"My child," said the mother, "there are many things hard to be understood about God's dealings with us, and I am afraid that a great part of them seem harder than they really are, because we are so ignorant. But you know how I am situated. I don't hear any preaching, nor see those that do, very often; and it's not to be expected that I can clear up these things, as they can." "I wish," interrupted Tom, petulantly, "that the preacher was here. I'd like to ask him; but perhaps he wouldn't like to talk with a poor ignorant boy like me." "Well," continued the mother, "I know _here_"--and she placed her hand upon her heart--"that all God does is just right, however dark it seems, and that satisfies me." Tom was impressed by his mother's faith, but soon objected,-- "Mother, do you think we can always trust our feelings? You said a little while ago that you _felt_ that there would be trouble with the Indians; but nobody expects that. And now you say that you _feel_ that all God does is right. Now, if you are wrong about the Indians, and about father's being in danger from them, how can you be sure that your feelings are right about God?" "Tom," replied she, "I have a great many impressions that come to nothing. But there are _some_ that _never_ do. And I _know_ that God does right; for I _feel_ that he does; and, Tom, we shall see about the Indians;" and she sighed heavily, and rose, and gazed long and earnestly off over the prairie, and towards the woods. Then, seating herself on the bedside, she said, gently,-- "My son, you haven't told me all your troubles yet. Hadn't you better hold nothing back from me?" The lad turned away at this, deeply touched again; "for," thought he, "her feelings are right about me; perhaps they are about God;" and her persevering and delicate solicitude pierced his very soul. "Mother," said he, at length, struggling with emotion, "I don't want to grow up ignorant and useless. And I don't want the children and us all to be so poor and despised;" and the tears came again, and the mother's mingled with his. "I can't bear to have it so, and I _won't_," he added, rising in bed, and speaking with excited energy. "Ah, my poor child," said the mother, "I knew it was that that lay on your mind, and took away your appetite, and made you so unhappy. And I have been praying for a long while that you might feel so." "You didn't want me to be miserable--did you, mother?" asked Tom, in surprise. "God forbid, Tom. But I couldn't wish you to grow up contented with such a life. I have felt that you might do a great deal of good in the world, and I wished you to see it." "But, mother, how can I have things different?" "Tom," returned she, looking searchingly at him, "how have you thought to make them different?" The boy averted his face again, and made no reply for a moment, and then said, softly,-- "I had decided to go away and get learning, and earn my living, and try to be somebody." "And when did you think of starting?"