For it was awfully sad that his mother's portrait should be in his own mother's box.
He took a bit of red tape off a bundle of the papers, put it through the eye of the setting, and hung the picture round his neck, inside his clothes, for grannie must not see it.

She would take that away as she had taken his fiddle.

He had a nameless something now for which he had been longing for years.
Looking again in the box, he found a little bit of paper, discoloured with antiquity, as it seemed to him, though it was not so old as himself.

Unfolding it he found written upon it a well-known hymn, and at the bottom of the hymn, the words: 'O Lord! my heart is very sore.'-- The treasure upon Robert's bosom was no longer the symbol of a mother's love, but of a woman's sadness, which he could not reach to comfort.

In that hour, the boy made a great stride towards manhood.