‘Why should I?’ returned Martin, waving his hand, and moving towards the door. ‘You could not know it the better for my dwelling on it, and though it would be really none the worse, it might seem to me to be. No, Tom. Bygones shall be bygones between us. I can take leave of you at this moment, and in this place—in which you are so amiable and so good—as heartily, if not as cheerfully, as ever I have done since we first met. All good go with you, Tom!—I—’
‘You leave me so? You can leave me so, can you?’ said Tom.
‘I—you—you have chosen for yourself, Tom! I—I hope it was a rash choice,’ Martin faltered. ‘I think it was. I am sure it was! Good-bye!’
And he was gone.
Tom led his little sister to her chair, and sat down in his own. He took his book, and read, or seemed to read. Presently he said aloud, turning a leaf as he spoke: ‘He will be very sorry for this.’ And a tear stole down his face, and dropped upon the page.
Ruth nestled down beside him on her knees, and clasped her arms about his neck.
‘No, Tom! No, no! Be comforted! Dear Tom!’
‘I am quite—comforted,’ said Tom. ‘It will be set right.’
‘Such a cruel, bad return!’ cried Ruth.
‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘He believes it. I cannot imagine why. But it will be set right.’