“Lucy, I’m a perfectly horrid boy,” he said in a queer, quick way.  “Don’t you hate me?”

“Hate you?  O Tom, I’ve nobody but you.”

Her sunny head drooped a moment against his arm, and her tears fell without restraint.  “I didn’t mean to, Tom,” she said at last, looking up with a faint smile, “but I couldn’t help it.  I feel dreadful to think of you going away.”

“When I’m a man, Lucy,” he said manfully, “what a perfectly stunning little home you and I shall have together.  It won’t be so long—­why, I’m thirteen.”

“Only about ten or twelve years,” said Lucy, able to laugh now.  “I shall be gray-haired long before that time.”

“You! why, you’ll be the same as you are at fifty.  You are like mamma; she never grew any older-looking.  You must write often, mind, Lucy, and tell me all about everything and everybody.”

Lucy promised, and, feeling very sad again, rose to light the lamp in case she should break down.  Aunt Hepsy was wonderfully kind that night—­she could be kind sometimes if she liked—­and, altogether, the evening passed pleasantly.  Tom went to bed early, as they were to start by the morning train.  Lucy followed almost immediately.  About half-an-hour afterwards Aunt Hepsy went upstairs to put a forgotten article into Tom’s trunk, and was arrested by sounds in Lucy’s room.  The door was a little ajar, and Aunt Hepsy peered in.  Lucy was undressed and sitting at the window, her arms on the dressing-table, and her whole frame shaking with sobs.  Once or twice Aunt Hepsy heard the word “Mamma.”  The passion of grief and longing in the girl’s voice made something come into Aunt Hepsy’s throat, and she slipped noiselessly downstairs.

“I don’t feel easy in my mind, Josh,” she said when she re-entered the kitchen.  “I’m feared we’ve been rayther hard on Hetty’s children.  She never did us any harm.”

“Did I say she did, Hepsy?” asked Uncle Josh, serenely puffing away at his pipe.  “You was allus the worst at her and at the children.  Ye put upon that Lucy in a perfectly awful way.”

“Shut up,” said Miss Hepsy in a tone which admitted of no further remark, and the subject dropped.

There was a great bustle in the morning, and before Lucy had time to think about anything Tom had kissed her for the last time, and the waggon drove away.  He waved his handkerchief to her till they were out of sight; and then she went back to the house sad and pale and cheerless.

“I guess you needn’t fly round much to-day, Lucy,” said Aunt Hepsy with unusual thoughtfulness.  “Ye don’t look very spry, and feel down a bit.  Never mind, he ain’t away for ever.”

“Thank you, Aunt Hepsy,” said Lucy gently.  “I’d rather work, if you please.  It takes up my mind better.  Let me wash these dishes.”

Aunt Hepsy surmised the tears were kept for the loneliness of her own chamber.  She was right.  Only to her mother’s God did Lucy Hurst pour out all her grief, and from Him sought the help and comfort none can give so well as He.