"I wish with all my heart that we had both killed ourselves at that bank."
"For shame, Orme, for shame!"
"Very well, sir; let it be for shame." And then he passed on, meaning to go through the gate, and leaving Graham on the grass by the road-side. But before he had gone a hundred yards down the road his better feelings came back upon him, and he returned.
"I am unhappy," he said, "and sore at heart. You must not mind what words I spoke just now."
"No, no; I am sure you did not mean them," said Felix, putting his hand on the horse's mane.
"I did mean them then, but I do not mean them now. I won't say anything about wishes. Of course you will be happy with her. Anybody would be happy with her. I suppose you won't die, and give a fellow another chance."
"Not if I can help it," said Graham.
"Well, if you are to live, I don't wish you any evil. I do wish you hadn't come to Noningsby, that's all. Good-bye to you." And he held out his hand, which Graham took.
"We shall be good friends yet, for all that is come and gone," said Graham; and then there were no more words between them.
Peregrine did as he said, and went abroad, extending his travels to many wild countries, in which, as he used to say, any one else would have been in danger. No danger ever came to him,—so at least he frequently wrote word to his mother. Gorillas he slew by scores, lions by hundreds, and elephants sufficient for an ivory palace. The skins, and bones, and other trophies, he sent home in various ships; and when he appeared in London as a lion, no man doubted his word. But then he did not write a book, nor even give lectures; nor did he presume to know much about the huge brutes he had slain, except that they were pervious to powder and ball.