“Put it away—in your jacket, boy, and never let me see it again. Give it to your uncle to take care of for you till you come of age. I shall be dead and gone then, Tom; but you will have forgiven me, and I shall be at rest.”
Tom said nothing, for his head was in a whirl, but he quietly buttoned up the packet in his breast.
“Have you told Uncle Richard, sir?” he said, at last.
“Told him? No, no one but you, boy.”
“I must tell him, sir.”
“Yes, but not here—not till you get home. Leave me now; I can bear no more. Go down and send up your aunt. I must take something—and sleep. I have had no rest for nights and nights, and I thought I should die before I had time to confess to you, Tom. But you forgive me, my boy—you forgive me?”
“Yes, uncle, once again I forgive you.”
“Now go,” cried the invalid, catching at and kissing the boy’s cold hand. “Don’t stop here; go back home, for fear, Tom.”
“For fear of what, uncle? you are not so bad as that.”
“For fear,” panted the sick man, with a strange cough, “for fear I should try to get them back. Quick! go.—Now I can sleep and rest.”