"I know, I know," the old gentleman agreed. "But I think he has had about enough of it. See that Vicky writes that letter first thing to-morrow."
CHAPTER XII.
A LETTER AT LAST.
hristmas had come and gone. It brought Geoff's home-sick loneliness to a point that was almost unbearable. He had looked forward vaguely to the twenty-fifth of December with the sort of hope that it would bring him some message, some remembrance, if it were but a Christmas card. And for two or three days he managed to waylay the postman every morning as he passed the farm, and to inquire timidly if there were no letter—was he sure there was no letter for James Jeffreys? But the postman only shook his head. He had "never had no letter for that name, neither with nor without 'care of Mr. Eames,'" as Geoff went on to suggest that if the farmer's name had been omitted the letter might have been overlooked. And when not only Christmas, but New Year's Day too was past and gone, the boy lost hope.
"It is too bad," he sobbed to himself, late at night, alone in his bare little room. "I think they might think a little of me. They might be sorry for me, even—even if I did worry them all when I was at home. They might guess how lonely I am. It isn't the hard work. If it was for mother I was working, and if I knew they were all pleased with me, I wouldn't mind it. But I can't bear to go on like this."
Yet he could not make up his mind to write home again, for as things were it would be like begging for Mr. Byrne's charity. And every feeling of independence and manliness in Geoff rose against accepting benefits from one whose advice he had scouted and set at defiance. Still, he was sensible enough to see that he could not go on with his present life for long. "Work on a farm" had turned out very different from his vague ideas of it. He could not, for years to come, hope to earn more than the barest pittance, and he felt that if he were always to remain the companion of the sort of people he was now among, he would not care to live. And gradually another idea took shape in his mind—he would emigrate! He saw some printed papers in the village post-office, telling of government grants of land to able-bodied young men, and giving the cost of the passage out, and various details, and he calculated that in a year, by scrupulous economy, he might earn about half the sum required, for the farmer had told him that if he continued to do well he would raise his wages at the end of the first six months.