Of all the happy groups that were assembled in our old Commonwealth that night, few we think were happier than this. Rover was by no means a silent witness of the joy. He would not leave Arthur's side a moment, and constantly sought to attract his notice. Arthur had been always very fond of Rover, almost more so than the other children, though he was a great favorite with all, and Rover had missed him since he went away almost as much as Arthur had missed Rover; so it was a joyful re-union on both sides. He was a large dog, of the Newfoundland breed, with shaggy hair. He had beautiful white spots, and long, silky ears, and was a very good-natured dog. He would let Charlie get on his back, and ride him all about the yard; and the boys had made a little sled to which they fastened Rover, and Emma, well wrapped up in her hood and cloak, with her woolen mittens on, would have quite long rides after him; sometimes in the yard, and sometimes in the street.
How much the children had to talk about that night; how many stories to tell Arthur, and questions to ask him in return! Arthur had decided beforehand not to make any complaint, or to say he was unhappy, or homesick; and indeed in the pleasure of being at home again, he almost forgot he had ever been unhappy. He was to stay till Monday morning, and to him those four days seemed a long period of enjoyment, quite too long to be saddened yet by the thoughts of separation. The night settled down on the inmates of the cottage, and sweet sleep sealed up all eyes; even those of the weary mother. The year had brought many trials, and some heavy ones, but there was in spite of them all, much to be thankful for, especially that all her beloved children had been preserved to her, and were so healthy, so promising, and so likely to prove blessings to her. Ah, how long afterwards did she recall that merry evening, and those beaming faces, with a heavy heart!
CHAPTER III.
THE SEPARATION.
Thanksgiving is over! Its dinner, its frolics, its boisterous mirth, are all in the past! It is Sabbath evening. A sadness seems to hang about the party. Lucy had returned to her aunt, with whom she lived. James was to go home that evening. Henry and Arthur in the morning. They with John and their mother, sat thoughtfully around the fire; the younger children were in bed; little was said by any one, but Mrs. Hamilton, wishing to have a more private interview with Arthur, took him to her room. There she questioned him about his new home more particularly. To her amazement, the moment she spoke of his returning, he burst into a flood of tears. Poor Arthur! he meant to be brave, and to hide his troubles, but now that his heart had been warmed by the light of affection and home-joy, the idea of going back was terrible to him. He could not deceive, or keep back any thing. With passionate earnestness, he besought his mother to let him stay at home.
"I will only eat a potatoe and a piece of bread, if you will let me stay, mother; indeed I won't be much of a burden to you, but oh, dear mother, don't send me back there," cried he, sobbing as if his heart would break.
This was a sad trial for Mrs. Hamilton, and she paused to think what was right, and to ask for guidance from on high. It seemed to her that Arthur's dissatisfaction arose from his own weakness of spirit, rather than from anything really disagreeable in his situation. They were kind to him; he was not over-worked; could attend a good school; and would it not be an injury to him, to indulge this excessive love for home, and yield to his entreaties? Would he ever be a man, with courage to face the storms of life, if she, with a woman's weakness, allowed her feelings to prevail over her judgment? It must not be. She must be firm for his sake; cruel as it seemed, it was real kindness, and she trusted he would soon be contented. If not, she could then change her determination if she wished. So she told him once more, that duty and not present enjoyment was to be consulted; that she still thought it was best for him to stay at Mr. Martin's, and she still believed he would find contentment and peace there, in doing his duty. She did not upbraid him, but told him very tenderly, she wished him to acquire more strength of purpose, and to gain the habit of controlling his feelings. If he did not, he could never be happy or useful, and it would be sad indeed to grow up a weak, timid and useless being, who had not strength of character enough to pursue what was right, if difficulties lay in the path. "Whenever you are lonely and sad," said she, "think of me, and how much pleasure you are giving me by staying and doing your duty. Think of your Father in heaven, who watches over you, and will be well-pleased when you try to subdue your faults. Never forget to ask Him for strength to do right, and He will give it, if you ask in sincerity. Remember always that He has placed us in the world to become his children, and grow holy; and it is often through trial, we are made better. You will be a better boy if you conquer your weakness, and become cheerful and contented, than you could have been, had no sacrifice been required of you. My dear child, I do believe God will bless you, and enable you to conquer."
With such words Mrs. Hamilton sought to soothe and strengthen her child, while her own heart was throbbing with painful emotions. She could not sleep that night, for her heart yearned over her darling boy, and she longed to fold him under the shelter of a loving home. She felt that she needed in her own heart more of that perfect submission to God's will which she enjoined on others, and it was only by earnest and humble prayer that she could calm her troubled spirit, and feel trust and confidence that all was for the best. But she had found prayer to be a balm for the wounded spirit in many an hour of suffering, and she now realized the sweetness of that inestimable privilege.
"Oh not a gift or blessing
With this can we compare;
The power which he hath given,
To pour our souls in prayer."