“It can’t matter much where I’ve been. I’ve been doing no harm.”
“No, dear. I never thought you had,” said his mother, groping her way to the bedside and sitting down by him. She put out her hand till it reached where his head was lying. His forehead was hot and damp, and he put her hand away fretfully.
“You forget,” he said, “I’m not a baby now.”
“You are always my boy, Wat, and will be, however old you may grow. If your father was harsh he did not mean it. Oh, why did you rush away like that without any breakfast? Walter, tell me the truth, have you had anything to eat? have you had some dinner? Tell me the truth.”
There was a pause, and then he said, “I forget: is that all you think of, mother?”
“No, Wat, not all I think of, but I think of that too. If I bring you up something will you eat it, Wat?”
“For pity’s sake let me alone,” he said, pettishly, “and go away.”
“Walter!”
“Let me alone, mother, for to-night. I can’t say anything to-night. I came to bed on purpose to be quiet; leave me alone for to-night.”
“If I do, Wat, you will hear us, you will not turn your back upon us to-morrow?”