"Mrs. Reagan," said he, "let me stay here to-day, I have got no home, and I don't feel as though I wanted to go back to Cale Jones's."
No. He did not want to go back there. He had heard the sound of his dead mother's voice, saying, good boy. Nobody would say, good boy, if he went back there. Conscience too was doing her work; conscience told him what he had done to a woman who now said, "good boy."
So he stayed—he was a good boy—she was sick and he waited upon her all day. At night he was going to get Mr. Elting and Nolan to go with him and bring Reagan home. That would be his reward. He has his hand upon the door to go out, but waits a moment to see who comes. He opens it to a hurried footstep, and in bounds Wild Maggie, her face radiant with health, strength, and the lovely bloom of country life.
"Where's father? Mother sick? What's the matter?"
Her mother draws the clothes over her face. She would not have her daughter see her weep.
"Tom, my boy, tell me; come, Tom, that is a good boy—the truth, nothing but the truth—I must know it."
Good boy, again, and his heart overflowed. He could stand kicks, and cuffs, and curses, without a tear, but he could not hold out against, "good boy."
"Maggie, I will not lie to you, I could not; but I can't tell you the truth."
"Why?"
"I am 'fraid you won't call me good boy again."