Tom saw her on the morning she went away, he said: she was very sorrowful-looking, and nodded kindly to him as she passed in the fly along with young Tom Blaize. “She have got uncommon kind eyes, sir,” said Tom, “and cryin’ don’t spoil them.” For which his hand was wrenched.
Tom had no more to tell, save that, in rounding the road, the young lady had hung out her hand, and seemed to move it forward and back, as much as to say, Good-bye, Tom! “And though she couldn’t see me,” said Tom, “I took off my hat. I did take it so kind of her to think of a chap like me.” He was at high-pressure sentiment—what with his education for a hero and his master’s love-stricken state.
“You saw no more of her, Tom?”
“No, sir. That was the last!”
“That was the last you saw of her, Tom?”
“Well, sir, I saw nothin’ more.”
“And so she went out of sight!”
“Clean gone, that she were, sir.”
“Why did they take her away? what have they done with her? where have they taken her to?”
These red-hot questionings were addressed to the universal heaven rather than to Tom.