Uncle Richard looked at him intently.
“Do you feel as if you could go, Tom?” he asked.
Tom was silent; and then, as the searching eyes would take no denial, and forced him to speak, the boy cleared his throat from something which seemed to choke him, and spoke out hurriedly.
“Don’t think me queer and awkward, or ungrateful, uncle,” he cried. “I’m ready to forgive Uncle James, but I never did, and never can feel, as if I liked him. I would rather not go and see him, but if you say I ought to I will.”
“I do not say you ought to, Tom,” said his uncle gravely; “but as his brother, I feel that I must now he is so bad.”
“You’re not angry with me, uncle?”
“No, boy. I like the way in which you have spoken out. I could not have stood it, Tom, if you had assumed anything and been hypocritical. There, now, we will leave the subject. I shall go up again to-morrow morning. You can spend your time in doing any little thing to make this place more snug and home-like. I dare say I shall be back to-morrow evening.”
Tom uttered a sigh full of relief as they went back to the cottage, and that night slept soundly enough, never once giving a thought to the documents in the old mill, which had suddenly turned him from a penniless lad into one with a few thousands to start in life when he came of age.