Rover had been gazing wistfully into Arthur's face, as if he wondered what was going on that made them all so sober, and now he gently laid his paw upon his hand. Arthur caressed him fondly, saying--
"Oh, Rover, dear good fellow, how I wish I could have you for company."
"I wish you could," said John, "but I don't think it would be right to leave him, for Mr. Martin might not wish to have him."
John now untied his horse, saying,
"Try to be contented for mother's sake, dear Arthur."
Many years after, when John was a middle-aged man, he told me that nothing in his whole life had made him feel worse than leaving little Arthur behind him, that day. "I can see the poor little fellow now," said he, "just as he looked standing at the gate, weeping bitterly."
Rover refused at first to leave Arthur, but John lifted him into the wagon, and drove off.
It was a lonely evening to Arthur. There was no frolic with Rover and the children on the green; no kind mother's voice to call him in; no affectionate good-night kiss for the little stranger. Mr. and Mrs. Martin were very kind-hearted people, but they had little sympathy with a child, and made no conversation with him. There was no hardship imposed on Arthur; indeed they required less of him than he had been accustomed to doing at home, and had he been a courageous, light-hearted boy like his brother James, he would soon have been very happy in his new home. But we have said he was shy and sensitive; like a delicate plant he needed sunshine to develope his nature, and shrank from the rough chilling blast.
None, who has not experienced it, can know any thing of the suffering such a child endures when deprived of the sweet influences of home. Such an one often appears dull and stupid to a careless observer, when there is throbbing under that cold exterior, a heart of the keenest sensibility. Let the bold, healthy, active boy be sent from home, if necessary; a little hardship, and a little struggling with the rougher elements of life, will perchance but strengthen and increase his courage, and prepare him for the conflicts and struggles of after years; but oh, fond mother, keep that delicate, timid child which nestles to thy side with such confiding trust, which trembles at the voice of a stranger, and shrinks like the mimosa, from a rude and unfamiliar touch, under thine own sheltering roof-tree, for a time at least; there seek to develope and strengthen his delicate nature into more manly strength and vigor; there judiciously repress excessive sensibility, and increase confidence in himself and others; if it can possibly be avoided, do not expose him, while a child, to the tender mercies of those who do not understand his peculiar temperament, and who, however kind their feelings, cannot possess his confidence.
We need not dwell on the first weeks of Arthur's stay at Mr. Martin's. They thought him a little homesick, but presumed he would soon get over it; he performed the little tasks they exacted of him with great alacrity, and was quite a favorite with Mrs. Martin, who said he was the most quiet, and well-behaved child she ever saw. At first, Arthur thought of nothing but home, and home-scenes; but he struggled bravely to rise above sad and sorrowful thoughts, and to be contented. "They shall never hear me complain," he said to himself, "and dear mother too shall never know how bad I feel. I want to do my duty, and be a brave boy."