So in the present instance, failing to receive from
his father that moral support to which he deemed himself entitled, on
entering the house he sought out his mother.
Mrs. Preston, who was rather a spare lady, with thin lips and a sharp,
hatchet-like face, was in her own room. She looked up as Godfrey
entered.
"Well, Godfrey, what's the matter?" she asked, seeing on her son's
face an unmistakable expression of discontent.
"Matter enough, mother. Father's always against me."
"I know it. He appears to forget that you are his son. What is it
now?"
"He came up just as I was thrashing a boy down in the yard."
"What boy?"
"Nobody you know, mother. It was only an Irish boy."
"What was your reason for punishing him?" asked Mrs. Preston, adopting
Godfrey's version of the affair.
"He was impudent to me. He was leaning against the fence, and I
ordered him away. He was a ragged boy, with a bundle on a stick. Of
course, when he wouldn't move, I went out and thrashed him."
"Was your father there?"
"He came up in the midst of it, and, instead of taking my part, he
took the part of the Irish boy.
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