“A wise son maketh a glad father: but a foolish man despiseth his mother.”—Prov. xv. 20.
It was a clear, cold morning in December. Not a cloud was in the sky, and the sun shone brightly, gilding the long icicles that hung from the eaves, and gleaming on the frozen surface of the lake, as though he would have melted them by his kindly smile. But the cold was too intense for that; there was no softening of the ice; no drop hung like a tear from the glittering icicles. Alas! that we should ever find in life hearts colder and harder still, that even kindness fails to melt!
Many persons were skating over the lake—sometimes darting forward with the swiftness of the wind, then making graceful curves to the right or the left, and forming strange figures on the ice. And there were many boys also enjoying themselves as much, although in a different way—sliding along the slippery surface, and making the air ring with their merry laughter.
THE FROZEN LAKE.
One of the gayest of these last was a rosy-cheeked boy, who looked as though care or sorrow had never traced a line on his face. He had just made a very long slide, and stood flushed with the exercise to watch his companions follow him on the glistening line, when Dr. Merton, a medical man, who was taking his morning walk, and had come to the lake to see the skating, lightly touched the boy on the shoulder.
“Paul Fane, is your mother better to-day?”
“Oh, she’s well enough—that’s to say, she’s always ailing,” replied the boy carelessly, still keeping his eye upon the sliders.
“Did she sleep better last night?”