“I won’t forget it,” repeated Roger, holding out his hand.
Ben flushed, hesitated, then accepted the proffered hand, receiving a hearty, thankful grip from Eliot.
CHAPTER VIII.
A RIFT.
Ben came down quietly through the grove behind the house, slipped round to the ell door and ascended to his bare room without being observed by any one about the place. It did not take him long again to draw out his battered trunk and pack it with his few possessions.
He then found before him an unpleasant duty from which he shrank; Mrs. Jones must again be told that he was going away.
It is not remarkable that he hesitated over this, or that as the shadows once more thickened in that room he sat for a long time on his trunk, his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, gazing blankly at the one leaden window.
To his ears came the sound of wheels, which seemed to stop before the house. A few minutes later Jimmy’s voice called from the foot of the stairs:
“Ben, Ben, you up there?”