When Johnny was good-natured his face was very pleasant to look upon. His skin was clear and smooth, his eyes looked out from behind their brown lashes with a merry glance, his mouth was small and well-shaped. But no child can fret a great deal without spoiling the face God has given him, and Johnny's mother was really afraid that his little features would be so drawn up by his saying "Oh, dear," that they never would come straight again.
Beside his parents there were others who were greatly troubled at this habit of Johnny's. He was the youngest of six sons, and the pet of them all. But now one of his older brothers, who was in size almost a man, said, one day,—
"What makes Johnny fret so much? I'm tired of hearing him talk in that whining voice."
A few days after this his brother was going to ride, and Johnny ran out to the carriage, crying, in an eager voice, "Charlie, may I go with you?"
"I'm going to make a call, and I'm afraid you'll fret," his brother answered.
Johnny hung his head, looking very much ashamed, but presently he said, softly, "I'm going to be a good boy now, and not fret any more."
Charlie smiled. "Well, then, you may go," he said.
They had scarcely gone half a mile before the little boy forgot his promise, and in a complaining tone, began,—
"I can't take the whip."
"How do you know you can't?" asked his brother.