“Mother,” said he, at length, struggling with emotion, “I don’t want to grow up ignorant and useless. And I don’t want the children and us all to be so poor and despised;” and the tears came again, and the mother’s mingled with his. “I can’t bear to have it so, and I won’t,” he added, rising in bed, and speaking with excited energy.
“Ah, my poor child,” said the mother, “I knew it was that that lay on your mind, and took away your appetite, and made you so unhappy. And I have been praying for a long while that you might feel so.”
“You didn’t want me to be miserable–did you, mother?” asked Tom, in surprise.
“God forbid, Tom. But I couldn’t wish you to grow up contented with such a life. I have felt that you might do a great deal of good in the world, and I wished you to see it.” 44
“But, mother, how can I have things different?”
“Tom,” returned she, looking searchingly at him, “how have you thought to make them different?” The boy averted his face again, and made no reply for a moment, and then said, softly,–
“I had decided to go away and get learning, and earn my living, and try to be somebody.”
“And when did you think of starting?”
“The morning,” answered he, with an unsteady voice, “that I got hurt with the gun.”
“And were you going off without letting me know it, Tom?”