“Sit down, and tell me what they have done to you,” said Philip, checking the rising heart that heaved at his mother’s name.
So, there they sat, on the cold stone under the stranger’s porch, these two orphans: Philip’s arms round his brother’s waist, Sidney leaning on his shoulder, and imparting to him—perhaps with pardonable exaggeration, all the sufferings he had gone through; and, when he came to that morning’s chastisement, and showed the wale across the little hands which he had vainly held up in supplication, Philip’s passion shook him from limb to limb. His impulse was to march straight into Mr. Morton’s shop and gripe him by the throat; and the indignation he betrayed encouraged Sidney to colour yet more highly the tale of his wrongs and pain.
When he had done, and clinging tightly to his brother’s broad chest, said—
“But never mind, Philip; now we will go home to mamma.”
Philip replied—
“Listen to me, my dear brother. We cannot go back to our mother. I will tell you why, later. We are alone in the world—we two! If you will come with me—God help you!—for you will have many hardships: we shall have to work and drudge, and you may be cold and hungry, and tired, very often, Sidney,—very, very often! But you know that, long ago, when I was so passionate, I never was wilfully unkind to you; and I declare now, that I would bite out my tongue rather than it should say a harsh word to you. That is all I can promise. Think well. Will you never miss all the comforts you have now?”
“Comforts!” repeated Sidney, ruefully, and looking at the wale over his hands. “Oh! let—let—let me go with you, I shall die if I stay here. I shall indeed—indeed!”
“Hush!” said Philip; for at that moment a step was heard, and the pale gentleman walked slowly down the passage, and started, and turned his head wistfully as he looked at the boys.
When he was gone. Philip rose.
“It is settled, then,” said he, firmly. “Come with me at once. You shall return to their roof no more. Come, quick: we shall have many miles to go to-night.”