husband. I think men have clearer heads than we women; that is, they can see _both_ sides of a question and are not carried off their feet by the one side presented to them. “Well, Edward, our little Agnes does not get over her sulky fits; in fact, they last longer, and are harder to get out of than ever!” “Poor little girl! It is unhappy for her and for all of us. But don’t you think it is a sort of childish _malaise_ she will soon grow out of?” “Now, have you not said, again and again, that a childish fault, left to itself, can do no other than strengthen?” “True; I suppose the fact is I am slow to realise the fault. But you are right. From the point of view of _habit_ we are pledged to deal with it. Have you made any plans?” “Yes; I have been trying to work the thing out on your lines. We must watch the rise of the sullen cloud, and change her thoughts before she has time to realise that the black fit is coming.” “You are right; if we can keep the child for only a week without this settling of the cloud, the mere habit would be somewhat broken.” We had not to wait for our opportunity. At breakfast next day--whether Harry’s porridge looked more inviting than her own, or whether he should not have been helped first, or whether the child had a little pain of which she was hardly aware--suddenly, her eyes fell, brows dropped, lips pouted, the whole face became slightly paler than before, the figure limp, limbs lax, hands nerveless--and our gentle child was transformed, become entirely unlovable. So far, her feelings were in the emotional stage; her injury, whatever it was, had not yet taken shape in her thoughts; she could not have told you what was the matter, because she did not know; but very soon the thinking brain would come to the aid of the quick emotions, and then she would be sulky of fixed purpose. Her father saw the symptoms rise and knew what that would lead to, and, with the promptness which has often saved us, he cried out--