“What is it you want?”I snapped.
You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. When has habit been doing to me?The habit of complaining, finding fault, reprimanding-this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you;it was that I expected too much of you. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.