"I can't help it," he muttered, picking up the tongs to poke the fire.
"Don't ever let me hear that excuse from a son of mine," said Mother Fisher scornfully. "Can't help it. I'd be master of myself, that's one thing."
Joel set the tongs back with an unsteady hand. They slipped and fell to the hearth with a clang.
"Mamsie, I didn't mean," he began, finding his feet. And before any one could draw a long breath, he rushed out of the room.
There was a dreadful pause. Polly clasped her hands tightly together, and looked at her mother. Mrs. Fisher quietly put her sewing into the big basket and got out of her chair.
"Oh! what is the matter with Joey?" cried Phronsie, standing quite still by the deserted hearth-rug. "Mamsie, do you suppose his head aches?"
"I think it must," said Mrs. Fisher gravely. Then she went out very quietly and they could hear her going up the stairs.
With a firm step she went into her own room, and turned up the gas. The flash revealed Joel, face downward on the broad, comfortable sofa. Mrs. Fisher went over and closed the door, then came to his side.
"I thought, my boy," she said, "that I should find you here. Now then, tell mother all about it," and lifting his head, she sat down and took it into her lap.
"O dear!" cried Joel, burrowing deep in the comfortable lap, "O dear—O dear!"