"Up in his room. I sent him there as soon as he came home. You'll have to do something with him. He'll be ruined if he goes on in this way. I'm out of all heart with him."
Mr. Walcott, excited as much by the manner in which his wife conveyed unpleasant information, as by the information itself, started up, under the blind impulse of the moment, and going to the room where John had been sent on coming home from school, punished the boy severely, and this without listening to the explanations which the poor child; tried to make him hear.
"Father," said the boy, with forced calmness, after the cruel stripes had ceased—"I wasn't to blame; and if you will go with me to the teacher, I can prove myself innocent."
Mr. Walcott had never known his son to tell an untruth; and the words smote with rebuke upon his heart.
"Very well—we will see about that," he answered, with forced sternness, and leaving the room he went down stairs, feeling much worse than when he went up. Again he seated himself in his large chair and again leaned back his weary head, and closed his heavy eyelids. Sadder was his face than before. As he sat thus, his oldest daughter, in her sixteenth year, came and stood by him. She held a paper in her hand—
"Father,—" he opened his eyes.
"Here's my quarter bill. It's twenty dollars. Can't I have the money to take to school with me in the morning?"
"I'm afraid not," answered Mr. Walcott, half sadly.
"Nearly all the girls will bring in their money tomorrow; and it mortifies me to be behind the others." The daughter spoke fretfully. Mr. Walcott waved her aside with his hand, and she went off muttering and pouting.
"It is mortifying," spoke up Mrs. Walcott, a little sharply; "and I don't wonder that Helen feels unpleasantly about it. The bill has to be paid, and I don't see why it may not be done as well first as last."