“Mamma?”
“Yes, honey.”
“Do you s’pose I could write a play as good as that old Shakespeare did?”
“Why—why, yes, I’m sure you could—if you tried.”
Mrs. Vickery had always understood the rarely comprehended truth that praise creates less conceit than the withholding of it, as food builds strength and slays the hunger that cries for it.
Eugene was evidently encouraged, but he kept silence so long that finally she gave him up. She was leaving the room when he murmured again:
“Mamma.”
“Yes, honey.”
“I guess I’ll write a play.”
“Fine!” she said.