Aubrey left his friends about six o’clock, and Hans followed him to the door. On the steps there was a short, low-toned conversation.
“Hans, after all, thou art a good lad. Did I hurt thee?”
“’Tis all o’er now, Aubrey: no matter.”
“Then I did. Well, I am sorry. Shall I give thee a silver chain to make up, old comrade?”
“All is made up. Prithee, give me nothing—save—my brother Aubrey.”
Aubrey’s tone was glib and light, though with a slight sub-accent of regret. Hans’s voice was more hesitating and husky. It cost Hans much to allow any one a glimpse into his heart; it cost Aubrey nothing. But, as is often the case, the guarded chamber contained rare treasure, while in the open one there was nothing to guard.
“Thou art a good lad!” said Aubrey again, in a slightly ashamed tone, as he took the offered hand. “Truly, Hans, I was after none ill, only—well, I hate to be watched and dogged, or aught like thereto.”
“Who does not?” replied Hans. “And in truth likewise, I was but coming home, and spake my astonishment at seeing you.”
“We are friends, then?”
“God forbid we should ever be any thing else! Good-night, and God keep you in His way!”