“Because of what Bald said and what you said; and then I went in and saw my mother, and she is so unhappy; and—and—”
Then, with a wild and passionate outburst, the boy made a dash at the old man and caught him by the shoulder, as he cried:
“Oh, Father Swythe, I do want to learn to read and to write, and be what you said. Please forgive me and help me, and I will try so hard—so very, very hard!”
“My son!” cried the monk, in a choking voice, and, as the boy was drawn tightly to the old man’s breast and he hid his face so that his tears should not be seen, something fell pat upon the back of his head, making him look up quickly, to see that he need not feel ashamed of his own, for his tutor’s tears were falling slowly, though there was a contented look in the old man’s face.
“Yes,” he said, smiling, “you have made me cry, my boy; but it is because you have made me happy. You have taught me that I have touched your young heart and opened the bright well-spring of the true and good that is in your nature. Fred, my boy,” he continued, “you are too young to know it, so I will tell you: my son, you have just done something that is very brave and true.”
“I?” cried the boy passionately, as he turned away his head. “I have behaved ill to you who have always been so kind and good, and made my mother weep for me when she is in such dreadful trouble without.”
“And then, my boy, you have come straight to me, your teacher—the poor, weak, humble servant of his master, who has always striven to lead you in the right way—and thrown yourself upon my breast and owned your fault. That is what I mean by saying you have done a very brave thing, my boy. There, and so you will try now?”
The last words came with a bright and cheerful ring, as Swythe released the boy and sat back smiling at him and looking proudly into his eyes.
“And so you want to learn to read and write and grow into a wise man who may some day rule over this land?”