"You see, I don't want Sam to know," John went on. "I don't want my mother or Jane to know—or Tilly, or any one alive. It is important. Sam will be as much surprised as any of them. Kid, I've made up my mind to pack my grip and catch the four-o'clock north-bound train. I'm going to cut this thing out forever. I'll cover my tracks. Not a living soul shall know where I am. I've thought it all out, and it is the only thing to do."
Dora was silent. He saw her fixed gaze shift itself from his eyes to the gate. Then he noted that her little hands were raised to her face. She was softly crying. He heard a low sob, and it cut through him like a gapped and rusty blade. He was surprised. He had never seen her like that before. "What is the matter?" he inquired. But she did not answer, and he saw that she was making a strong effort to control her emotion, as if she realized that it was distinctly out of place there and then. But he had determined to understand her better, and he went and sat beside her on the step. He took her hand and tried to fondle it, but, as if ashamed of her weakness, she drew it away and continued to sob, swallow, and quiver.
"I see, you don't want your brother John to go away. Is that it, kid?"
"Yes," she muttered, nodded, and then remained silent, her face tightly covered by her hands.
He stood up. He went to the fence and took some steps along it irresolutely. Suddenly he stood facing her, his arms folded as Cavanaugh had seen him stand studying the masonry he was building, an arch, a pillar, or cornice.
"Why haven't I thought of it before?" he reflected. "It would be a crime to leave the poor little mouse over there. She doesn't know what is in store for her, but her eyes will be opened some day, as mine are, and—and what has come to me may come to her. And who knows? It might hurt the poor little mite every bit as bad. I wonder if she— I wonder—" He went back and sat by her side.
"Listen, Dora," he began. "I've got to go—there is no way out of it—but I don't want to leave you like this. I didn't know till to-day how much I care for you. You seem, somehow, like a real sister. Say, I'll tell you—how about this? Come, go with me. I don't know where yet, but away off somewhere where we can start out right. I want to send you to school and give you a chance."
"Oh, you don't mean it—you can't mean that!" and she uncovered her face and sat staring, her quivering lips parted. Impulsively she put one of her hands against his breast, and with the other slowly wiped her wet eyes.
"Yes, I mean it, and there is no time to lose," he went on, gravely. "I want it settled, and when we are once on that train all this will be cut out forever. It will be better for me, and for you, and for Tilly."
"But Aunt Jane—" Dora faltered, letting her hand slide slowly down his shirt-front till it lay in her lap. "She needs me and—"