Tom tried to speak, but he faltered and moved from one foot to the other, in an embarrassed and hesitating way. He wanted to say how the sum originally intended for one object could not honestly be claimed for another; he wanted to say, also, that he had no longer the need of so much money, and that the only obligation he liked to submit to was gratitude for the past; but a consciousness that in attempting to say these things some unhappy word, some ill-advised or ungracious expression might escape him, stopped him, and he was silent.
“You do not wish that we should part coldly, Tom?”
“No, sir,—oh, no!” cried he, eagerly.
“Then let not that paltry gift stand in the way of our esteem. Now, another thing. Will you write to me? Will you tell me how the world fares with you, and honestly declare whether the step you have taken to-day brings with it regret or satisfaction?”
“I'm not over-much of a letter-writer,” said he, falter-ingly, “but I'll try. I must be going, Mr. Conyers,” said he, after a moment's silence; “I must get back before I'm missed.”
“Not as you came, Tom, however. I'll pass you out of the barrack-gate.”
As they walked along side by side, neither spoke till they came close to the gate; then Conyers halted and said, “Can you think of nothing I can do for you, or is there nothing you would leave to my charge after you have gone?”
“No, sir, nothing.” He paused, and then, as if with a struggle, said, “Except you 'd write one line to my sister Polly, to tell her that I went away in good heart, that I did n't give in one bit, and that if it was n't for thinking that maybe I 'd never see her again—” He faltered, his voice grew thick, he tried to cough down the rising emotion, but the feeling overcame him, and he burst out into tears. Ashamed at the weakness he was endeavoring to deny, he sprang through the gate and disappeared.
Conyers slowly returned to his quarters, very thoughtful and very sad.