"You'll never come back," said Peter.
"What a horrid thing to say! Of course I shall come back. I shall come back next June, and you'll be at the station to meet me."
And—what will Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary do—without you?"
"Oh," said Honora, "I shall miss them dreadfully. And I shall miss you,
Peter."
"Very much?" he asked, looking down at her with such a queer expression.
And his voice, too, sounded queer. He was trying to smile.
Suddenly Honora realized that he was suffering, and she felt the pangs of contrition. She could not remember the time when she had been away from Peter, and it was natural that he should be stricken at the news. Peter, who was the complement of all who loved and served her, of Aunt Mary and Uncle Tom and Catherine, and who somehow embodied them all. Peter, the eternally dependable.
She found it natural that the light should be temporarily removed from his firmament while she should be at boarding-school, and yet in the tenderness of her heart she pitied him. She put her hands impulsively upon his shoulders as he stood looking at her with that queer expression which he believed to be a smile.
"Peter, you dear old thing, indeed I shall miss you! I don't know what I shall do without you, and I'll write to you every single week."
Gently he disengaged her arms. They were standing under that which, for courtesy's sake, had always been called the chandelier. It was in the centre of the parlour, and Uncle Tom always covered it with holly and mistletoe at Christmas.
"Why do you say I'll never come back?" asked Honora. "Of course I shall come back, and live here all the rest of my life."