“You will, Moray?” cried Lucy, who was now sobbing.
“Yes,” he cried, as he hid from himself the motive power that was energising his life. “Yes, I will now be a man. I will show you—the world—that one can be a great student and thinker, and at the same time a man of that world—a gentleman of this present day. The man who calculates the distance of one of the glorious orbs I have made my study, rarely is as others are in manners and discourse—educated in the ordinary pursuits of life—without making himself ridiculous if he mounts a horse—absurd if he has to stand in competition with his peers. Yes, you are right, Lucy, I have been a dreaming recluse; now the dreams shall be put away, and I will awaken into this new life.”
Lucy clapped her hands, and, flinging her arms round her brother kissed him affectionately, and then drew her face back to gaze in his.
“Why, Moray,” she cried proudly, “there isn’t such a man for miles as you would be, if you did as others do.”
He laughed as he kissed her, and then gently put her away.
“There,” he said, “go now. I have something here—a calculation I must finish.”
“And now you are going back to your figures again?” she cried pettishly.
“Yes, for a time,” he replied; “but I will not forget my promise.”
“You will not?” she cried.
“I give you my word,” he said, and kissing him affectionately once again, Lucy left the observatory.