The next Monday Seth happened to go into the shed-chamber for a piece of leather to mend an old harness, and met Willy coming down the stairs with a basket full of old iron.

"Stop a minute, Willy. What have you got there?"

Willy would have obeyed at once, if it had not been for that lordly tone and air of Seth's, which always made him feel contrary.

"Stop, I say!" repeated Seth. "What have you got there?"

"Old iron."

"Old iron? Did mother send you after it?"

"No."

"Well, then, go carry it right back."

Willy did not stir.

"Old iron is worth money, little boy."

"Yes; I know that."

"And what business have you with it?"

"Going to sell it."

"What? Without asking mother, you naughty boy?"

Willy set the heavy basket on the next lower stair.

"So you went up stairs for that iron without leave? What a wicked boy!"

Willy set the basket on another stair.

"Bellows' nose, old tea-kettle, rusty nails," said Seth, examining the basket.

"Willy Parlin, do you know this is stealing."

"'Tisn't, neither!"

"But I tell you it is! Just as much stealing as if you took money out of father's wallet."

"I don't steal," said Willy, setting the basket on another stair.

Seth was growing exasperated.

"If you don't intend to mind me, Willy Parlin, and carry back that iron, I shall have to go and tell father."

"Then you'll be a tell-tale, Mr. Seth."

"Do you think I'll have my little brother grow up a thief?"

"I wasn't a thief; but you're a tell-tale. You said, yesterday, little boys mustn't tattle, and I guess big boys mustn't tattle, neither," chuckled the aggravating Willy, dragging his basket of iron into the kitchen.

"Mother," said Seth, as Mrs. Parlin passed through the shed with a pan of sour milk, "there's got to be something done with Willy; he has taken to stealing."

Mrs. Parlin set the pan upon a bench, and sank down on the meat-block, too weak to stand.

"I caught him just now, mother, lugging off a great basket full of old iron; and if you don't go right in and stop him, he'll take it up to the store to sell."

"Is that all?" exclaimed Mrs. Parlin, drawing a deep breath. "Why, how you frightened me! His father gave him leave to collect what old iron he could find, and sell it to make up for the medal he lost the other day."

"Well there, mother, I'm glad to hear it—that's a fact! But why didn't the little rogue tell me? I declare, he deserves a good whipping for imposing upon me so."

"He ought to have told you; but perhaps you spoke harshly to him, my son. You know Willy can't bear that."

"I don't think I was very harsh, mother. You wouldn't have me see the child doing wrong, and not correct him—would you?"

"His father and I are the ones to correct him," replied Mrs. Parlin. "Willy has too many masters and mistresses. Next time you see him doing what you think is wrong, let me know it, but don't scold him!"

Mrs. Parlin had said this before, but it was something Seth never could remember.

Willy sold the iron, returned a bright new quarter to Miss Judkins, and felt happy again, especially as there were ten cents left, which his father kindly allowed him to keep.

Gideon Noonin never confessed his crime, and after this Willy was very careful to keep away from him. But there was another boy, nearer his own age, who had quite as bad an influence over him—Fred Chase. He afterwards became a worthless young man, and made his mother so wretched that Siller Noonin said, "Poor Mrs. Chase, she has everything heart can wish, except a bottle to put her tears in."

Fred was a well-mannered, pretty little fellow, and no one thought ill of him, because he was so sly with his mischief. He did harm to Willy by making him think he had a very hard time. His work was to bring in a bushel basket of chips every morning, and fill the "fore-room" wood-box. Of course the "back-log" and "back-stick," and "fore-stick" were all too heavy for his little arms, and Caleb attended to those. Freddy had nothing whatever to do, and pretended to pity Willy.

"They 'pose upon you," said he. "I never'd stand it."

Until Freddy told him he was imposed upon, Willy had never suspected it; but, after that, he saw he had nearly all the work to do, and that Seth and Stephen did not help as much as they might. The more he reflected upon the subject, the more unhappy he grew, and the more he lingered over his wood and chips.

"Did you ever hear of the little boy and the two pails of water?" said his mother.

"O, what about him, mamma? Do tell me."

"Why, the boy was told to draw two pails of water from the well; but instead of drawing them he sat down and dreaded it, till he pined away, and pined away, and finally died."

Willy ran out with his basket, and never asked again to hear the story of the boy and the two pails. But the wood-pile seemed to be lying on top of his heart, crushing him, till he was relieved by a bright idea.

Why not stand some sticks upright in the bottom of the box, and then lay the rest of the wood on top of them? It would look just the same as usual; but what a help!

The box was in the entry, and the "fore-room" door shut; he could cheat as well as not.

"Now I'll have lots of time to play!"

"What, you here yet, Willy?" said his mother, opening the door. She thought he had been an unusually long while filling the box; and so he had. It was new business, doing it in this way, and it took time.

"I supposed you had gone, darling, for I didn't hear you whistle."

Willy whistled faintly, as he laid on the last stick. How lucky his mother hadn't opened the door sooner!

"That's a nice big box full, my son. You please your mother this morning. Come here and kiss me."

Willy went, and then Mrs. Parlin, who was a fine singer, and knew a great many ballads, sang, smiling,—

She often sang that when he came into the house cold, and then he would sing in reply, with a voice almost as sweet as her own,—

But he was not in a musical mood this morning: he felt in a hurry to be off; and giving his mother a hasty kiss, he bounded away without his shingle-covered spelling-book, and had to come back after it.

Foolish Willy! Did he think his mamma would not find out the deep-laid plot, which had cost him so much labor? Children have no idea how bright their parents are! It was a very cold day in December, and as Mrs. Parlin kept up a roaring fire, she came before noon to the upright sticks standing in the wood-box, as straight as soldiers on a march. She sighed a little, and smiled a little, but said not a word, for she was a wise woman, was Mrs. Parlin.

"Well, Willy boy," said she, when he came home from school, and had had his supper of brown bread, baked apples, and milk, "come, let us have a sing."

There was nothing Willy and his mother enjoyed better than a "sing," she holding him in her lap and rocking him the while. He put his whole soul into the music, miscalling the Scotch words sometimes so charmingly that it was a real delight to hear him. People often stopped at the threshold, I am told, or at the open window in summer, to listen to the clear childish voice in such ballads as,—

To-night it was "Colin's Come to Town;" and Willy's tones rang sweet and high,—

"Did you ever hear the beat of that little chap for singing?" said Caleb, in the bar-room, to Dr. Hilton and Mr. Griggs.

Since that sad affair of the ox-money Caleb had loved Willy better than ever, though it would be hard to tell why; perhaps because the child had been so glad to see him come back again.

"Bless him!" said Love, bringing the brass warming-pan into the "fore-room," to fill it with coals at the fireplace. "Why, mother, I never hear the name 'Willy,' but it makes me think of music. It sounds as sweet as if you said 'nightingale.'"

Mrs. Parlin answered by folding the singing-bird closer to her heart.

"And do you know what the word 'Mother' makes me think of?—Of a great large woman, always just ready to hug somebody."

Mrs. Parlin laughed.

"Yes, indeed it does. And it doesn't seem as if a small woman is really fit to be called mother. There's Dorcas Lyman: when she says 'Mother' to that little woman, it sounds so queer to me; for Mrs. Lyman isn't big enough, you know."

"Course she isn't; not half big enough," said Willy. "I could 'most lift her with my little finger. But, then, that baby—she's got a real nice baby; wish she'd give Patty to me."

Love smiled, and walked off, with her long-handled warming-pan, to heat a traveller's bed in the icy north chamber.

Willy's heart was full of tenderness for his mother, whom he kept kissing fondly. Now was a good time to speak of the upright, deceitful sticks of wood, perhaps; but Mrs. Parlin did not do it. She began the Evening Hymn, and Willy sang with her:—

"Now, Willy," said Mrs. Parlin, pausing, "let us think a while, and try to remember what we have done to-day that is wrong. You think, and I will think, too."

He looked up, and she knew by the cloud in his eyes that his conscience was troubled.

"Well, I'll think. But you haven't done anything wrong, mamma?"

"O, yes, dear; many things."

"Well, so've I, too. Want me to tell what?"

"Not unless you choose, my child. Only be sure you tell God."

They were silent a few moments.

"There, that's the last time I'll ever stand the sticks up on end in the wood-box," burst forth Willy.

"I thought so," said his mother, kissing him.

So she had known about it all the while!

But not another word did she say; and they went on with the hymn:—