No, the cat did not wish to accompany him. Upon being released from Eugene’s arms he crept to the coat, and the last glimpse that the boy had of him as he reluctantly went away was of the king sitting in dignified sorrow beside the body of his friend.
CHAPTER XII.
THE RETURN.
On the evening that Eugene left Boston, Mrs. Hardy had received a telegram announcing the serious illness of her aunt; and accompanied by her husband she had at once left her home to go and see her. They were away a day and two nights, and early on the morning of the next day they returned home.
They were a very quiet couple as they drew near the cottage. “It seems as if we had been to a funeral,” said the sergeant lugubriously, “though it looks now as if your aunt might get well. I wish that you had never seen that boy, Bess. We have got to miss him tremendously about the house.”
“I believe you feel worse about his going away than I do,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I know, I just know, Stephen, that he will come back. He isn’t fitted for that narrow French life, and you know he has been brought up to despise priests. Now, if he had been going to a city like this, or to any one that liked him”—
“Oh! he’ll get used to it,” said the sergeant, “and boys forget.”
“Some boys do—Eugene won’t,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I know him better than you do, Stephen.”
While they were talking, their cab stopped in front of their own door. The sergeant got out first, and taking a key from his pocket he inserted it in the lock. After he had swung open the door, and let his wife pass in, he sauntered around the garden, carrying on a half-growling soliloquy with himself. He was slightly out of temper, and he did not know what he wanted.