“As to my mother,” continued he, “she'd not care to live here any longer,—I know it. I don't speak of myself, because it's the habit to think I don't care for any one or anything,—that's the estimate people form of me, and I must bear it as I can.”
“It's less than just, Tony,” said Dolly, gravely.
“Oh, if I am to ask for justice, Dolly, I shall get the worst of it,” said he, laughing, but not merrily.
For a while they walked on without a word on either side.
“What a calm night!” said Dolly, “and how large the stars look! They tell me that in southern latitudes they seem immense.”
“You are not sorry to leave this, Dolly?” murmured he, gloomily; “are you?”
A very faint sigh was all her answer.
“I 'm sure no one could blame you,” he continued. “There is not much to attach any one to the place, except, perhaps, a half-savage like myself, who finds its ruggedness congenial.”
“But you will scarcely remain here, now, Tony; you'll be more likely to settle at Butler Hall, won't you?”
“Wherever I settle it sha'n't be here, after you have left it,” said he, with energy.