He had made up his mind. He
knew now that he was going to wear his suit as it should be worn.
He had no doubt in the matter. He was afraid, terribly afraid, but
glad, glad.
He got out of his bed and stood a moment by the window looking
at the moonshine-flooded garden and trembling at the thing he meant
to do. The air was full of a minute clamor of crickets and
murmurings, of the infinitesimal shouting of little living things.
He went very gently across the creaking boards, for fear that he
might wake the sleeping house, to the big dark clothes-press
wherein his beautiful suit lay folded, and he took it out garment
by garment and softly and very eagerly tore off its tissue-paper
covering and its tacked protections, until there it was, perfect
and delightful as he had seen it when first his mother had given it
to him--a long time it seemed ago. Not a button had tarnished, not
a thread had faded on this dear suit of his; he was glad enough for
weeping as in a noiseless hurry he put it on. And then back he
went, soft and quick, to the window and looked out upon the garden
and stood there for a minute, shining in the moonlight, with his
buttons twinkling like stars, before he got out on the sill and,
making as little of a rustling as he could, clambered down to the
garden path below. He stood before his mother's house, and it was
white and nearly as plain as by day, with every window-blind but
his own shut like an eye that sleeps.
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