"That Bessie Lou of oors up to Boston," said he, as if he were accusing some one of an outrage, "we got a letter from 'er last night, we did, and she sayse, says she, why wouldn't we be for a-sending o' the leetle lad up theyr? They'd gladly look oot for him, she sayse; and the winter ain't severe, she sayse; and he could go to one o' them fine city eye-doctors and 'ave his eyes put right with glasses or somethink; and prob'ly he could be for going to school again and a-getting of his learning, which he's sadly be'indhand in, sor, becaust he's ben ailing so much."
His eyes flashed, and the sweat poured down his forehead in streams.
I don't know why I was so slow to understand; but I read his look wrong, there seemed so much of the old insolence and pride in it, and I replied, I daresay a little reproachfully,—
"Well, and why wouldn't that be an excellent thing, Renny? I should think you would feel grateful."
He stared at me for a second, as if I had struck him. Ah, we can forget the words people say to us, even in wrath; but can we ever free ourselves from the memory of such a look? Without knowing why, I had the feeling of being a traitor. And then, all of a sudden, there he had crumpled down in his chair, and put his head in his big hands, and was sobbing.
"I cain't—I cain't let him go," he groaned. "I woon't let him go. He's all what we got left."
I sat there for a time, helpless, looking at him. You might think that a priest, with the daily acquaintance he has with the bitter things of life, ought to know how to face them calmly; but so far as my own small experience goes, I seem to know nothing more about all that than at the beginning. It always hurts just as much; it's always just as bewildering, just as terrible, as if you had never seen anything like it before. And when I saw that giant of a Renny Marks just broken over there like some big tree shattered by lightning, it seemed as if I could not bear to face such suffering. Then I remembered that he had been committed into my care by God, and that I must not be only an hireling shepherd. So I said:—
"Renny, lad, it isn't for ourselves we must be thinking. It's for him."
He lifted up his head, with the shaggy, half-gray hair all rumpled on his wet forehead, and pulled his sleeve across his eyes.
"Hark'e, Mister Biddles," he commanded harshly. "Ain't we did the best we could for him? Who dares say we ain't did the best we could for him? You?"