It was only this morning, while I pursued my usual employment, he was sitting at my feet, quietly playing with the shreds of canvas I had thrown upon the carpet; but his mind was otherwise occupied, for, in a while, he looked up wistfully in my face, and gravely asked,--'Mamma, why are you wicked ?' 'Who told you I was wicked, love ?' 'Rachel.' 'No, Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.' 'Well, then, it was papa,' replied he, thoughtfully.

Then, after a reflective pause, he added, 'At least, I'll tell you how it was I got to know: when I'm with papa, if I say mamma wants me, or mamma says I'm not to do something that he tells me to do, he always says, "Mamma be damned," and Rachel says it's only wicked people that are damned.

So, mamma, that's why I think you must be wicked: and I wish you wouldn't.' 'My dear child, I am not.

Those are bad words, and wicked people often say them of others better than themselves.

Those words cannot make people be damned, nor show that they deserve it.