I wondered whether he would have loved him, and seen the same future perfection in him, had Jonathan, the king's son, met the poor David keeping his sheep among the folds of Bethlehem.
When my father came home he found me waiting in my place at table.

He only said, "Thee art better then, my son ?" But I knew how glad he was to see me.

He gave token of this by being remarkably conversible over our meal--though, as usual, his conversation had a sternly moral tone, adapted to the improvement of what he persisted in considering my "infant" mind.

It had reference to an anecdote Dr.

Jessop had just been telling him--about a little girl, one of our doctor's patients, who in some passionate struggle had hurt herself very much with a knife.
"Let this be a warning to thee, my son, not to give way to violent passions." (My good father, thought I, there is little fear.) "For, this child--I remember her father well, for he lived at Kingswell here; he was violent too, and much given to evil ways before he went abroad--Phineas, this child, this miserable child, will bear the mark of the wound all her life." "Poor thing!" said I, absently.
"No need to pity her; her spirit is not half broken yet.