ful. But mother won't consent and approve, will she?"
"Your mother has yet to approve of anything which she did not herself originate."
"That's just it," said John, nodding his head. "I couldn't have put it that way, but that's just where all the trouble is. If I'm ever going to amount to a row of pins, father, I've simply got to do my own thinking, and do what I think is right—even if it isn't always just what mother would think was right . . . And I couldn't go home now, could I? You know how it would be. I'd never be allowed to forget that I'd failed in an examination and that I had run away. I've never been allowed to forget any of the wrong things I've ever done. They are all held up against me, and of course there gets to be more of them, and—and what's the use of being sorry when you've done wrong if it don't get you a new start and if you are never allowed to forget? I'll bet that after God has forgiven sinners and let 'em into Paradise, He don't keep on nagging them."
"Let's not criticize your mother," said the Reverend Mr. Eaton. "After all, she's your mother. And if she weren't, you wouldn't be in a position to complain about her. Write to her; write to her whenever you get a chance."
"You know the kind of letter she'd write back,"
