All things come round to him who will but wait.
Tales of a Wayside Inn.
"Late for breakfast again, Bernard! It's idle you are! Bone idle, that's what it is!" Mrs. Cameron's tones were angry, and when angry they were very shrill.
Bernard, who had entered the room languidly, did not hasten to reply, but stood leaning wearily against the mantelpiece. His face was pale, his eyes heavy and a little bloodshot; he looked unhappy and as if he had passed a sleepless night, which, indeed, was the case; but he had not spirit enough to plead that as an excuse for his lateness. Instead, he glanced at the clock, murmuring that it was scarcely half-past eight.
"And late enough, too!" cried Mrs. Cameron, who was pouring out the coffee as she spoke. "I told you breakfast would be at eight. You are quite well now, and must get out of the lazy, lackadaisical habits of an invalid."
"Yes, yes! All right." Bernard took his place at the table opposite his mother, looking askance at the large plate of porridge set there for him to eat.
"Your porridge will be half cold by this time," continued the scolding voice.
"It is." Bernard just tasted it, and pushed the plate away. "I cannot eat porridge yet," he said.
"You must try. Porridge made as Jane makes it, of good Scotch oatmeal, is just what you want to put some life in you."
Bernard did not think so. He drank his coffee disconsolately.
His mother looked as if she would have liked to make him eat the porridge, as she had done often in that very room when he was a little pale-faced lad, with a small appetite and a strong will of his own. As it was, however, she pushed a loaf of brown bread towards him, saying that he could have some bread and butter, though it was poor stuff compared with porridge.