"I don't care for anything now," he repeated.

"Let them send me to sea, or anywhere else, if they will! I don't care! I'm not going to school any more! What do I care for school?
I do nothing right, any how! It's scold, scold, or flog, flog, all the time! Father says he'll beat goodness into me; but I guess he's beaten it 'amost all out." With such thoughts passing through his mind, the unhappy boy sat, with his face down, and his head supported on his hands, for some two or three minutes, when he was startled by a well-known voice, whose tones were ever like music to his ears, pronouncing his name.
In an instant he was on his feet.

Emily was before him, and her eyes were now fixed upon his face with a sad expression.
"Andrew," said she, "don't be angry.

It isn't my fault." "What isn't your fault ?" eagerly inquired the boy, as he grasped her hand.
"Father said I mustn't--" The little girl hesitated.

It seemed as if she couldn't utter the words.
"Said what ?" There was ill-repressed indignation in Andrew's voice.
"Don't be angry! It frightens me when you are angry!" said Emily, looking distressed.
"What did your father say ?" asked the boy, in milder tones.
"He said that I mustn't meet you as I went to school any more," replied Emily.
The face of the boy grew crimson, while his lips arched with the angry indignation that swelled in his bosom.