"But, granny, I can't leave Roy. It will break his heart. You don't know how he frets about his leg. He doesn't say much and is always so cheerful, but he misses me most awfully even if I'm away for a day. If he was well and strong, he could get on first-rate, but he wouldn't get about half so much if I didn't take him. I think he would mope and mope all by himself. And I don't think we could live without each other. You won't send me away, will you?"
Tears were filling Dudley's blue eyes, but Mrs. Bertram looked displeased.
"In my days, children never thought of arguing with their elders. I think your aunt and I are as capable of taking care of Roy as you are. Now leave the room, and do not refer to the matter again."
Then Dudley astonished his grandmother by the first exhibition of temper that he had ever displayed before her.
"I won't be separated from Roy. If you send me to school, I shall run away, and I shall write and tell father the reason!"
A stamp of the foot emphasized this passionate speech, and then Dudley fled from the room, banging the door violently behind him.
As on a former occasion he now took himself and his grief to old Principle. It was early-closing day in the village, and he found the old man just locking up his door prepared for a ramble.
"Come along up to the hills with me, laddie," he said, after hearing the trouble; "there's nothing like fresh air for blowing away a fit of the dumps. I am going to the cave again—will you come with me?"
"Yes, I will. I've been in an awful temper in granny's room, and banged her door. I don't think she'll ever forgive me!"
"'Tis like this, Master Dudley," said old Principle, presently, as they walked over the hills together; "if it's right for you to go, there's nothing to be said, and you must fall in with it whether you like it or no."