He looked up strangely, met his mother’s earnest appealing gaze, and for the moment his better nature prevailed; but as he looked from her to his uncle, and saw the old man’s grey eyes fixed upon him searchingly, a feeling of obstinate anger swept over him again, and made him set his teeth, as something seemed to whisper to him, “No; you told the truth, and he would not believe you. Let him prove you guilty if he can!”
It was not the first time in history that a boy had stubbornly fought against his better self, and allowed the worst part of his nature to prevail.
“Do you not hear me, Don?” cried his mother. “Why do you not speak?”
Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an impatient ejaculation.
“Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have done wrong.”
“And she believes me guilty, too,” thought Don, as he scowled at his feet.
“But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe it of you.”
Don’s better self began to force down that side of his mental scale.