CHAPTER VIII.
All the children had gone into school. The street was lonely in the sudden stillness. The joiner slanted across the road, brushing shavings and sawdust from his white apron. There was no other sign of life in the sunshine. Only from the smiddy, far away, came at times the tink of an anvil.
John crept on up the street, keeping close to the wall. It seemed unnatural being there at that hour; everything had a quiet, unfamiliar look. The white walls of the houses reproached the truant with their silent faces.
A strong smell of wallflowers oozed through the hot air. John thought it a lonely smell, and ran to get away.
"Johnny dear, what's wrong wi' ye?" cried his mother, when he stole in through the scullery at last. "Are ye ill, dear?"
"I wanted to come hame," he said. It was no defence; it was the sad and simple expression of his wish.
"What for, my sweet?"
"I hate the school," he said bitterly; "I aye want to be at hame."
His mother saw his cut mouth.
"Johnny," she cried in concern, "what's the matter with your lip, dear? Has ainybody been meddling ye?"