“Not unkind, Don, only firm and for your good. Now come, my boy, do, for my sake, try to drive away these clouds, and let us all be happy once more.”
“It’s of no use to try, mother; I shall never be happy here, tied down to a desk. It’s like being uncle’s slave.”
“What am I to say to you, Don, if you talk like this?” said Mrs Lavington. “Believe me you are wrong, and some day you will own it. You will see what a mistaken view you have taken of your uncle’s treatment. There, I shall say no more now.”
“You always treat me as if I were a child,” said Don, bitterly. “I’m seventeen now, mother, and I ought to know something.”
“Yes, my boy,” said Mrs Lavington gently; “at seventeen we think we know a good deal; and at forty we smile as we look back and see what a very little that ‘good deal’ was.”
Don shook his head.
“There, we will have no more sad looks. Uncle is eager to do all he can to make us happy.”
“I wish I could think so,” cried Don, bitterly.
“You may, my dear. And now, come, try and throw aside all those fanciful notions about going abroad and meeting with adventures. There is no place like home, Don, and you will find out some day that is true.”
“But I have no home till I make one,” said the lad gloomily.