“Aw, quit rubbin’ it in,” Jack pleaded. “I’ve liked it here. I’m willing to stay.”
The widow regarded him steadily.
“You may be willing,” she said, “but I don’t want you any more.”
Jack drew in his breath and for a moment could not reply.
“You—you’re sending me back?” he finally stammered.
“Just as fast as I can send for Mr. Wentworth. I did the best I could for you, Jack. I needed a boy I could depend on that would help me with the work, and act like my own son. Well, you let me down. So I’ll go on living here alone.”
The words cut deep into Jack. “I’ll do better,” he promised. “Please don’t send me back to the Institute. I’ll cut all the wood you want me to—honest I will. I won’t take things out of the ice box again or run off so often. Only just once in a long while, when I get to feeling tight and mean inside. And I’ll tell you ahead that I’m going—I promise!”
“You’re promising a heap, Jack,” the widow returned dryly. “Only trouble is, you’ve made a lot of ’em before you never kept.”
“I never made any to you.”
“Well, that’s a fact. You have kept your word such as you’ve given.”