A shadow fell on his mother's face, and for several minutes she stood and he sat in perfect silence; he not stirring his eyes from the fire, she not moving hers from him. When she spoke, the tone was changed, and though quiet he felt the trouble in it.
"What sort of a somebody, Winthrop?"
"Mamma," he said, "I can't live here! I want to know more and to be more than I can here. I can, I am sure, if I only can find a way; and I am sure I can find a way. It is in me, and it will come out. I don't want anybody to give me any help, nor to think of me; I can work my own way, if you'll only let me and not be troubled about me."
He had risen from his chair to speak this. His mother kept her face in the shadow and said quietly,
"What way will you take, Winthrop?"
"I don't know, ma'am, yet; I haven't found out."
"Do you know the difficulties in the way?"
"No, mother."
It was said in the tone not of proud but of humble determination.
"My boy, they are greater than you think for, or than I like to think of at all."