Son Philip

“Well, why not be a soldier?”
Philip Hexton shook his head.
“No, father. There’s something very brave in a soldier’s career; but I should like to save life, not destroy it.”
“You would save life in times of trouble; fight for your country, and that sort of thing.”
“No, father; I shall not be a soldier.”
“A sailor, then?”
“I have not sufficient love of adventure, father.”
“Oh no, my boy, don’t be a sailor,” said Mrs Hexton piteously. “I have had sufferings enough over your father’s risks in the mine.”
“No, no, Phil; you must not be a sailor,” said sturdy, grey-haired old Hexton, laughing. “I should never get a wink of sleep if you did. Every time the wind blew your mother would be waking me up to ask me if I didn’t think you were wrecked.”
“No, dear; I shall not be a sailor,” said Philip Hexton; and leaving his chair at the breakfast table he went round to his mother’s side, sank down on one knee, passed his arm around her, and drew her to his broad breast.
It was a pleasant sight to see the look of pride come into the mother’s face, as she laid one hand upon her son’s shoulder, and pressed a few loose strands of hair away from his thoughtful forehead, which wrinkled slightly, and there was a look of anxiety in his face as he looked tenderly at the loving woman.