Little Mary, with her eyes sparkling in tears, now ventured with,
“Do, father, let us go—won’t you, father?”
This was said with such a beseeching voice and hopeful look, that for the instant the storm was lulled; and had the mother joined her children in their petition, perhaps a limited privilege might have been obtained for them. But she failed! The precious moment went by unimproved, and all was lost!
The father would not listen to what his better feelings suggested; so he told the children decidedly that they should not go to the Sunday-school, and if they did not stop crying he would punish them severely. After he left the house, their mother endeavored to console them; but they felt that they had been unjustly treated, and wished to know why they could not go to Sunday-school. Their mother did not attempt to give the reason; for she, too, felt that they had been wronged.
Supper-time came, but the children’s grief had taken their appetite, so their mother excused them from coming to the table. Their father, finding that they were not coming, and knowing the reason, whipped them severely and forced them to come; they sat down and tried to eat, but every mouthful seemed to choke them. The mother’s eyes were dim with tears, and the meal was eaten in silence. The father’s face was flushed, and he hurried through his supper, being anxious to get away from the presence of those whom he had wronged. When he had gone out, the mother again tried to soothe the children, but their father’s absence only gave them the liberty to sob aloud; their mother, fearing that he might return and hear them, bade them go out to the barn and hunt the eggs, and be good children.
“We want to go to Sunday-school and learn to be good,” said they. Every word of this went straight to the heart of the mother. The children went and did what their mother had desired; as they staid out longer than she thought necessary, she became troubled and started in search of them. Hearing George’s voice, she listened and found that he was praying, and Mary was repeating the words after him. A consciousness of having failed in the performance of her duty filled her heart with anguish, and she went into the barn and joined them in prayer; but her faith was weak—she feared her husband more than God. She resolved, however, to make the attempt to plead in behalf of the children; going into the house, she found her husband trying to find something to interest him in an old newspaper. Her heart beat between hope and fear; taking a seat she commenced her petition.
“Is your head turned too?” he sneeringly asked. “I guess, the next thing I know, you’ll have an agency and the pretty loafer lounging around here. But let him come,” he continued; “just let soap-stick come; I’ll kick him out of my house so quick, that he won’t know what hurt him.”
The wife’s heart was too full for utterance, so she said nothing. Construing her silence into contempt, he resumed fiercely.
“You’ve been poking this stuff into the children’s heads yourself, have you? I’ll beat it out of them, mind you!” said he, shaking his fist in the air. The mother’s resolution was gone, and she meekly replied, “No, I have not said anything.” She yielded all for the sake of appeasing her husband. After berating the missionary and making some threats about “this fuss in the family,” Mr. Steele went to bed.
Had this father but consented to “prove all things,” as the apostle had recommended, all of the unhappiness now existing in his family might have been avoided.