“To do as he does.”
“Does he know better?”
“Perhaps he does; but that is nothing to you.”
“If he doesn’t, you ought to tell him, mamma.”
“I have told him.”
The little moralist paused and pondered. I tried in vain to divert his mind from the subject.
“I’m sorry papa’s wicked,” said he mournfully, at length, “for I don’t want him to go to hell.” And so saying he burst into tears.
I consoled him with the hope that perhaps his papa would alter and become good before he died—; but is it not time to deliver him from such a parent?
CHAPTER XL
January 10th, 1827.—While writing the above, yesterday evening, I sat in the drawing-room. Mr. Huntingdon was present, but, as I thought, asleep on the sofa behind me. He had risen, however, unknown to me, and, actuated by some base spirit of curiosity, been looking over my shoulder for I know not how long; for when I had laid aside my pen, and was about to close the book, he suddenly placed his hand upon it, and saying,—“With your leave, my dear, I’ll have a look at this,” forcibly wrested it from me, and, drawing a chair to the table, composedly sat down to examine it: turning back leaf after leaf to find an explanation of what he had read. Unluckily for me, he was more sober that night than he usually is at such an hour.