"You say you won't write to your sister until you've made good?"
"It isn't just that," stammered Donald, changing color. "I—I don't dare. She'd beg me to come back—"
Brian nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I know the feeling."
"And I won't go back!" flung out Donald passionately. "I won't go back. I simply can't."
"It's better," said Brian sensibly, "if you don't. For a number of reasons. But you must do something. I mean something with the future in view."
"Yes."
"As far as I can make out," went on Brian, puffing at his pipe, "you're wildly unhappy and discontented at the farm and that worries your sister. Of course your absence worries her too but the two letters we wrote that night you tumbled into my camp fire must have made her feel a lot better, particularly since we both expressed our intention of making the best of ourselves. You say she won't leave your uncle because he's an invalid. That leaves you without any string to your bow but your own inclination. In a sense you've followed that too long. I mean, Don, shirking the course of study the old minister mapped out for you when your sister kept on plugging. You need it."
"Nothing mattered," said the boy bitterly. "I knew I wouldn't stay. I didn't dare. Once," he added in a low voice, "when Uncle cursed my sister and threw a bottle of brandy at her, I made up my mind to kill him."
"Good Lord!" said Brian, shocked.