“But, my dear boy,” faltered the professor, “I am not going now. I have altered my plans.”
“Then I must stop here,” cried the boy in a passionate wailing tone—“stop here and die.”
There was a dead silence once more as the lad covered his face with his thin hands, only broken by Mrs Dunn’s sobs as she laid her head upon the back of the chair and wept aloud, while directly after Mr Burne took out his yellow handkerchief, prepared for a blow, and finally delivered himself of a mild and gentle sniff.
“Lawrence!”
It was the deep low utterance of a strong man who was deeply moved, and as the boy let fall his thin white fingers from before his eyes he saw that the professor was kneeling by his chair ready to take one of his hands and hold it between his broad palms.
“Lawrence, my boy,” he said; “your poor father and I were great friends, and he was to me as a brother; your mother as a sister. He left me as it were the care and charge of you, and it seems to me that in my selfish studies I have neglected my trust; but, Heaven helping me, my boy, I will try and make up for the past. You shall so with me, my dear lad, and we will search till we find a place that shall restore you to health and strength.”
“You will take me with you?” cried the boy with a joyous light in his eyes.
“That I will,” cried the professor.
“And when?”
“As soon as you can be moved.”