106 Tom Seven Years Old.

 

et A NN

morning and at bed-time, when she must.
He sighed.

“I suppose,” he said, “grown-up people
are not like me inside at all.”

He was hoping that, even though he was so
very old, and so near being a man, there was
time yet for a change to come, and that it
might perhaps come suddenly, without his
knowing beforehand.

“No,” said his mamma, “children also have
been martyrs. Little Toms have given up
the thing they liked best.”

“Have they?” said Tom. He was very
sorry to hear it. It would be like having
lessons all day, trying to please others instead
of pleasing himself; and he did not love any-
one enough for that. Suddenly he noticed
his mamma was looking at him, and it struck
him that she had seen inside him, and knew
how unlike he was to the martyrs, and how
dreadfully he cared for himself, and how he
would rather play about all day, and think of
nobody else, and how he could xo¢ possibly
give up what he liked best,