His mother's eyes were swimming. He kissed them dry, and began to make light of his achievement.
"Mother, I couldn't. I didn't know what you would think of them. I didn't think much of them myself, nor do I now. The verses in Uncle Tom are not much. And then—I thought it would be a surprise."
"Well, it wouldn't have been one if I had known you had sent them," said Mrs. Ringrose; and now she was herself again. "I only hope, my boy," she added, "that they will pay you something."
"Of course they will. Uncle Tom must have an excellent circulation."
"Then I hope they'll pay you something handsome. Did you tell the Editor how long we have taken him in?"
"Mother!"
"Then I've a great mind to write and tell him myself. I am sure it would make a difference."
"Yes; it would make the difference of my getting the verses back by return of post," said Harry, grimly.
Mrs. Ringrose looked hurt, but gave way on the point, and bade him go on with his breakfast. Harry did so with the Uncle Tom acceptance spread out and stuck up against the marmalade dish, and one eye was on it all the time. Afterwards he went to his room and read over the rough draft of his verses, which he had not looked at since he sent them away. He could not help thinking a little more of them than he had thought then. He wondered how they would look in print, and referred to one of the bound Uncle Toms to see.
"Well, have you brought them?" said Mrs. Ringrose when he could keep away from her no longer.