"My poor child, you are not well," she exclaimed, tenderly, "and your suffering renders you nervous and irritable. I was very foolish to attach any importance to a slight show of impatience for which you were hardly accountable."
"No, oh, no, mother, I swear it."
"Nonsense! my child, I believe you. As if I could doubt you, my dear Frederick."
"I tore out the pages, mother," continued the lad with no little embarrassment, for he was telling a falsehood, "I tore out the pages because I was not satisfied with what I had written. It was the worst thing I have written since this—this sort of—of despondency seized me."
"And I, seeing you write with so much apparent animation for the first time in weeks, felt so pleased that I could not resist the temptation to see what you had written. But let us say no more about that, my dear Frederick, though I feel almost sure that you have been too severe a critic."
"No, mother, I assure you—"
"Oh, well, I will take your word for it, and now as you are not in the mood for work, suppose we go out for a little walk."
"It is so cloudy, mother, besides, I don't feel as if I had energy enough to take a single step."
"It is this dangerous languor that I am so anxious to have you fight against and overcome if possible. Come, my dear lazybones, come out and row me about the lake in your boat. The exercise will do you good."
"I don't feel equal to it, really, mother."