“What of that!” returned Henry, biting his lips with vexation, as he saw his mistake; “I don’t care for that!”
Engraved by Chas. Phillips, New York, after a Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds, P.R.A.
Simplicity.
“Never say you don’t care,” said the grandmother, laying her book and spectacles, at once, aside, “never allow yourself to say, I don’t care; for, besides being generally a falsehood, it always shows a bad disposition; and no good ever came of it.”
“But George needn’t feel so smart because he’s a little quicker and more forward than I am,” replied the boy. “I guess, if I lived out of town, I could learn to put dissected maps together, too; why he’s nothing to do, from morning till night, but to study out puzzles!”
“I think,” said Ann, with true womanly spirit taking the aggrieved side, “I think our George ought to know something about it, for he was a whole evening, only last week, putting together the dissected picture uncle William gave me; and I am sure it plagued him just twice as much as this map has you, cousin Henry; but I do not think he meant to be unkind to you, either; and I don’t know why he should, you are always so kind to us: and I’m sure you’re full as forward, and quick to learn any thing as he is; and you know you are about my age, almost two years younger than George.”
“You are a good girl, cousin Ann—and I love you,” said Henry, wiping the tears from his brightening eyes; “you always have such a way to put one in good humor, and reconcile every thing. Now, George, give me your hand; I will acknowledge I was wrong in getting vexed with you, and speaking as I did, especially now you are visiting me; and I ought to do every thing to make your time pass pleasantly. I was wrong, too, in saying I did not care; for I did care. Grandmother, I hope you will forgive me?”
“With all my heart, my child,” said the good woman, folding her arms round the affectionate boy; “God grant you may always be as ready to acknowledge your faults!”
“And now brother is sorry for doing wrong, and has made it all up with cousin George, you will tell us a story, won’t you, dear grandmother?” said Helen, a child of seven years, who was leaning over the arm of Mrs. Gray’s chair.
“And do tell one pitty long,” said little Mary, a lisping infant of three years, laying her curly head in her grandmother’s lap.