The letter was in a stiff female scrawl, and Leonard observed that two or three mistakes in spelling had been corrected, either in another pen or in a different hand.
“Dear brother Dick, how good in him!” cried the widow. “When I saw there was money, I thought it must be him. How I should like to see Dick again! But I s’pose he’s still in Amerikay. Well, well, this will buy clothes for you.”
“No; you must keep it all, Mother, and put it in the Savings Bank.”
“I ‘m not quite so silly as that,” cried Mrs. Fairfield, with contempt; and she put the L50 into a cracked teapot.
“It must not stay there when I ‘m gone. You may be robbed, Mother.”
“Dear me, dear me, that’s true. What shall I do with it? What do I want with it, too? Dear me! I wish they hadn’t sent it. I sha’ n’t sleep in peace. You must e’en put it in your own pouch, and button it up tight, boy.”
Lenny smiled, and took the note; but he took it to Mr. Dale, and begged him to put it into the Savings Bank for his mother.
The day following he went to take leave of his master, of Jackeymo, of the fountain, the garden. But after he had gone through the first of these adieus with Jackeymo—who, poor man, indulged in all the lively gesticulations of grief which make half the eloquence of his countrymen, and then, absolutely blubbering, hurried away—Leonard himself was so affected that he could not proceed at once to the house, but stood beside the fountain, trying hard to keep back his tears.
“You, Leonard—and you are going!” said a soft voice; and the tears fell faster than ever, for he recognized the voice of Violante.
“Do not cry,” continued the child, with a kind of tender gravity. “You are going, but Papa says it would be selfish in us to grieve, for it is for your good; and we should be glad. But I am selfish, Leonard, and I do grieve. I shall miss you sadly.”