A painful silence lasted for several moments, then:
“Do ee love I any more, Mammy?”
Mrs. Tregennis rested the hot iron on the stand and looked fixedly at Tommy. “How can I love ee, Tommy Tregennis, when you’m such a naughty boy.”
“No,” Tommy’s voice broke. “I don’t s’pose ee do love I any more; but”—and now the voice was very pleading—“I do love ee brave an’ much, Mammy, quite so much as that,” and the two restless hands, from which all chocolate stains had been removed, were held more than half a yard apart.
Mrs. Tregennis showed no signs of relenting but gave all her attention to moving the iron lightly up and down over the stiff, brown paper.
The kitchen door opened and Miss Margaret walked in. In amazement she paused; first, because Tommy was in his very everyday clothes; secondly, because Mrs. Tregennis was ironing on Sunday afternoon. The ladies had been sitting down by the sea, surrounded by Easter calm, and were ignorant of the grim tragedy enacted in the Tregennis household.
Miss Margaret was horrified when she was put in possession of the facts. “Oh, Tommy!” her voice was very expressive and her face was very sad. “How more than dreadful it would have been if you’d been all burned up to nothing. Burned right up to nothing at all, only the soles of your new brown boots left lying upon the bedroom floor.”
Tommy shuddered and looked down at his feet.
“What would your Daddy and Mammy have done then?” Miss Margaret continued. “They’d have been left all alone just with the soles of your boots.”