Tom was silent.  “When my temper is up, Miss Goldthwaite,” he said at length, “I don’t care for anything or anybody, except to get it out somehow.  I was keeping so straight, too; I hadn’t once answered back to Uncle Josh or Aunt Hepsy for weeks.  It’s no use trying to be good.”

“No use?  Why, Tom, if everybody gave up at the first stumble, what would become of the world, do you think?  Our life, you know, is nothing but falling and rising again, and will be till we reach the land where all these trials are over.  Keep up a brave heart.  Begin again, and keep a double watch over self.”

“I feel as if it would be easy enough to do it when I’m talking to you or Mr. Goldthwaite, but at home it is different.  I shall never be able to get on with them though I live a hundred years.  And O Miss Goldthwaite, you don’t know how I want to go on drawing and painting.  I feel as if I could die sometimes because I can’t.”

“When the time comes, dear; and it will come sooner, perhaps, than you think,” said Miss Carrie hopefully.  “You will prize it all the more because of this sharp discipline.  Do your duty like a man, and believe me, God will reward you for it one day.”

“I will try, Miss Goldthwaite,” said Tom with a new great earnestness of face and voice.

“Now,” said Miss Carrie then, with a quick, bright smile, “I’m going to send you home.  I don’t mean to tell my brother anything about your visit.  Our talk is to be a secret.  He would be so grieved that you have come to grief again through that tongue of yours.  And I hope it will be a long time before its master loses hold of the bridle again.”  She went with him to the kitchen and helped him to dress, and then opened the door for him.  “Now, Tom, you are to go home and tell your aunt you are sorry for what happened this afternoon; because you should not have spoken as you did.  And remember, Tom, that a soldier’s first duty is obedience.”  And without giving him a chance to demur, she nodded good-bye and ran into the house.

It was raining heavily still, but that Tom did not mind; he was wondering how to frame his apology to his aunt, and how she would receive it.

It was dark when he reached Thankful Rest, and the kitchen door was barred.  He knocked twice, and was answered at last by Aunt Hepsy, who looked visibly relieved.  Feeling that if he waited till he was in the light his courage would flee, he said hurriedly,—­

“I’ve been to the parsonage, Aunt Hepsy, and I want to tell you I’m sorry I drew the picture and spoke to you as I did.  If you’ll forgive me this time I won’t be so rude again.”

Aunt Hepsy looked slightly amazed.  “Dear me, boy, I am thankful to see ye home again; ye’ve gev Lucy a fever almost.  See an’ don’t do it again, that’s all.”  And that was all Tom ever heard about the afternoon’s explosion.

VII.

The red house.