V
I was sobbing—mainly for Nathan’s sake—when my mother led me home. She wrapped my red, flaccid little body in warm flannels and put me to bed. I heard no censure for my part in the day’s foolishness. Only she said wearily before she took out the light:
“Please, laddie, never play ‘Slave in the Dismal Swamp’ again. You see what mother had to do, how tired she is?”
“Yes, Ma!”
“Then always remember, when a fellow does something wrong—sooner or later—somehow or other—it’s his mother that pays the price.”
I could not see her haggard face for my tears.
She laughed,—a queer, tired, tender laugh. Then she kissed me again and was gone. My grief was mercifully merged in slumber.