"I'm discharged; that's all."
"What for?"
"I'll tell you some other time—not now."
"Mark, I'm really sorry for this," said Mr. Waite, pressing his hand warmly. "I wish you good luck!"
"Thank you, Mr. Waite," answered Mark, his lip quivering a little. "I will hope for the best."
Mark walked home with a slow step. He dreaded to tell his mother of his discharge, for he knew that she would be still more depressed than himself. Youth is hopeful, but middle age is less sanguine.
"I won't go home at once," thought Mark. "I will go to the wood and see the hermit. He may have some errand for me, and besides, he may be able to give me some advice."
One object which Mark had, however, was to delay breaking the unwelcome news to his mother.
He bent his steps towards the pasture, which he must cross in order to penetrate to the wood by the usual path.
In a few minutes he entered the cabin, the door of which he found open.