But Phil by this time had entered his own room, locking the door
behind him. The lad threw his books down on the bed, dropped
into a chair and sat palefaced, tearless and silent. Slowly his
eyes rose to the old-fashioned bureau, where his comb and brush
lay. The eyes halted when at length they rested on the picture of
his mother.
The lad rose as if drawn by invisible hands, reached out and
clasped the photograph to him. Then the pent-up tears welled up
in a flood. With the picture pressed to his burning cheek Phil
Forrest threw himself on his bed and sobbed out his bitter grief.
He did not hear the thump of Abner Adams' cane on the bedroom
door, nor the angry demands that he open it.
"Mother, Mother!" breathed the unhappy boy, as his sobs gradually
merged into long-drawn, trembling sighs.
Perhaps his appeal was not unheard. At least Phil Forrest sprang
from his bed, holding the picture away from him with both hands
and gazing into the eyes of his mother.
Slowly his shoulders drew back and his head came up, while an
expression of strong determination flashed into his own eyes.
"I'll do it--I'll be a man, Mother!" he exclaimed in a voice in
which there was not the slightest tremor now.
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