We 'ain't got any money, or any home.

What's goin' to be done?
What's goin' to be done?
Oh, oh, oh, oh!" Jerome grasped his mother by the shoulder and tried to force her back upon her pillows.

"Come, mother, lay down," said he.
"I won't! I won't! I never will.

What's goin' to be done?
What's goin' to be done ?" "Mother, you lay right down and stop your cryin'," said Jerome; and his mother started, and hushed, and stared at him, for his voice sounded like his father's.

The boy's wiry little hands upon her shoulders, and his voice like his father's, constrained her strongly, and she sank back; and her face appeared again, like a thin wedge of piteous intelligence, in the great feather pillow.
"Now you lay still, mother," said Jerome, and to his mother's excited eyes he looked taller and taller, as if in very truth this sudden leap of his boyish spirit into the stature of a man had forced his body with it.