Down by the gate Hannah stood, trying to hide in the shadow of the great honeysuckle the new shy beauty on her face that had been called there by the kiss of warmer lips than the gentle sea-breeze.
“Good-bye, Nan,” said Tom, unsuspiciously, throwing his arms about her in his rough brotherly embrace,—“why how you are trembling! You are not going to cry? Don’t, I can’t stand it!”
“No, no,” came uncertainly in a helpless voice, evidently, in her wild conflict of emotion, not knowing exactly what she was going to do.
“There, that’s right! Don’t cry, or I’ll—I’ll break down too!” said Tom, hoarsely, fairly strangling in his throat, and almost worn out by the strain he had undergone.
Hannah, surprised, raised her face, but Tom had already got the better of himself. “How your eyes shine to-night, Nan; I did not know how pretty you were before!” Down went her head again immediately, and changing his voice he said, with a sigh,—“Nannie, there ain’t many fellows that have as good a mother and sister as mine; you won’t forget me while I’m gone, or get tired waiting? I’ve been a worthless, roving chap; I’ve never been of much comfort to you or mother, but when I come back next time, I’m going to stay at home a while. Look up now and tell me you are glad.”
“O, Tom, I am! You don’t know how glad I am, if it was only for mother’s sake.”
Then, turning his head away to hide the anguish that had come over his face, he asked, slowly, trying rather ineffectually to keep his voice natural,—“You don’t think, Nan, any thing will happen to her while I am gone?”
“What do you mean?” said Hannah, struck by the awe in his tone.
“I mean,” he said, unwilling to trouble his sister by the thought that had so oppressed him, and speaking gaily again: “I mean that you must be a good girl, and keep up mother’s spirits, but don’t get so used to my absence, that neither of you will care when I come back.”
“O, Tom!”