Now, according to custom, she should have run home; but she lingered, loth to leave the spot.
“You know we are going to start long before daylight to-morrow morning,” she said.
“I—know it!” he gasped with a great sob.
“Oh! David Lindsay, don’t cry!” she wailed, with the tears rushing to her eyes.
“I’m not crying. It’s a lump in my throat,” said the poor boy.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What shall I do? I don’t want to go to school! I don’t want to be a lady! I don’t! I don’t! And poor Marcel don’t want me to go, neither!” wept the child.
“And no more do I!” cried the boy, struggling with the “lump in his throat.”
“Don’t cry, David Lindsay. Oh! please don’t cry!”
“I’m not crying a bit! But I don’t want you to go away,” sobbed the lad.
“Nobody does, but Aunt Grip. It is all Aunt Grip! Oh! I wish she had never come near the place! We were all so happy until she came! And she says it is all for my own good. And I think that is too bad!”