“I tell you yes, mother, I was proud of you.”
The thrilling passion in the little boy's voice went to his mother's heart. “Were you, my boy?” she said, her voice faltering. “I am glad you were.”
Hand in hand they walked along, the boy exulting in his restored pride in his mother and in her courage. But a new feeling soon stirred within him. He remembered with a pain intolerable that he had allowed the word of so despicable a creature as Mop Cheatley to shake his faith in his mother's courage. Indignation at the wretched creature who had maligned her, but chiefly a passionate self-contempt that he had allowed himself to doubt her, raged tumultuously in his heart and drove him in a silent fury through the dark until they reached their own gate. Then as his mother's hand reached toward the latch, the boy abruptly caught her arm in a fierce grip.
“Mother,” he burst forth in a passionate declaration of faith, “you're not a coward.”
“A coward?” replied his mother, astonished.
The boy's arms went around her, his head pressed into her bosom. In a voice broken with passionate sobs he poured forth his tale of shame and self-contempt.
“He said you were a Quaker, that the Quakers were cowards, and would never fight, and that you were a coward, and that you would never fight. But you would, mother, wouldn't you? And you're not a real Quaker, are you, mother?”
“A Quaker,” said his mother. “Yes, dear, I belong to the Friends, as we call them.”
“And they, won't they ever fight?” demanded the boy anxiously.
“They do not believe that fighting with fists, or sticks, or like wild beasts,” said his mother, “ever wins anything worth while.”