* * * * *

I got up soon after dawn and was in the garden at sunrise the morning that I ran away.  I had made my plans carefully, and carried them out, so far with success.

Including the old miser’s bequest which his lawyer had paid, there were thirteen pounds to my name in the town savings-bank, and this sum I had drawn out to begin life with.  I wrapped a five-pound note in a loving letter to Jem, and put both into the hymn-book on his shelf—­I knew it would not be opened till Sunday.  Very few runaways have as much as eight pounds to make a start with:  and as one could not be quite certain how my father would receive Jem’s confession, I thought he might be glad of a few pounds of his own, and I knew he had spent his share of the miser’s money long ago.

I meant to walk to a station about seven miles distant, and there take train for Liverpool.  I should be clumsy indeed, I thought, if I could not stow away on board some vessel, as hundreds of lads had done before me, and make myself sufficiently useful to pay my passage when I was found out.

When I got into the garden I kicked my foot against something in the grass.  It was my mother’s little gardening-fork.  She had been tidying her pet perennial border, and my father had called her hastily, and she had left it half finished, and had forgotten the fork.  A few minutes more or less were of no great importance to me, for it was very early, so I finished the border quite neatly, and took the fork indoors.

I put it in a corner of the hall where the light was growing stronger and making familiar objects clear.  In a house like ours and amongst people like us, furniture was not chopped and changed and decorated as it is now.  The place had looked like this ever since I could remember, and it would look like this tomorrow morning, though my eyes would not see it.  I stood stupidly by the hall table where my father’s gloves lay neatly one upon the other beside his hat.  I took them up, almost mechanically, and separated them, and laid them together again finger to finger, and thumb to thumb, and held them with a stupid sort of feeling, as if I could never put them down and go away.

What would my father’s face be like when he took them up this very morning to go out and look for me? and when—­oh when!—­should I see his face again?

I began to feel what one is apt to learn too late, that in childhood one takes the happiness of home for granted, and kicks against the pricks of its grievances, not having felt the far harder buffetings of the world.  Moreover (which one does not think of then), that parental blunders and injustices are the mistakes and tyrannies of a special love that one may go many a mile on one’s own wilful way and not meet a second time.  Who—­in the wide world—­would care to be bothered with my confidence, and blame me for withholding it?  Should I meet many people to whom it would matter if we misunderstood each other?  Would anybody hereafter love me well enough to be disappointed in me?  Would other men care so much for my fate as to insist on guiding it by lines of their own ruling?