152 Tom Seven Years Old.

ey
Se RT

the garden. No bird or cloud passed to
amuse him. It grew darker. His mamma
did not come. He was not yet sorry, but a
little hungry and very tired.

“ Perhaps,” he thought, “she has forgotten

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me

The door was locked. He knew he could
not get out. He began to wish he had never
picked the nasty berries. Just then he heard
a step outside, and he determined over again
not to be sorry. [he door was unfastened.
His mamma came in.

“Dear Tom,” she said, “aren’t you sorry
now ?”

Her voice was very sweet. Tom still stood
by the window, trying hard not to be.

“Don’t you know it was very wrong to
pick the berries ?”

“Ves,” said Tom.

“ And aren't you sorry ?” asked she. “I’m
sure you are!”

Her voice was so soft and sweet, it almost
persuaded him to be. He struggled a minute
longer, and then he had to give it up. There