Mrs. Parlin saw the wagon driving up to the porch door, and came out trembling and too much frightened to speak.  She supposed at first that Willy had not come, for she did not see him till Seth and Stephen lifted him out of the wagon, a dead weight between them.

O, her baby ­her baby; what had happened to her dear wee Willie?

“There, there, mother, don’t be frightened,” said Stephen, cheerily; “his tramp has been too much for him; that’s all.  I guess we’ll carry him right up stairs to bed.”

“I ­want ­some ­supper,” moaned the little rebel, waking up just as they were laying him on his bed in the pink chamber.

His mother and Love watched him with real pleasure, as he devoured cold meat and bread, all they dared let him have, but not half as much as he craved.  Then he fell asleep again, and did not wake till noon of the next day.  His mother was bending over him with the tenderest love, just as if he had never given her a moment’s trouble in his life.  That was just like his dear mother, and it was more than Willy could bear; he threw his arms round her neck, and buried his face in her bosom, completely subdued.

“O, mother, mother, I’ll never do so again.”

“My darling, I am sure you never will.”

“Where’s father?”

“Down stairs in the dining-room, I think.”

“Well, I’m ready; will you tell him I’m ready,” cried Willy, drawing a quick breath.

“Ready for what, dear?”

“Well, he is going to whip me, I suppose, and I want it over with.”

“And how do you feel about it, my son?  Don’t you think you deserve to be whipped?”

“Yes’m, I do,” replied Willy, with a sudden burst of candor; “I don’t see how anybody can help whipping a boy that’s acted the way I have.”

“That’s nobly said, my child,” exclaimed Mr. Parlin, stepping out of the large clothes-press.  “I happened to be in there over-hauling the trunk that has my Freemason clothes in it, and I couldn’t but overhear what you’ve been saying.”

Willy buried his face in the pillow.  He was willing his mother should know his inmost thoughts, but he had always been afraid of his father.

“And, Willy, since you take so kindly to the idea of another whipping, I don’t know but I shall let you off this time.”

Willy opened his eyes very wide.

“I’ll tell you why,” went on Mr. Parlin.  “You didn’t deserve the last whipping you had; so that will go to offset this one, which you do deserve.”

Willy’s eyes sparkled with delight; still there was a look in them of question and surprise.  The idea of his ever having a whipping that his father thought he didn’t deserve!

“You were in a shameful state that night, Willy; I can’t call it anything else but drunk; but I know now how it happened; there was brandy in the cider.”

“Brandy, papa?”

“Yes.  Dr. Potter and I examined the barrel yesterday, and the mixture in it was at least one third brandy.”

“O, papa, was that why it tasted so bad?  I drank one mugful, and didn’t like it; and then by and by I drank another mugful; but that was all.”

“Yes, Willy; so you told me when I talked with you; and I didn’t believe you then; but I believe you now.”

“O, father, I’m so glad!” cried Willy, with a look such as he had never before given his father ­a beaming look of gratitude and love.  I think he was happier at that moment to know that his father trusted him, than to know he would not be punished.

He little thought then that he should never have another whipping as long as he lived; but so it proved.  Not that Mr. Parlin ever changed his mind about the good effects of the rod; but when he saw that Willy was really trying to be a better boy, he had more patience with him.

And Willy was trying.  He continued to be rather hasty and headstrong, but the “Indian sulks” gradually melted out of his disposition like ice in a summer river.  This exploit of running away had a humbling effect, no doubt; but more than that, as he grew older he learned to understand and love his father better.  He found that those dreadful whippings had been given “more in sorrow than in anger,” ­given as a help to make him better; and the time came when he thanked his father for them.

And this is all I have to tell of his younger days.  When he was twenty-seven years old, and pretty Patience Lyman was twenty, they were married in Squire Lyman’s parlor, by Elder Lovejoy, then a very old man.

After the wedding they rode at once to Willowbrook, where they have both lived to this day; she, the dearest of old ladies, and he, a large, beautiful, white-headed old man, whom no one would now think of calling the Little Grandfather.