Sunny Boy was very uncomfortable. His throat didn’t feel right. And he couldn’t look at his own dear mother, though usually he loved to watch her face. He wasn’t a Sunny Boy just now.
“Did you run away, Arthur?” she asked again.
Sunny Boy nodded miserably, still fingering the pink roses.
Mrs. Horton did not say anything for a moment. She seemed to be thinking. Then she gathered both of Sunny Boy’s small hands in her smooth, soft right hand, keeping her left arm around him.
“Listen to Mother carefully, dear,” she said firmly. “This all happened because you were cross. Any other morning you would have found something pleasant to do. But when a little boy makes up his mind to be cross and not to be pleased with anything he usually winds up by doing something naughty.”
Two big tears fell out of Sunny Boy’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He was very unhappy.
“What do you suppose Daddy would say,” continued his mother, “if he knew you had gone over to town without saying a word to me? I think he would say that he was surprised and grieved to learn that his only son couldn’t be trusted. Because that is what it really means—that Daddy and Mother can not trust a little boy who, just because the day doesn’t go to suit him, runs away and lets his mother worry about him.”
Sunny Boy put his yellow head down in Mother’s lap and cried as though his heart would break.
“Don’t you really trust me, Mother?” he managed to sob out.
Mother’s soft arms drew him into her lap.