“Frequently you would get from me a fine large apple, or a choice flower from the garden, to present to him. But the tender and innocent feelings that prompted you to do this have perished. Some wolf has rushed in and destroyed them. Is it not so?”
Alfred sat in thoughtful silence.
“Think, my son,” continued Mrs. Maylie, “how innocent, like gentle lambs, were your feelings until now. When you thought of William, it was with kindness. When you played by his side, it was with a warm, even tender regard. But it is not so now. Some beast of prey has devoured these lambs—these innocent creatures that sported in your bosom. If the angry, raging wolf has not eaten them up, where are they? Before you permitted yourself to feel anger against William, gentle creatures leaped about happily in your breast; but you feel them no longer—only the wolf is there. Will you let him still rage, and devour your lambs, or will you drive him out?”
“I will drive him out, mother, if I can. How shall I do it?” Alfred said earnestly, and with a troubled look.
“By resisting him even unto the death. You have the power. You have weapons that will prevail. Try to forget the fault of William; try to excuse him; think of his good qualities; and assure yourself of what I know to be true—that he never meant to offend you. If the angry wolf growl in your bosom, thrust bravely at him, as you would, were you, weapon in hand, defending a sheepfold; and he will and must retire, or die at your feet. Then innocent lambs will again be seen, and their sports delight your heart. Then you will feel no more anger towards your young friend, but love instead.”
“I don’t think I am angry with William, mother,” Alfred said.
“But you were just now.”
“Yes; but the wolf is no longer in my heart,” the boy replied smiling. “He has been driven out.”
“And innocent creatures can now sport there unharmed. I am glad of it. Do not again, Alfred, do not any of you, my children, permit ravenous beasts to prey upon the lambs of your flocks. Fly from them in as much terror as you would fly from the presence of a wolf, a tiger, or a lion, were one to meet you in a forest. They are equally hurtful—one injures the body, the other the soul.”
“Tell us now, mother, about the wolf that had nearly killed uncle Harper when he was a little boy no bigger than me,” spoke up Charley, the youngest of Mrs. Maylie’s treasures.