“I’ve thought about it for long enough now, father,” I said; “and I can see well enough that there’s no chance of improving our little business without capital, and that if that is not to be had it must get smaller and smaller every day.”
“Why, Harry, my boy,” he said, as we strolled down now into our bit of garden, “I didn’t think you could see so far into a millstone as that.”
“Oh, father!” I cried warmly, “do you think I have never felt miserable and discouraged to see what a fight it has been with you to make up your payments month after month?”
“I never thought you gave a bit of heed to it, my lad,” he said warmly, as he held out his hand, and took mine in a hearty grip. “I’ve misjudged you, my boy; I’ve misjudged you. I didn’t think you had so much thought.”
“Oh, father!” I cried, “why, all my wandering thoughts have had the aim of getting on in life, and for a long time past it has seemed to me that England’s growing too full of people fighting against one another for a living; and I felt that some of us must go out and try afresh in another place.”
“Like the bees do, when they swarm, my lad,” said my father, looking down at one of the old straw hives, with its pan turned over the top to keep off the rain. “Well, perhaps you’re right, Harry—perhaps you are right. I won’t fight against it, my boy. I only wish you luck.”
“Father!” I cried, and I was about to say something else, but it would not come, try how I would; and I stood there holding by his hand in the garden, while he looked me in the face with a calmer, more gentle look than I had seen in his eyes for some time past.
He was the first to break the silence, and then he clapped me on the shoulder in a hearty, friendly way.
“There’s mother making signs that breakfast’s ready, my boy. Come along in.”
We went in and took our places at the table so quietly that my mother’s hands began to tremble so much that she could hardly pour out the tea.