"What do you mean?" I asked. "I cannot believe that your son is in any way guilty of his own illness."
"He's a well-behaved lad, my Joe," she answered; "but he hasn't learned what I had to learn long ago."
"What is that?" I asked.
"To make up his mind, and stick to it. To do one thing or the other."
She was a woman with a long upper lip and a judicial face, and as she spoke, her lip grew longer and longer; and when she closed her mouth in mark of her own resolution, that lip seemed to occupy two-thirds of all her face under the nose.
"And what is it he won't do?"
"I don't mind whether he does it or not, if he would only make—up—his—mind—and—stick—to—it."
"What is it you want him to do, then?"
"I don't want him to do it, I'm sure. It's no good to me—and wouldn't be much to him, that I'll be bound. Howsomever, he must please himself."
I thought it not very wonderful that he looked gloomy, if there was no more sunshine for him at home than his mother's face indicated. Few things can make a man so strong and able for his work as a sun indoors, whose rays are smiles, ever ready to shine upon him when he opens the door,—the face of wife or mother or sister. Now his mother's face certainly was not sunny. No doubt it must have shone upon him when he was a baby. God has made that provision for babies, who need sunshine so much that a mother's face cannot help being sunny to them: why should the sunshine depart as the child grows older?