“I don’t know,” cried Kate, interrupting him, and speaking vehemently—“I don’t know, and I don’t believe, and I don’t care for anything at all; it’s very hard-hearted of you, and wrong, and not right, and I’m just quite wretched!”
Poor Kate was undoubtedly speaking the absolute truth; for a more disconsolate and wretched look of woe-begone misery was never seen on so sweet and tender and lovable a little face before. Her blue eyes swam in two lakes of pure crystal, that overflowed continually; her mouth, which was usually round, had become an elongated oval; and her nut-brown hair fell in dishevelled masses over her soft cheeks.
“O Charley,” she continued, “why won’t you stay?”
“Listen to me, dearest Kate,” said Charley, in a very husky voice. “It’s too late to draw back now, even if I wished to do so; and you don’t consider, darling, that I’ll be back again soon. Besides, I’m a man now, Kate, and I must make my own bread. Who ever heard of a man being supported by his old father?”
“Well, but you can do that here.”
“Now, don’t interrupt me, Kate,” said Charley, kissing her forehead; “I’m quite satisfied with two short legs, and have no desire whatever to make my bread on the top of three long ones. Besides, you know I can write to you—”
“But you won’t; you’ll forget.”
“No, indeed, I will not. I’ll write you long letters about all that I see and do; and you shall write long letters to me about—”
“Stop, Charley,” cried Kate; “I won’t listen to you. I hate to think of it.”
And her tears burst forth again with fresh violence. This time Charley’s heart sank too. The lump in his throat all but choked him; so he was fain to lay his head upon Kate’s heaving bosom, and weep along with her.