sted anyway."

"Not quite," reluctantly. If the truth were told, a new book from the
public library had caught his eye as he was about to start, and time had
flown as a consequence.

His mother shook her head. "That's your regular Saturday work, John. It
has to be finished before you can go out. You know that. And there's the
lawn to be cut, and the porch to be hosed. You skipped them last week."

"I'll do them this afternoon. Honest, I will." His lower lip began to
tremble. Mrs. Fletcher struggled to hide a smile.

"Tell Bill you'll be out later." She disregarded his offer of
compromise. "Now run along, son. Teasing only wastes time. You could be
half finished if you'd only worked."

There was no mistaking the tone. It meant business in spite of the
aggressive cheerfulness. He turned moodily and stamped out of the room.
As the door closed, he found an outlet for the disappointment in half
mumbled ejaculations.

"Mean old thing. Never lets a fellow do what he wants. Just as well have
let 'em go until afternoon. What's the use of tidying a room, anyway?
Always gets dirty again."

Half-way up the carpeted stairs, he tripped in his blind anger and
bruised his knee. The pain was sufficient to make the tears--the easy
flowing tears which had longed for an outlet from the start of the
interview--stream from his eyes.

In a trice, he turned, threw back the door, and fled to the haven of his
mother's lap. His arms sought clumsily to encircle her neck. She dropped
the pan of apples on the floor, and gathered him, a sobbing little
bundle, into her comforting arms.

"What is it, son?"

"My knee." One uncertain hand indicated the injured spot.

"Ah, son, son," she laughed softly with just a hint of a catch in her
voice as she rubbed the injury gently, "is it only when you want
something that you love me like this?"

He shook his head and snuggled closer in vehement protest. They rocked
to and fro for some moments. Gradually the sobbing ceased and he lay
blissfully motionless until she looked down at him. Then he said
sheepishly,

"If I do the lawn now, can I leave the porch and my room until
afternoon?"

Mrs. Fletcher gave her son an amused shake. He sensed hope for his cause
and began to weep anew.

"Please!"

His mother's smile broadened. "You little humbug," she said softly.

John wanted to smile, too. She always said that when she was relenting.

"Can I?" eagerly.

"Well, make a good job of the front l