He made one attempt—for he feared from the first, although he never could feel it so, that his love was a thorough wild–goose chase—the poor boy made one last attempt to catch at some other pursuit.
“Father,” he said that very same night, after sitting for hours of wandering, “will you give me a gun and let me take to shooting?”
“A gun!” cried Bull Garnet, starting; “a gun, Bob! What do you mean by it?”
“I meant nothing at all, father. Only I know the way to stuff birds, and there are some rare ones here sometimes, and I want to make a collection.”
“Bob Garnet, as long as I am alive, you never shall have a gun.”
“Then, will you lend me yours, father? I know very well how to use it. I mean your patent——”
“Never, Bob. My son, if you love me, never speak of it again.”