“Why, Mother—I didn’t think—don’t cry. Of course we won’t go if you don’t want to.” And Ernest stroked his mother’s hair awkwardly.
Mrs. Morton smiled through her tears.
“I mustn’t give way—it’s foolish. But it was so unexpected—and I’m afraid—perhaps we ought to do it on Frank and Marian’s account—and your father’s. It is hard for him to be up nights so much. We’ll see.”
Mrs. Morton kissed Ernest and picked up her sewing again.
Dr. Morton came home a week later sunburned and vigorous—full of the wonderful country he had been seeing. His trunk was a perfect treasure house of gifts for the family. Ernest’s eyes shone when the canvas-covered case his father held out to him was found to contain a small shot gun. He had been begging for one for the past two years, but had been refused because he was too young.
“I think I can depend upon you to handle this with the greatest care, Ernest,” said his father impressively. “I wouldn’t have bought it for you if I hadn’t felt assured you could be trusted.”
Dr. Morton looked at the boy keenly and was pleased to see the way he drew up his shoulders and looked his father in the eye as he replied:
“I think you can trust me, Father, I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure I can,” said his father heartily. “The first thing you must remember is never to leave it loaded. Half the accidents occur because somebody ‘didn’t know it was loaded.’ It’s a simple matter to open it and slip out the shells before you put it away.”
Dr. Morton took the shiny steel weapon across his knee and, opening it, slipped the shells quickly in and out, with Ernest and Jane watching intently beside him.