Tom could not see the absurdity of the man’s suggestion, and in his agony of mind, feeling as he did what must have happened if any one had dragged at the blanket, he stooped down once more to gather it up, but paused with his hand an inch or two away from the highest fold, not daring to touch it.
“It’s broken,” he moaned to himself; “I know it is!” and the cold perspiration stood out upon his forehead.
“I shouldn’t ha’ persoomed to touch none o’ master’s contrapshums, sir,” broke in the gardener, rather sharply, “so don’t you go and tell him as I did. I know how partickler he always is.”
“Broken—broken!” murmured Tom. “The poor speculum—and after all that work.”
Then slowly taking the fold of the blanket in his hand he raised it up, and drew it on one side, faintly hoping that he might be wrong, but hoping against hope, for the next moment he had unveiled it where it lay, to see his worst fears confirmed—the beautiful limpid-looking object lay upon the flag at the end, broken in three pieces, one of which reflected the boy’s agitated face.
Chapter Seventeen.
“Oh, David!” cried Tom at last, “how could you touch?”
There was so much agony of spirit in the boy’s tones that the gardener felt moved, and remained for a few moments silent. Then rousing himself—