Having definitely abandoned the unthinking, hit-or-miss method of child
discipline practised by the generality of parents, Elizabeth Brewster
and her husband found themselves facing a variety of problems. To be
exact, there were three of them; Carroll, with his somewhat timid and
yielding, yet too self-conscious nature; Doris, hot-tempered, generous
and loving, and baby Richard, who already exhibited an adamantine
firmness of purpose, which a careless observer might have termed
stubbornness. There was another questionable issue which these
wide-awake young parents were obliged to face, and that was the entirely
unconfessed partiality which Elizabeth cherished for her first-born son
and the equally patent yet unacknowledged "particular affection" Sam
felt for his one small daughter. More than once in the past the two had
found themselves at the point of serious disagreement when the boy and
girl had come into collision; Sam hotly--too hotly--upholding the cause
of Doris, while Elizabeth was almost tearfully sure that her son had
not been in fault. Neither had taken the pains to trace these quite
human and natural predilections to their source; but they were agreed in
thinking the outcome unsafe. They determined, therefore, to defer to the
other's judgment in those instances when special discipline appeared to
be demanded by either child.
All this by way of prelude to a certain stormy evening in March when Sam
Brewster, returning more tired than usual from a long day of hard work
in his office, found his Elizabeth with reddened eyelids and a general
appearance of carefully subdued emotion.
"Well! I say," he began, as he divested himself of his wet coat and
kicked off his overshoes with an air bordering on impatience; "it's
beastly weather outside; hope none of it's got inside. Where are the
kiddies? And what is the matter with the lady of the house?"
Elizabeth plucked up a small, faint smile which she bestowed upon the
questioner with a wifely kiss.
"I've had a very trying time with Doris to-day," she said; "but I didn't
mean to mention it till after dinner."
Sam shrugged his shoulders. "I shall at least have to change part of my
clothes, my dear," he said crisply. "I'll hear the catalogue of the
young lady's crimes when I'm dry, if you don't mind."
The dinner was excellent, and there was a salad and a pudding which
elicited the warmest commendation from the head of the house. He was
aware, however, of an unbending attitude of mind upon the part of
Elizabeth and an unnatural decorum in the conduct of the children which
somewhat marred the general enjoyment. Sam eyed his small daughter
quizzically from time to time, as she sat with eyes bent upon her plate.
"Well," he said at last, in his usual half-joking manner, "I hear there
have been ructions in this ranch since I left home this morning. What
have you been doing, Dorry, to make your mother look like the old lady
who makes vinegar for a living?"
The little girl giggled as she stole a glance at her mother's face; then
she ran quickly to her father's side and nestled her hand in his. "I'm
always good when you're here, daddy," she said in a loud, buzzing
whisper. "I wish you stayed at home all th' time 'stead of mother."
Elizabeth bit her lip with vexation, and Sam laughed aloud, his eyes
filled with a teasing light.
"That appears to be a counter indictment for you, Betty," he said.
"Or--we might call it a demurrer--eh? Come, tell me what's happened to
disturb the family peace. I see it's broken all to bits."
Elizabeth arose with unsmiling dignity. "Celia would like to clear the
table," she said; "I think we had better go into the sitting-room."
She did not offer either accusation or explanation after they were all
seated about the blazing wood fire, which the Brewsters were agreed in
terming their one extravagance; for a few moments no one spoke.
"I really hate to go into this matter of naughty deeds just now," began
Sam, stretching his slippered feet to the warmth with an air of extreme
comfort. "Couldn't we--er--quash the proceedings; or---- See here, I'll
tell you; suppose we issue an injunction and bind over all young persons
in this house to keep the peace. Well, now, won't that do, Betty?"
"I'm really afraid it won't, Sam," said Elizabeth firmly. "I didn't
punish Doris for what she did this afternoon. It seemed to me that it
would be better for her to tell you about it herself. Something ought to
be done to prevent it from happening again; perhaps you will know what
that something is."
Her face was grave, and she did not choose to meet the twinkle in her
husband's eyes.
He lifted his daughter to his knee. "It's up to you, Dorry," he said;
"I'm all attention. Come, out with it. Tell daddy all about it."
He passed his hand caressingly over her mane of silken hair and bent his
tall head to look into her abashed eyes.
Thus encouraged the little girl nestled back into the circle of the
strong arms which held her, dimpling with anticipated triumph.
"I was playin' mother," she began, "an' Carroll was my husban', an' Baby
Dick was my child. An'--an' Dick was naughty. He wouldn't mind me when I
told him to stop playin' with his cars an' come to mother. I spoke real
kind an' gentle, too: 'Put down your train an' come to mother,
darlin',' I said. But he jus' wouldn't, daddy. He said, 'No; I won't!'
jus' like that he said."
"Hum!" commented her father. "And what did you do then?"
"Well, you see, daddy, I was p'tendin' I was Mrs. Stanford; so 'course I
was 'bliged to punish Dick for not mindin'. I got mother's butter-paddle
an' I whipped him real hard, an' I said 'it hurts mother more 'n it
hurts you, darlin'!' Robbie says that's what his mother says when she
whips him. He says he don't b'lieve it. But Dick wasn't good after I
whipped him. He jus' turned 'round an' pulled my hair an' screamed--with
both han's he pulled it an' jerked it; then I--I bit him."
"You--_what_, Doris?"
"I bit him, jus' to make him let go. An'--an' he was softer'n I thought
he was. I never knew such a soft baby."
The little girl hung her head before her father's stern look; her voice
threatened to break in a sob. "I didn't think--Dick--was--so--so full
of--juice," she quavered.
"Did you really bite your dear little brother till the blood came,
Doris? I can't believe it!"
Sam glanced inquiringly at his wife; but she held her peace, her eyes
drooped upon the sewing in her hands.
"I--I didn't b'lieve it either--at first," Doris said quickly. "I
thought it was jus'--red paint."
"Why, Doris Brewster!" piped up Carroll, unable to contain himself
longer; "that's a reg'lar fib!"
"Had Dick been playing with red paint?" interrogated Sam gravely, his
eyes fixed upon the culprit who was beginning to fidget uneasily in his
arms.
"N-o, daddy," confessed the child in a whisper.
Her father considered her answer in silence for a moment or two; then he
looked over at his wife.
"Elizabeth," he said. "Isn't it time for these young persons to go to
bed?"
She glanced up at the clock. "I think it is, dear," she replied.
"But----"
He checked her with a quick look. "I shall have to think this over," he
said, setting Doris upon her feet. Then he put his arm about his son and
kissed him. "Good-night, Carroll."
Doris, dimpling and rosy, lifted her eager little face to her father's;
but he deliberately put her aside.
"Aren't you going to kiss me, too, daddy?" wailed the child, in a sudden
passion of affection and something akin to fear. "I love you, daddy!"
"I'm a little afraid of you, Dorry," her father said gravely. "I'm not
sure that you are entirely safe to--kiss."
"But I wouldn't bite you, daddy! I _wouldn't_!"
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Because I--because I love you."
"I always supposed you loved Baby Dick," said her father, turning away
from the piteous, grieved look in her eyes; "but it seems I was
mistaken."
"But, daddy, I do! I do love Dick! I love him more'n a million, an'----"
"Good-night, Doris." There was stern finality in Sam's voice, though his
eyes were wet.
Elizabeth led the two children away, Doris shaken with sobs and Carroll
casting backward glances of troubled awe at his father who continued to
look steadily into the fire.
He still sat in his big chair, his face more sober and thoughtful than
its wont, when his wife returned.
"I'm afraid Doris will cry herself to sleep to-night," she said
doubtfully.
He made no reply.
"You wouldn't like to go up and kiss her good-night, Sam?"
"Better one night than a hundred," he said, ignoring her suggestion.
Then he bent forward and poked the fire with unnecessary violence. "Poor
little girl," he murmured.
A light broke over her face. "Do you think this is the natural penalty?"
she asked.
A wailing sob floated down to them from above in the silence that
followed her question.
"It was, perhaps, one of the penalties sure to follow a similar line of
conduct," he said slowly. "She'll remember it, you'll find, better than
one of Mrs. Stanford's whippings."
[Illustration: "She'll remember it, you'll find, better than one of Mrs.
Stanford's whippings"]
He turned to look at his wife with a smile. "'It hurts mother more than
it does you, darling!'" he quoted with a grimace. "I thought that
particular sort of cant was out of date. An irascible person who flies
into a rage and frankly administers punishment on the spot I can
understand. I used to get a thrashing of that sort about once in so
often from Aunt Julia; and I don't remember hating her for it. Where did
Marian dig up such rank nonsense?"
"At her 'Mothers' Club,' I suppose," Elizabeth told him with a
disdainful curl of her pretty lips. "I went once and heard a woman say
that she always prayed with her child first and whipped him severely
afterward."
"Beastly cant!" groaned Sam disgustedly. "I'm glad you don't go in for
that sort of thing, Betty."
"It would drive me to almost anything, if I were a child and had to
endure it," Elizabeth said positively.
Both parents were silent for a long minute, and both appeared to be
listening for the sound of muffled sobbing from above stairs.
"You--you'll forgive her--to-morrow; won't you, Sam?" whispered
Elizabeth.
"Forgive her?" he echoed. "You know I'm not really angry with her,
Betty; but if we can teach our small daughter through her affections to
control her passions, can't you see what it will do for the child?
Perhaps," he added under his breath, "that is what--God--does with us.
Sometimes--we are allowed to suffer. I have been, and--I know I have
profited by it."
Sam Brewster was not one of those who talk over-familiarly of their
Maker. A word like this meant that he was profoundly moved. Elizabeth's
eyes dwelt on her husband with a trust and affection which spoke louder
than words. After a while she laid her hand in his.
"If you would always advise me with the children," she murmured, "I'm
sure we could--help them to be good."
"That is it, Betty," he said, meeting her misty look with a smile. "We
cannot force our children into goodness, or torture them into
wisdom--even if we can compel them to a show of submission which they
would make haste to throw off when they are grown. But we can help them
to choose the good, now and as long as we live. And we'll do it, little
mother; for I'm not going to shirk my part of it in the future. As you
said long ago, it's the most important thing in the world for us to do
just now."