Carl glanced down, but answered, "Yes, and here is what she did!" holding up the blotted paper.
"Does that excuse your unmanliness, your—you might have killed her, you know. I can't talk to you now, Carl; you'd better go to your room. I can't tell you how disappointed I am."
He never thought of not following her suggestion; indeed, he was glad to get away from those indignant eyes.
"Of course," he muttered to himself, "I am all to blame and nothing is said to Helen about spoiling my work. Boys are always found fault with, but girls can do anything."
Down in his heart he knew this was not true, but he chose to think it. He flung himself into a chair by the window. It was a gloomy, thawing day; the snow, as if aghast at the trouble it had caused, was melting sadly away. There was nothing in the prospect to make him feel cheerful. After awhile he went to work on his composition again, and as he wrote he felt more and more like a martyr. When it was finished he folded it and put it away, and began to think it must be near lunch-time. With the door closed, there in the third story he could not hear the bell; however, he would not go down; if they wanted him they might send for him. By two o'clock he was feeling deeply injured. Nobody cared whether he starved or not. Then he remembered that Uncle William was to take them to see Hermann that afternoon. By this time they must have gone without him. Carl threw himself on the bed and shed some tears of vexation and disappointment. All the while something was whispering to him that he deserved to be unhappy. The afternoon dragged slowly; he grew very hungry, and at last saying to himself that he would go and get some biscuit, and "Tom Sawyer," one of his favorite books, he went softly downstairs.
The house was so quiet that the sight of Mr. Smith asleep on a hall chair was a positive relief. After visiting the pantry he went to the library for his book. The door was half open, and when he reached it he suddenly stopped, for there was Aunt Zélie by the table with her head bowed on her arms. Evidently she had not heard him, and Carl almost held his breath. He thought she was crying; he was not sure, but certainly she was unhappy. It came to him in that moment, as it never had before, how tender and sweet and helpful she was. She had sorrow of her own, he knew, and who was there to comfort her as she comforted others? And he had disappointed her—had behaved shamefully. As he stood there it seemed to him that he must have been crazy. He could not endure the sight of that sorrowful figure, and turning to go away, instead; the next minute he was kneeling beside her saying, "Aunt Zélie, I am so sorry."
She was startled, for she had not heard him; but she turned and put her arms around him for a moment, without speaking.
"Aunt Zélie, I know how contemptible I am; you ought not to have anything to do with me," Carl exclaimed in a great burst of contrition. She took his hand and held it fast as she answered, "I can't throw stones at you, dear, but perhaps I can help you to learn the lesson I have had to learn many times."
He never forgot that afternoon. How he sat beside her with his head on her shoulder, while she talked to him as she had never talked before. How his face glowed with mingled shame and pride as she said that, of all the children, he was, if possible, the dearest to her.
"But I have more fear for you than for the others. I long to have you grow up a strong, true man—master of yourself in every sense. If you do not, I shall feel that in some way it is my fault."