“What is the matter with Dan?” asked the boys of one another several times during the Sunday that followed a week which seemed as if it would never end. Dan was often moody, but that day he was so sober and silent that no one could get any thing out of him. When they walked he strayed away from the rest, and came home late. He took no part in the evening conversation, but sat in the shadow, so busy with his own thoughts that he scarcely seemed to hear what was going on. When Mrs. Jo showed him an unusually good report in the Conscience Book, he looked at it without a smile, and said, wistfully,—
“You think I am getting on, don’t you?”
“Excellently, Dan! and I am so pleased, because I always thought you only needed a little help to make you a boy to be proud of.”
He looked up at her with a strange expression in his black eyes—an expression of mingled pride and love and sorrow which she could not understand then—but remembered afterward.
“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, but I do try,” he said, shutting the book without a sign of pleasure in the page that he usually liked so much to read over and talk about.
“Are you sick, dear?” asked Mrs. Jo, with her hand on his shoulder.
“My foot aches a little; I guess I’ll go to bed. Good-night, mother,” he added, and held the hand against his cheek a minute, then went away looking as if he had said good-by to something very dear.
“Poor Dan! he takes Nat’s disgrace to heart sadly. He is a strange boy; I wonder if I ever shall understand him thoroughly?” said Mrs. Jo to herself, as she thought over Dan’s late improvement with real satisfaction, yet felt that there was more in the lad than she had at first suspected.
One of the things which cut Nat most deeply was an act of Tommy’s, for after his loss Tommy had said to him, kindly but firmly,—
“I don’t wish to hurt you, Nat, but you see I can’t afford to lose my money, so I guess we won’t be partners any longer;” and with that Tommy rubbed out the sign, “T. Bangs & Co.”