The boy was very still for a little, but burst out presently: “I’m going to work, mother; as soon as school closes I’ll start.”
He felt his mother start. “You’re too young for hard work, Billy; you do enough as it is.”
“Yes, when you and sister turn gray getting it out of me. No, I’m going to do real work that will earn money; and I’m going to take this never-get-enough grub-basket of mine to a table where my own hands have earned the grub.”
“Billy! My—boy!” Mrs. Bennett bent over him; and he felt a tear where her cheek touched his.
“Feel that muscle,” he said a moment later; bending his arm, and pressing her fingers to it. “That’s got to grow by a broom or hoe, something besides football!”
His words had a new ring, and his mother was wise enough to respect the young independence in them. “What brought you to this decision, Billy?”
“You remember that story about a man who died for love of a girl because he knew he ought not to marry her? I thought that sort kind of noble, but you said there was nobler. Do you remember?”
“No; I can’t recall what I said.”
“You said, ‘Death is easy. It is much braver to live without the love one craves, to do one’s duty each day, and smile as the world goes by. That’s the finest love I know,’ you said.”
“Well?” she questioned.