"Oh, yes; come and get something."
"Let her alone!" growls the father. "I never humor sulky children.
She doesn't deserve any supper."
The mother sighs. While the husband eats greedily, consuming, himself, more than half that is on the table, she takes but a few mouthfuls, and swallows them with difficulty.
After supper, Willy, who is just thirteen, and who has already been bound out as an apprentice to a trade, comes home. He has a tale of suffering to tell. For some fault his master has beaten him until the large purple welts lie in meshes across his back from his shoulders to his hips.
"How comes all this?" asks Mr. Warren. There is not the smallest sign of sympathy in his voice.
Willy relates the cause, and tells it truly. He was something to blame, but his fault needed not the correction of stripes even lightly applied.
"Served you right!" said the father, when the story was ended. "No business to have acted so. Do as you are told, and mind your work, and you'll escape flogging. Otherwise, I don't care how often you get it. You've been spoiled at home, and it'll do you good to toe the mark. Did your master know you were coming home to-night?"
"No, sir," replied the boy, with trembling lips, and a choking voice.
"Then what did you come for? To get pitied? Do right and you'll need no pity."
"Oh, James, don't speak so to the child!" said Mrs. Warren, unable to keep silence.