Tom’s eyes fell and his mouth twitched.
“I’ve been to see Miss Mason,” he said, after a minute, “to bid her good-bye. She says I must send her a letter. That is a great blessing which we did not always have, Martha—we may write to each other. That is good.”
“Yes.” Martha knew it as well as Tom, and I think it was the thought of this more than almost anything else which served to keep them in some degree of cheerfulness during the remainder of his stay. It was not long, only so many short hours Martha almost counted the minutes. It was like Tom to act in a moment when the question of duty came home to him, and although Martha knew this, yet she had been surprised, after all, at his sudden acting upon her suggestion. What if Tom should sicken or be in any want so far from home?—for to Martha the distance seemed immense. Would she not then be sorry she had ever encouraged him? But those precious letters! How thankful she felt that she could write, and that though miles were between them, yet words could pass from one to the other!
How Tom felt no one knew. He hid his feelings always. Martha was the only one who ever had a glimpse, and she only now and then. He counted the cost at every step, yet still he had gone back to his acquaintance of the morning, and agreed with him to work on the plantation during the summer. His father had listened, too, when he proposed it, and although he would have liked to keep his boy at home, yet work was scarce, and he could not always find means to live; so Tom must go. He had taken leave of his teacher and the school-room quite calmly, to all appearance, and no one knew how hard the struggle was to give up all this for Jesus. Yet it was this thought which kept him up through it all, and watching Martha’s grave face as she bent over his box placing his things together, he longed to tell her his source of comfort. But perhaps he needed it himself more than she did, for to one of his disposition to go from home and mingle among strangers was very hard, very much against his will. Yet as he looked at it, he thought perhaps God had sent him just this trial to make him better, and that he might have something for him to do for his service in the country. And so his courage did not quite fail.
How his eyes lingered the next morning upon everything about his home, trying as he did to impress each little portion of the house-furnishing upon his memory! It seemed as if he could not lose sight of his sister Martha’s face. His eyes followed her everywhere. It was almost strange, the devoted affection which had sprung up between the two; and it was so hard, just as they were helping one another along the narrow way through the journey of life, to be obliged to part.
But it came, late in the afternoon—the parting—and was over, and Tom found himself in the car looking out at the country, green, and fresh, and beautiful, and trying to realize how long it would be before the familiar faces would be near him again. Of all Tom’s boy friends there was but one who was of this company, and he, although a school-mate, knew Tom only slightly. But he was alone too, and so after a while, seeing the empty seat beside Tom, he came and sat down.
“How do you think you’ll like it out there?” he asked, as Tom turned round.
“I have hardly thought,” replied Tom. “I do not know anything about it.”
“I can tell you a heap then. It’s a big plantation, with quarters for the hands not far from the house. The master lives in a big, white mansion, and has charge of the cotton and cornfields. My brother is there, and he says it’s a pretty good place. Pay is regular, and that’s the most, you know.”
“Where shall we stay? Do you know?” asked Tom.