id, her voice faltering. "I am glad you
were."

Hand in hand they walked along, the boy exulting in his restored pride
in his mother and in her courage. But a new feeling soon stirred within
him. He remembered with a pain intolerable that he had allowed the word
of so despicable a creature as Mop Cheatley to shake his faith in his
mother's courage. Indignation at the wretched creature who had maligned
her, but chiefly a passionate self-contempt that he had allowed himself
to doubt her, raged tumultuously in his heart and drove him in a silent
fury through the dark until they reached their own gate. Then as his
mother's hand reached toward the latch, the boy abruptly caught her arm
in a fierce grip.

"Mother," he burst forth in a passionate declaration of faith, "you're
not a coward."

"A coward?" replied his mother, astonished.

The boy's arms went around her, his head pressed into her bosom. In a
voice broken with passionate sobs he poured forth his tale of shame and
self-contempt.

"He said you were a Quaker, that the Quakers were cowards, and would
never fight, and that you were a coward, and that you would never fight.
But you would, mother, wouldn't you? And you're not a real Quaker, are
you, mother?"

"A Quaker," said his mother. "Yes, dear, I belong to the Friends, as we
call them."

"And they, won't they ever fight?" demanded the boy anxiously.

"They do not believe that fighting with fists, or sticks, or like wild
beasts," said his mother, "ever wins anything worth while."

"Never, mother?" cried the boy, anxiety and fear in his tones. "You
would fight, you would fight to-night, you would fight the Rector."

"Yes, my boy," said his mother quietly, "that kind of fighting we
believe in. Our people have never been afraid to stand up for the right,
and to suffer for it too. Remember that, my boy," a certain pride rang
out in the mother's voice. She continued, "We must never be afraid
to suffer for what we believe to be right. You must never forget that
through all your life, Larry." Her voice grew solemn. "You must never,
never go back from what you know to be right, even if you have to suffer
for it."

"Oh, mother," whispered the boy through his sobs, "I wish I were brave
like you."

"No, no, not like me," whispered his mother, putting her face down to
his. "You will be much braver than your mother, my boy, oh, very much
braver than your mother."

The boy still clung to her as if he feared to let