The boy burst into the room. His face was stained with tears and
rain; and the new black coat was wet and slimy all down the front,
and on the elbows were green-brown, muddy blots. For, on his way
home, he had flung himself down in the Stony Bottom just as he
was, heedless of the wet earth and his father's coat, and, lying on
his face thinking of that second mother lost to him, had wept his
heart out in a storm of passionate grief.

Now he stood defiantly, his hand upon the door.

"What d'yo' want?"

The little man looked from him to the picture in his hand.

"Help me, Flora--he'll no," he prayed. Then raising his eyes, he
began: "I'd like to say--I've bin thinkin'--I think I should tell ye--it's
no an easy thing for a man to say--"

He broke off short. The self-imposed task was almost more than he
could accomplish.

He looked appealingly at David. But there was no glimmer of
understanding in that white, set countenance.

"O God, it's maist mair than I can do!" the little man muttered; and
the perspiration stood upon his forehead. Again he began:
David, after I saw ye this afternoon steppin' doon the hill--"
Again he paused. His glance rested unconsciously upon the coat.
David mistook the look; mistook the dimness in his father's eyes;
mistook the tremor in his voice.