“I want you to come over to our house, after dinner, and play with me,” said Alfred Barlow, one Saturday morning, to a little fellow, named Wilson Green. “Father has just put us up a swing. It is made with two ropes tied to a limb of the great oak tree, and has a basket at the bottom, big enough to hold two. And then we have got a good many other things to play with. Won’t you ask your father to let you come?”

“Oh, yes! And I’ll come right away after dinner,” said Wilson, full of delight at the thought of spending an afternoon with Alfred.

When Wilson went home, he asked his father to let him go over to Mr. Barlow’s, and play with Alfred. But his father told him that he did not wish him to go there.

This was a sore disappointment to the little boy. He did not ask his reason why he refused to let him go; for this he knew would be of no use. But he was so very desirous of going, that he soon began to think about disobedience.

“He’ll never know it,” he said to himself, as he saw his father leave the house. “He never comes home from the mill until night, and I can be back long before that time.”

Something whispered to Wilson that to disobey his father would be to do a very wicked thing; but he quickly turned from the warning thought, and in a little while determined that he would run over to Alfred Barlow’s for a short time.

Wrong as this was, Wilson so far forgot his duty to his parents, as actually to go over to Mr. Barlow’s very soon after his father had gone away. Instead, however, of spending the delightful afternoon as he had anticipated, he found all the family in much alarm for Alfred’s little sister, who had been taken very ill since morning. Of course, all thoughts of play were banished from the mind of Alfred, who loved little Anna very much, and could not be persuaded to leave her bed-side a moment.

As soon as Mrs. Barlow found Wilson in the chamber of her sick child, she told him that he had better run home, as the doctor feared that Anna had the scarlet fever, and she did not wish any of her neighbours’ children to be exposed to the danger of taking it.

Slowly did Wilson Green leave the house in which he promised himself so much delight, and turn his steps homeward with no very happy feelings. He had disobeyed his father, deliberately, and got nothing for that disobedience but an exposure to a terrible disease, of which he might die.

When his father came home at night, he felt almost afraid to look at him in the face. It seemed as if he must know all about what he had done.

“Wilson, come here, my son;” he said, in a serious voice.

And Wilson went up to him with a sinking heart.

“When I told you, at dinner time, that I did not wish you to go and see Alfred Barlow,” the father began, “I neglected to say, as a reason for denying your request, that Doctor Ayres had mentioned to me that little Anna was very sick, with all the symptoms of a dangerous attack of scarlet fever. This dreadful disease is thought by many contagious, and it was for this reason that I denied your request.”

Wilson said nothing, but he was very unhappy. A frank confession of his fault arose to his tongue; but, before he could make it, his heart failed him. Not that he dreaded his father’s displeasure so much as the distress his act of disobedience would give him.

For more than an hour that night, did the unhappy boy lie awake, after he had retired to bed, vainly regretting his act of wickedness and folly. It is said, “of wickedness,” for deliberate acts of disobedience to parents are wicked. He was likewise troubled, lest he, too, should be attacked with scarlet fever, and die—and all because he had not obeyed his father.

On the next day, when he learned that the doctor had declared Anna Barlow’s disease to be really the scarlet fever, and her case a very bad one, Wilson was more troubled than ever. How often did he wish that he had been an obedient boy. But no sorrow could recall the act.

It was several days afterwards, when the boy’s fears had nearly all subsided, that he awoke one morning with a violent headache, a sore throat, and a general uneasiness, with considerable fever. The day afterwards, his skin became dry and burning, and his throat so sore that he could swallow only with great difficulty. On the third day the physician pronounced the case one of decided scarletina, or scarlet fever, accompanied by some very alarming symptoms.

From that time for nearly two weeks the sick boy was conscious of little more than great bodily distress. When the fever at last gave way, he was just upon the brink of the grave. The slightest neglect on the part of those who attended him with more than the care that a new-born infant requires, would have proved fatal. But the skill of his medical attendant, and the unwearying care of his parents, were the means of saving his life.

About a week after the crisis of the disease had passed, when Wilson could sit up in bed, supported by pillows, as his father sat by him, he said, in a penitent voice, while the tears came into his eyes:

“I have been a very wicked boy, father; and that is the reason why I have been so sick.”

“How so, my child?” asked Mr. Green, in surprise.

“You remember having told me that I could not go over to see Alfred Barlow, one day when I asked you. Well, I wanted to go so bad, that I disobeyed you. I found little Anna Barlow very sick—so sick that Alfred could not play with me. As soon as his mother saw me by Anna’s bed, she told me to go right away home at once. And so I did, without having had any of the pleasure, to gain which, I had done what you had told me not to do. It was the scarlet fever that Anna had, and no doubt I took it from her. But I have been severely punished for what I did.”

“Severely, indeed, my dear boy!” Mr. Green said, wiping a tear that came to his eye. “But not too severely, if it prove the means of restraining you from ever doing so wrong an act in future. To disobey your parents, is to do yourself one of the worst of injuries. For if, in early years, you are not obedient to your parents, you will not be truly obedient to just laws when you grow up to be a man; nor, above all, obedient to God. And if not obedient to Him, you never can be happy. It is not from any selfish desire to command your obedience, that I forbid your doing certain things at times. I have only your good at heart. I know, much better than you can possibly know, the evil that you ought to shun—and much better than you can know, the good effects which will be produced in your mind by obedience. But I need not, I trust, say more now. You have had a practical lesson that you can never forget, and which will, I am sure, have upon you a most salutary influence.”

“Indeed, father, I can never forget it,” Wilson replied, with much feeling. “No one knows how much I have suffered, in mind as well as body, for my faults. From the hour I disobeyed you until this moment, I have been unhappy. And I believe, until I had told you all, I should never again have been happy.”

“Repentance and confession are the only means of obtaining peace after a wrong act,” the father said.

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