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“What party, Mother?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” his mother replied. “I just thought you were dressed up for one.”

And he looked down at his clean suit and his Sunday best shoes. And from out the corner of his eye he saw wet places on the floor and muddy tracks, about as big as his feet.

No answer now had Jehosophat. He guessed he would go into the parlour. So he sat down at the marble-topped table, and looked at the picture book which Uncle Roger had given him. It was full of great white ships sailing the blue sea.

For a moment he almost forgot all his troubles, so interested was he in looking at those great ships and their sails and all the wonderful fish.

Then suddenly he remembered.

He looked out through the door into the dining-room.

Mother wasn’t saying anything. She was just busy. That was all.

But had she forgotten?

Somehow Jehosophat did not like the sad look on her face.

He went and shut the door. He thought he would feel more comfortable if he couldn’t see Mother’s eyes. Then he sat down to look at the picture book again. But he felt more miserable than ever.

Bang! he shut the book too. It was very strange. The things that usually made him so happy weren’t any fun at all just then.

Then he looked up at the mantel.

Above it hung a great picture. There was a man in a cocked hat. He had on a fine uniform and he rode a tall white horse. Jehosophat knew very well who that was. It would be his birthday tomorrow–George Washington’s birthday. The teacher had told them all about it that very afternoon.

She had told them a story, too, about a hatchet and a cherry tree–and–a lie!

The man on the horse looked down from the picture. The eyes were very stern.

A lie!

Yes, that was just what he had told to Mother. He had told a lie, and acted a lie.

Though there was no one else in the room but the great man in the big picture, Jehosophat’s cheeks grew very red. A lump came into his throat.

Now he never could be president nor have a sword–and ride a big white horse–and call “Forward March” to the whole army. No–never!

To the window he went, and pressed his nose against the pane. The clouds were grey. It all seemed very dark and not at all cheerful as the world ought to be.

Once more he looked up at the picture.

And as he looked at the eyes of the man in the picture, they told him to do something.

He decided to do it. And as soon as he decided he felt better–not all better–but better.

And out into the dining-room he marched. He had to close his fists tight, for it is very hard sometimes to tell people you’ve done wrong to them, especially if they are people you love.

“Mother,” he said–not very loud.

She looked up.

“Yes?”

“Mother–I—-“

He stopped. Mother looked up. She saw his lip tremble a little and wanted to take him in her arms. But she didn’t just then. He must tell what he had to tell, first.

“Mother–I told a lie–I got my feet wet–sloshin’–and I said I was playin’ when I changed my clothes–an’ I’m sorry an’–an’–I’ll never do it again.”

Then Mother did take him in her arms and she kissed him and hugged him too.

“Well–I love my little boy all the more for this. It was very wrong to disobey, worse still to tell a lie. But it was hard to tell me your own self about it and you were brave.”

So she kissed him. And her eyes weren’t sad any more.