"Why it is mine, I suppose," said Phonny. "Though if Stuyvesant had not advised me to bring the hatchet in, I suppose that I should not have cut myself." "It was not by bringing the hatchet in, that you cut yourself," said Wallace, "but by stopping to cut with it on the way, contrary to your mother's wishes." "Yes," said Phonny, "I suppose that was it." "So that it was your fault. Now when any person commits a fault," continued Wallace, "he ought to confine the evil consequences of it to himself, as much as he can. Have the evil consequences of your fault, extended yet to any other people, do you think?" "Why, yes," said Phonny, "my mother has had some trouble." "Has she yet had any trouble that you might have spared her?" asked Wallace. "Why--I don't know," said Phonny, "unless I could have bandaged my foot up myself." "If you could have bandaged it up yourself," said Wallace, "you ought to have done so, though I suppose you could not. But now it is your duty to save her, as much as possible, from all other trouble. You ought to find amusement for yourself as much as you can, instead of calling upon her to amuse you, and you ought to be patient and gentle, and quiet and good-humored. "Besides," continued Wallace, "I think you ought to contrive something to do to repay her for the trouble that she has already had with this cut. She was not to blame for it at all, and did not deserve to suffer any trouble or pain." "I don't know what I can do," said Phonny, "to repay her." "It is hard to find any thing for a boy to do to repay his mother, for what she does for him. But if you even _wish_ to find something, and _try_ to find something, it will make you always submissive and gentle toward her, and that will give her pleasure." "Perhaps I might read to her sometimes when she is sewing," said Phonny. "Yes," said Wallace, "that would be a good plan." When this conversation first commenced, Malleville was standing near to Wallace, and she listened to it for a little time, but she found that she did not understand a great deal of it, and she did not think that what she did understand was very interesting. So she went away. She went to the piazza and began to gather up the green leaves which she had been playing with when Phonny had called her to go out to see the chickens. She put these leaves in her apron with the design of carrying them to Phonny, thinking that perhaps it would amuse him to see them. She brought them accordingly to the sofa, and now stood there, holding her apron by the corners, and waiting for Wallace to finish what he was saying. "What have you got in your apron?" said Wallace. "Some leaves," said Malleville. "I am going to show them to Phonny." So she opened her apron and showed Phonny. "They are nothing but leaves," said Phonny, "are they? Common leaves." "No," said Malleville, "they are not common leaves. They are very pretty leaves." Stuyvesant came to look at the leaves. He took up one or two of them.