“You’re here, I see, Tom,” she said severely.  “Well, I hope you’re properly grateful to Mr. Keane for doing so much for you.  An’ I hope ye’ll mend yer ways, an’ be a better boy than ye’ve been.”

“I am very grateful, Aunt Hepsy,” said Tom very quietly.  “And I will try to be what you say.”

Something in his face and eyes touched even Aunt Hepsy, and it came upon her very suddenly to wonder if she had not treated him a little unjustly.  “He’s a biddable cretur, too,” she said to Mr. Keane.  “An’ p’raps he’ll take more kindly to your kind o’ life than ours.  I don’t think much o’ them useless ways o’ livin’ myself, but there’s differences.”

“Some day perhaps, Miss Strong, when Tom comes back a great man,” laughed Mr. Keane, as he shook hands with her and Tom, “you’ll admit you’ve changed your mind.  If you do I’ll come along and have a good laugh at you.”

A smile actually appeared on Miss Hepsy’s face.  “He’s a real pleasant-spoken gentleman, Mr. Robert Keane,” said Aunt Hepsy, as she shut the door.—­“Well, Tom, I hope ye’ll get yer fill o’ paintin’ now.”

Tom’s eyes beamed, but he made no verbal reply.  Lucy followed him to the door as he passed out to the barn again.

“O Tom, I am so glad,” she whispered joyfully; and Tom answered by tossing his cap in the air and trying to bound up after it.

“Glad?  I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels, Lucy,” he said.  “It’s the happiest day of my life.”

Lucy kept the smile upon her face, not wishing to damp his joy, but her heart was very sore.  For what did Tom’s departure mean for her?  It meant parting from all she had on earth; it meant a life of utter loneliness and lovelessness, save for the dear outside friends she could see so seldom.  It was Lucy’s nature ever to unselfishly bury her own troubles and try to join in the happiness of others.

“A fortnight only,” she said to herself as she went back to her work.  “What will become of me?”

The days sped fleetly for her, but slowly for Tom, who was eager to be gone.  Mr. Robert Keane paid frequent visits to Thankful Rest, and all arrangements were satisfactorily made.  Lucy went about, saying little, and preserving her sweet serenity to the last.  She busied herself with Tom’s small wardrobe, adding a touch here and there to make it complete; and wept bitter tears over her work, as many another sister has done before and since.  It was not till the last night that a thought of her came to cloud Tom’s sky.  They were sitting together at the stove in the fading twilight, Lucy’s face very grave and sad.

“I say Lucy, though,” Tom said, “how awfully lonely it will be for you when I’m gone.  Why, whatever will you do?”

“Think of you, and look for your letters,” she said, her lips quivering.  “You will not forget me altogether, Tom?”

A pang of remorse shot through Tom’s heart.  He came to her side and threw one arm round her, remembering how his mother’s last charge had been to take care of Lucy, and how poorly he had done it after all.  Lucy had taken care of him instead.