“Yes, I see,—I see, my boy,” was the low answer. “And it is only of Aunt Winnie you are thinking, Dan?”
“Only of Aunt Winnie,” replied Dan, emphatically. “You don’t suppose anything else would count against Saint Andrew’s, Father. I’d work, I’d starve, I’d die, I believe, rather than give up my chance here?”
“Yes, yes, it’s hard lines sometimes,” said Father Mack. “You may find it even harder as the years go by, Dan. I heard about the trouble yesterday.”
“Oh, did you, Father?” said Dan, somewhat abashed. “Dud Fielding did stir the old Nick in me for sure.”
“Yes,” said Father Mack. “And that same fierce spirit will be stirred again and again, Dan. Despite all your teachers can do for you, there will be pricks and goads we can not help.”
“I know it,” answered Dan, sturdily. “I’m ready for them. Saint Andrew’s is worth all the pricks and goads I’ll get. But Aunt Winnie, Father,—I can’t forget Aunt Winnie. I’ve got to take Aunt Winnie back home.”
“Would she—wish it, at such—such a cost, Dan?” Father Mack questioned.
“Cost,” repeated Dan, simply. “It wouldn’t cost much. The rooms are only a dollar a week, and Aunt Winnie can make stirabout and Irish stews and potato cake to beat any cook I know. Three dollars a week would feed us fine. And there would be a dollar to spare. And she could have her teapot on the stove again, and Tabby on the hearth-rug, only—only” (the young face clouded a little) “I’m afraid great as it all would be, she’d be grieving about her dreams.”
“Her dreams!” echoed Father Mack, a little puzzled.
“Yes,” said Dan. “You see, I am all she has in the world, and she is awful soft on me, and since I got into Saint Andrew’s she’s softer still. She thinks there’s nothing too great or grand for me to do. My, it would make you laugh, Father, to hear poor old Aunt Winnie’s pipe dreams about a tough chap like me!”