“My boy, do you not know how I forgive you?” Tom clung round his neck, as if to steady himself.
“Oh, papa! I thought you would never—”
“Nay, you need never have thought so, my boy! What have I done that you should fear me?”
Tom did not speak, but nestled up to him with more confidence. “There! that’s better! Poor child! what he must have suffered! He was not fit for the place! I had thought him looking ill. Little did I guess the cause.”
“He says his head has ached ever since Sunday,” said Norman; “and I believe he has hardly eaten or slept properly since.”
“He shall never be under their power again! Thanks to you, Norman. Do you hear that, Tommy?”
The answer was hardly audible. The little boy was already almost asleep, worn out with all he had undergone. Norman began to clear the sofa, that they might lay him down, but his father would not hear of disturbing him, and, sending Norman away, sat still for more than an hour, until the child slowly awoke, and scarcely recalling what had happened, stood up between his father’s knees, rubbing his eyes, and looking bewildered.
“You are better now, my boy?”
“I thought you would be very angry,” slowly murmured Tom, as the past returned on him.
“Never, while you are sorry for your faults, and own them freely.”