“You’re not nigh as well as you was this mornin’,” he said hesitatingly; “I guess I know the reason.”
She did not reply, but lay with her eyes closed, and Boy saw tears creep down the white cheeks. He spoke fiercely.
“He threatened as he’d do it, and he did——”
He checked himself, biting the words off with a click of his white teeth.
“I know just what he told you, ma. I know all he told you, and he didn’t lie none. I haven’t been to his school. I can’t go to his school. I’ve tried my best to stay ’cause I knowed you wanted me to. But I go wild. I can’t stay still inside like that and be in prison. It chokes me, I tell you. I don’t want more learnin’ than I have. I can read and write and figure. You taught me that, and I learned from you ’cause—’cause——”
His voice faltered and feebly the mother drew him down beside her on the bed.
“Poor old Boy,” she soothed tenderly, smoothing the dark curls back from his forehead; then sorrowfully, “I wonder why you should hate that for which so many people are striving?”
“Don’t, ma—don’t speak about it. You know we talked it all over before. You called it enlightenment, you remember? I don’t want enlightenment. I hate it. I’ll fight it away from me, and I’ll have to fight it—and them.”
He shuddered, and she held him tight in her weak arms.
“Dear Boy,” she said, “it will be a useless struggle. You can’t hope to hold your little world. Now go, and God bless you. Kiss me good-night, Boy.”