The necessity of giving a reason for refusing a kindness has no relation to what is supposed by some to be the necessity of giving a reason with every command. There is no such necessity. Of course there ought to be a reason in every command. That it _may_ be desirable, sometimes, to explain it, is all my father would allow. 4. Allow a great deal of noise,--as much as is fairly endurable; but, the moment they seem getting beyond their own control, stop the noise at once. Also put a stop at once to all fretting and grumbling. 5. Favor the development of each in the direction of his own bent. Help him to develop himself, but do not _push_ development. To do so is most dangerous. 6. Mind the moral nature, and it will take care of the intellectual. In other words, the best thing for the intellect is the cultivation of the conscience, not in casuistry, but in conduct. It may take longer to arrive; but the end will be the highest possible health, vigor, and ratio of progress. 7. Discourage emulation, and insist on duty,--not often, but strongly. Having written these out, chiefly from notes I had made of a long talk with my father, I gave them to Percivale to read. "Rather--ponderous, don't you think, for weaving into a narrative?" was his remark. "My narrative is full of things far from light," I returned. "I didn't say they were heavy, you know. That is quite another thing." "I am afraid you mean generally uninteresting. But there are parents who might make them useful, and the rest of my readers could skip them." "I only mean that a narrative, be it ever so serious, must not intrench on the moral essay or sermon." "It is much too late, I fear, to tell me that. But, please, remember I am not giving the precepts as of my own discovery, though I _have_ sought to verify them by practice, but as what they are,--my father's." He did not seem to see the bearing of the argument. "I want my book to be useful," I said. "As a mother, I want to share the help I have had myself with other mothers." "I am only speaking from the point of art," he returned. "And that's a point I have never thought of; any farther, at least, than writing as good English as I might." "Do you mean to say you have never thought of the shape of the book your monthly papers would make?" "Yes. I don't think I have. Scarcely at all, I believe." "Then you ought." "But I know nothing about that kind of thing. I haven't an idea in my head concerning the art of book-making. And it is too late, so far at least as this book is concerned, to begin to study it now." "I wonder how my pictures would get on in that way." "You can see how my book has got on. Well or ill, there it all but is. I had to do with facts, and not with art." "But even a biography, in the ordering of its parts, in the arrangement of its light and shade, and in the harmony of the"--