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At supper time Billy's appetite had not returned. He did make something of a pretense at eating but it did not deceive the eyes of his watchful mother, who for reasons of her own restrained herself from making any reference to his mopishness. She did not realize what a perfect picture she presented, with her golden hair wind-strewn, her red lips parted, and the old joy singing in her heart and kindling a light in her eyes. But the boy who met her at the curve in the road realized it, and his face grew wistful as he asked: "Is he all right, Erie?" As a quick step sounded outside, she lowered herself slowly to a high-backed chair and waited, hands locked closely upon her lap..
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Billy had to stifle his emotion and swallow twice before he answered: "That's what I'd like you to call me. I'll bet you can't say it, though." Maurice glanced at the message, then his face fell. "Oh blame it all!" he muttered, "another of Bill's sign letters; looks like a fence that's been struck by lightnin'." He was out of bed and pulling his braces over his shoulders by the time the heavy footsteps of his mother sounded at the top of the stairs. Maurice sat down weakly on a block and wiped his face on his sleeve..
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