"There, I know that straight as a book. She prays to God to make me better, but He doesn't do it yet, and I should think she'd get discouraged. 'Heart like a stone,' she said. That made me want to laugh, for I could feel it beating all the time she spoke, and it couldn't if it was a stone! Bad heart, though, or I wouldn't be so bad myself. "Well, it's no use to think about badness or goodness now," said Willy, flinging another handful of grass into the road. "_What'll I do?_ That's the question. "You see, now, folks have such a poor opinion of boys," added he, his thoughts spinning round the same circle again. "Most wish I was a girl. O, my stars, what an idea!" And completely disgusted with himself, he jumped up and turned a somerset. "Better be whipped three times a day than be a girl! "But father felt real bad that time I was sick, for I saw him. Not so bad as mother, though. Poor mother! I no business to gone off and left her. What you s'pose she thought last night, when I didn't come back from the post office?" This question had tried to rise before, but had always been forced back. "She waited till nine o'clock, and didn't think much queer. But after that she come out of the bedroom, with her face tied up, and said she, 'Hasn't Willy got home yet?' Then they told her 'No,' and father scowled. And she sat up till ten o'clock, and then do you s'pose anybody went out doors to hunt? She didn't sleep a wink all night. Don't see how folks can lie awake so. I couldn't if I should try; but I'm not a woman, you know, and I don't believe I should care much about my boys, if I was. Would _I_ mend their trousis for 'em, when they tore 'em on a nail, going where I told 'em not to? For, says I, I can't bear the sight of a child that won't mind. But you see, mother-- "Poor mother, what'll she do without me? She said there wasn't anybody she could take in her arms to hug but just me. Stephen's too big to sit in her lap, and Love's too big; and there wouldn't anybody think of hugging Seth, if he was ever so little. "Yes, mother wants _me_. I remember that song she sings about the Scotch woman that lost her baby, and she cries a little before she gets through." The words were set to a plaintive air, and Willy hummed it over to himself,-- "I ha'e naebody now, I ha'e naebody now To clasp at my bosom at even, O'er his calm sleep to breathe out a vow, And pray for the blessing of Heaven." "Poor mother, how that makes her cry! Why, I declare, I'm crying too! Somehow seems's if I couldn't get along without mother. But there, I won't be a cry-baby! Hush up, Willy Parlin! "WHAT'LL I DO? Wish I hadn't come. Wish I'd thought more about mother--how she's going to feel. "What if I should turn right round now, and go home? Why, father'd whip me worse'n ever--_that's_ what. Well, who cares? It'll feel better after it's done smarting. Guess I can stand it. Look here, Will Parlin, I'm going."