“Why did you not tell me of this before? Your mother should not be allowed to want,” Earle said, feeling a deep interest in the lonely mother.
“What right had I to burden you with my cares? You’ve had more than enough of me as it is,” Tom replied, flushing more deeply than he had yet done.
It was evident that he felt his obligation to Earle was no light one.
Earle did not reply, and at that moment the door opened, and a man entered bearing a large tray, covered with a tempting array of viands that would have done the heart of an epicure good.
“You must be hungry, Tom, after this long walk, so while you are eating I will go away, as I have some letters to write,” Earle said, rising.
Tom looked up at him with a troubled air, opened his lips as if to speak, shut them again resolutely, and then finally said, in a half-reckless, half-humble way:
“You can take my softness for what it’s worth, sir; I couldn’t help it; but—I’d have been broken on the wheel before I’d have said as much to any one else. Tom Drake’s known nothing but hard knocks for the last twenty years, until a bullet laid him here.”
Earle went out of the room with a very grave face.
“If I was only sure,” he murmured, with a deep-drawn sigh, as he passed into the library and shut the door.