"I never imagined that for a moment. But why not be open? It is not nice of you to be so secretive."
"Tom humbugs so. If he knew what I was doing he would be always worrying around me."
"But what were you doing, my dear?"
Thus pressed Gilbert confessed that he had turned a part of the attic into a sort of studio, and was trying to learn to draw and paint.
"I did not want any one to know about it," he explained, "because Tom chatters so, and the girls are so inquisitive, and father wants me to be a lawyer. I don't want to be a lawyer. I would far rather be an artist."
Mrs. Mickle's face was expressive of anxious thought. She knew Gilbert had a liking for painting, and drew very well; but he was quite self-taught, and she did not know if he possessed real talent or not. Her husband had always intended the boy should follow his own profession, and hitherto Gilbert had raised no objection to the plan.
"I wish you were more open with your father and me," she said presently, "but you wrap yourself up in yourself, and seldom confide in us. If we were unsympathetic parents it would be different. I cannot understand why you do not open your mind to us, Gilbert. You know how dear you are to us, and how there is nothing, in reason, we would not do for your happiness. Why cannot you be frank with us?"
"I don't know, mother," the boy answered. "I think I am frank with you generally, because you're more patient with me than I deserve; and so is father, too, for that matter. But I hate Tom and the girls to know all I'm doing."
"Tom is a great tease," Mrs. Mickle allowed, "but he is a well-meaning boy and as honest and open as the day."
"I know he is, mother, and I'm not. Every one likes Tom, even little Miss Goodwin, and no one cares about me—I mean, no outsiders."