Yes. God is the Father of the poorest wretch, who earns his bread by the sweat of his brow; and he may call the greatest monarch brother: there is no difference, except what arises from degrees of goodness. EMILIA. What fine cows.—They are very good to suffer themselves to be milked. DR. BARTLETT. You are mistaken, it is not goodness in those creatures; it is to the wise order of God that all the praise belongs. The milk would be burdensome to them, if we let them hold it, and for this reason they generally come, at the usual hour, to the place where they are milked. WILLIAM. It is certainly very happy for men, that there are cows, for milk is a great dainty. DR. BARTLETT. It is not only a dainty, but a useful necessary provision; without milk we should have neither butter nor cheese. EMILIA. And the sheep—I love the sheep they are so gentle. CHARLES. And they are of great value. Their wool serves to clothe us—where should we find warm covering for our beds if there were no sheep? WILLIAM. What a good God we have! EMILIA. We ought to love him, because he has created all these creatures for us;—but I know not why we kill them, and then eat them up; it seems cruel. DR. BARTLETT. By no means. They were designed for us, for our food; if we were to let all the sheep live, they would soon grow so numerous they would die for want of pasturage. EMILIA. Then men do right, when they kill them? DR. BARTLETT. It is necessary; and they do not foresee, or taste the bitterness of death, if they are killed instantly.—Cruel, indeed, are those, who torment them—they sin against their own souls—and they will be judged without mercy who have not shewn any. He who is guilty of a cruel action has sapped the foundation of content; and the monster, no longer humane, enjoys not human comforts. Nor is he thoughtless, like the beasts of prey; conscience haunts him—he cannot hide himself, nor find darkness thick enough to conceal his crimes. We now returned home, and found Sir Charles and his Lady already in the breakfast parlour. We mentioned the trick Charles had played us, they both laughed; but Sir Charles turned to him, I mean not gravely to reprove you, my son, only to point out to you, that truth is so sacred a thing it ought not to be jested with; lest a reverence for it should imperceptibly wear away, and leave the mind, stripped of its most beautiful ornament, to deck itself in gaudy rags. Farewel, dear mother, I will try to remember all these useful lessons; and to strengthen my good resolutions by your advice, write often to your