“I’ll go to him and tell him everything,” he decided. “He will think better of me if I do, for it is almost certain that he heard enough of my talk with Bentley to let him know what has happened. As I kept silent when he gave me an opportunity to tell him, he’ll think I did not attempt to keep my promise to try to control my temper, and I’ll seem like a sneak in seeking to hide the truth from him.”
Any healthy-minded boy dreads being thought a “sneak,” and regards such an appellation as almost the greatest possible slur that can be cast upon him; so it was not strange that, imagining as he did, that his father might think such a thing of him, Don should wish to set himself right.
“I’ll go straight to him as soon as I’m dressed,” he resolved, hastily getting into his clothes.
He stood before the glass and carefully knotted a dark-red four-in-hand necktie, which was his favorite, having been presented to him by his aunt, sister to his father, who was housekeeper in the Scott home, and who had tried to be a mother to the doctor’s son since the death of Mrs. Scott, which took place when Don was a little more than a year old.
Having knotted the tie with care and thrust a small gold pin through the knot, he buttoned on his cuffs, donned his coat and vest, and was ready to go downstairs.
At the door he paused, overcome for the moment by the thought of facing his father and making the confession, and there he stood some little time, forming in his mind the speech he would make. It required considerable courage on his part to keep from backing out and giving up his resolution then and there, but he would not permit himself to yield to such weakness; and so, with renewed determination, he left his room and lightly descended the carpeted stairs.
At the door of his father’s office he paused, for the doctor was standing in the waning light that came from the curtained window, gazing earnestly upon a gold-framed miniature which he held in his hand. The boy could not see his father’s face, but, having seen that miniature before, he knew it was the picture of his dead mother.
As Don halted in irresolution, a sigh and a half-smothered sob came from his father, who raised the miniature to his lips, murmuring:
“Mary, Mary, you forgave me at last, but I’ve never forgiven myself! But for my act of anger I might have you with me now. Heaven grant his temper may bring no such sorrow to our son!”
As quietly as possible, Don stole away and sought his aunt, a rather stout, pleasant-faced woman, who was getting supper on the table.