Tommy they hardly knew. His father, by working overtime and practising biting economy, had saved enough money to buy him a new suit of clothes, a new hat, and a new pair of shoes. The remainder of his wardrobe, prepared by his mother with loving fingers, disputed the possession of a small square trunk with the books which the minister had given him and which he would need at Lawrenceville. It was not a gay procession. To father and mother alike, this journey of five hundred miles seemed a tempting of Providence, and Tommy himself was awed at the trip before him. So little was said as they stood on the platform and waited for the train.
Miss Andrews and the minister kept up a desultory talk, but the gloom extended even to them. It is always a venturesome thing to take a boy from the sphere in which he is born and the environment in which he has grown up, and attempt to launch him upon some other plane of life. The responsibility of those who try to shape the lives of others is no little one, nor is it to be undertaken lightly. These two, who fancied they saw in this boy a capability for greater things than mere labor in the mines, fully understood all this, and for the moment it weighed upon them and was not to be shaken off.
At last, away down the track, sounded the whistle of the approaching train, and in a moment it whirled into sight. Mrs. Remington caught her boy in her arms and kissed him.
“Good-by, Tommy,” she said, and pressed him convulsively to her breast. “Be a good boy.”
All pretense of composure dropped from Tommy, and he turned to his father with streaming eyes.
“Good-by, father,” he sobbed.
His father hugged him close.
“Good-by, son,” he said with trembling voice. “Y’ must write to your ma an’ me. The preacher’ll read us th’ letters, an’ we’ll like t’ git ’em.”
“I will, oh, I will!” sobbed Tommy.
The train stopped at the platform with shrieking wheels.