"I am not working for you now, Uncle, you know, so I shall have
to refuse to do the chores. There is fifty cents due me from Mr.
Churchill for fixing his chicken coop. You may get that, I don't
want it."

Phil turned away once more, and with head erect entered the
house, going straight to his room, leaving Abner Adams fuming and
stamping about in the front yard. The old man's rage knew no
bounds. He was so beside himself with anger over the fancied
impudence of his nephew that, had the boy been present, he might
have so far forgotten himself as to have used his cane on Phil.

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.