It took him some days to form the resolution, and after it was formed, it was not easy to carry it into effect.  More than once he had been on the point of returning thanks for the kindness he had received, and avowing his intention to depart, but it seemed as if the veriest trifle were sufficient to divert him from his purpose.  If Mr. Bernard spoke of the satisfaction he derived from his company, if Mrs. Bernard declared she should miss him when he left; or if Anne’s radiant face looked thanks for his reading aloud, they were all so many solicitations to delay his departure.  The treacherous heart readily listened to the seduction, however much the judgment might disapprove.  But, as we have seen, a time had come when the voice of prudence could no longer be silenced, and, however unwillingly, must be obeyed.  He, therefore, took occasion, one morning, at the breakfast table, to announce his intended departure.

“Had I been a son,” he said, in conclusion, “you could not have lavished more kindness upon me, and I shall never forget it.”

“What! what!” cried the Judge, “I am not sure that the shooting one’s self is a bailable offence, and I shall be obliged to examine the authorities, before I discharge you from custody, Master Thomas.”

“To think,” said Mrs. Bernard, “it does not seem a week since you came, and we have all been so happy.  I declare, Mr. Pownal, I shall not know how to do without you.”

“The dearest friends must part—­but we shall always be glad to see you, Tom,” said William Bernard.

“I do not see the necessity for your going,” said the Judge.  “Our house is large enough for all; your attacks at table are not yet very formidable; and I have not taught you whist perfectly.  Would it not be better to substitute a curia vult avisare in place of a decision?  But, Anne, have you nothing to say?  Is this your gratitude for all Thomas’s martyrdoms of readings of I know not what unimaginable nonsense; and holdings of skeins of silk, more difficult to unwind than the labyrinth through which Ariadne’s thread conducted Theseus; and pickings up of whatever your feminine carelessness chose to drop on the carpet; and endurance of all the legions of annoyances with which young ladies delight to harass young gentlemen?  Have you no backing for your mother and me?  One word from you ought to be worth a thousand from us old folks.”

“Mr. Pownal owes me some gratitude, too, father,” said Anne, “for the patience and accomplishments I have taught him.  But he surely knows how much pleasure his presence confers on all in this house.  We shall miss him very much, shall we not, Beau?”—­addressing a little spaniel that, upon being spoken to, sat up on his hind legs to beg for breakfast.

“I have several times endeavored to say this before,” said Pownal, somewhat piqued, and feeling a strong desire to kick the innocent cur out of the room, “but have never been able to muster sufficient courage.  And now, if my thanks appear cold, as I am afraid they do to Miss Bernard, I assure her it is not the fault of my heart, but of my tongue.”