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. "I'll fight the
battle and I'll win."

Phil Forest had come to the parting of the ways, which he faced
with a courage unusual in one of his years. There was little to
be done. He packed his few belongings in a bag that had been his
mother's. The lad possessed one suit besides the one he wore,
and this he stowed away as best he could, determining to press it
out when he had located himself.

Finally his task was finished. He stood in the middle of the
floor glancing around the little room that had been his home for
so long. But he felt no regrets. He was only making sure that
he had not left anything behind. Having satisfied himself on
this point, Phil gathered up his bundle of books, placed the
picture of his mother in his inside coat pocket, then threw open
the door.

The lad's uncle had stamped to the floor below, where he was
awaiting Phil's coming.

"Good-bye, Uncle," he said quietly, extending a hand.