To the window he went, and pressed his nose against the pane. The clouds were grey. It all seemed very dark and not at all cheerful as the world ought to be.
Once more he looked up at the picture.
And as he looked at the eyes of the man in the picture, they told him to do something.
He decided to do it. And as soon as he decided he felt better—not all better—but better.
And out into the dining-room he marched. He had to close his fists tight, for it is very hard sometimes to tell people you've done wrong to them, especially if they are people you love.
"Mother," he said—not very loud.
She looked up.
"Yes?"
"Mother—I——"
He stopped. Mother looked up. She saw his lip tremble a little and wanted to take him in her arms. But she didn't just then. He must tell what he had to tell, first.