“No, he is not the same,” replied his wife. “He is different to me.” There was almost a cry of pain in her voice.
“Now, now, don't imagine things. Boys are full of notions at Hughie's age. He may need a change, but that is all.”
With this the mother tried to quiet the tumult of anxious fear and pain she found rising in her heart, but long after the house was still, and while both her boy and his father lay asleep, she kept pouring forth that ancient sacrifice of self-effacing love before the feet of God.
CHAPTER IX
HUGHIE'S EMANCIPATION
Hughie rose late next morning, and the hurry and rush of getting off to school in time left him no opportunity to get rid of the little packages in his pocket, that seemed to burn and sting him through his clothes. He determined to keep them safe in his pocket all day and put them back in the drawer at night. His mother's face, white with her long watching, and sad and anxious in spite of its brave smile, filled him with such an agony of remorse that, hurrying through his breakfast, he snatched a farewell kiss, and then tore away down the lane lest he should be forced to confess all his terrible secret.
The first person who met him in the school-yard was Foxy.
“Have you got that?” was his salutation.
A sudden fury possessed Hughie.