But the over fond and tender father could see no reason for the
punishment his little ones had received; and would not consent to
let them go again to the school of Miss Roberts. To him they were
earth's most precious things. They were tender flowers; and he was
troubled if ever the winds blew roughly upon them.

Seven years have passed. Let us visit the home of Mr. Warren and
look at him among his children. No; we will not enter this pleasant
house--he moved away long ago. Can this be the home of Mr. Warren!
Yes. Small, poor, and comfortless as it is! Ah! there have been sad
changes.

Let us enter. Can that be Warren? That wretched looking
creature--with swollen, disfigured face and soiled garments--who
sits, half stupid, near the window? A little flaxen-haired child is
playing on the floor. It is not Anna. No; seven years have changed
her from the fairylike little creature she was when her father
became outraged at her punishment in Miss Roberts' school! Poor
Anna! That was light as the thistle down to what she has since
received from the hands of her father. The child on the floor is
beautiful, even in her tattered clothes. She has been playing for
some time. Now her father calls to her in a rough, grumbling voice.

"Kate! You, Kate, I say!"

Little Kate, not five years old, leaves her play and goes up to
where her parent is sitting.

"Go and get me a drink of water," said he in a harsh tone of
authority.