Martin paused, and then said in a still milder voice:

`You have chosen for yourself, Tom, and will be relieved by our parting. It is not an angry one. There is no anger on my side --'

`There is none on mine,' said Tom.

`-- It is merely what you have brought about, and worked to bring about. I say again, you have chosen for yourself. You have made the choice that might have been expected in most people situated as you are, but which I did not expect in you. For that, perhaps, I should blame my own judgment more than you. There is wealth and favour worth having, on one side; and there is the worthless friendship of an abandoned, struggling fellow, on the other. You were free to make your election, and you made it; and the choice was not difficult. But those who have not the courage to resist such temptations, should have the courage to avow what they have yielded to them; and I do blame you for this, Tom: that you received me with a show of warmth, encouraged me to be frank and plain-spoken, tempted me to confide in you, and professed that you were able to be mine; when you had sold yourself to others. I do not believe,' said Martin, with emotion: `hear me say it from my heart; I cannot believe, Tom, now that I am standing face to face with you, that it would have been in your nature to do me any serious harm, even though I had not discovered, by chance, in whose employment you were. But I should have encumbered you; I should have led you into more double-dealing; I should have hazarded your retaining the favour for which you have paid so high a price, bartering away your former self; and it is best for both of us that I have found out what you so much desired to keep secret.'

`Be just,' said Tom; who, had not removed his mild gaze from Martin's face since the commencement of this last address; `be just even in your injustice, Martin. You forget. You have not yet told me what your accusation is!'

`Why should I?' returned Martin, waving his hand, and moving towards the door. `You could not know it the better for my dwelling on it, and though it would be really none the worse, it might seem to me to be. No, Tom. Bygones shall be bygones between us. I can take leave of you at this moment, and in this place: in which you are so amiable and so good: as heartily, if not as cheerfully, as ever I have done since we first met. All good go with you, Tom! -- I --'

`You leave me so? You can leave me so, can you?' said Tom.

`I -- you -- you have chosen for yourself, Tom! I -- I hope it was a rash choice,' Martin faltered. `I think it was. I am sure it was! Good-bye!'

And he was gone.

Tom led his little sister to her chair, and sat down in his own. He took his book, and read, or seemed to read. Presently he said aloud: turning a leaf as he spoke: `He will be very sorry for this.' And a tear stole down his face, and dropped upon the page.

Ruth nestled down beside him on her knees, and clasped her arms about his neck.

`No, Tom! No, no! Be comforted! Dear Tom!'

`I am quite -- comforted,' said Tom. `It will be set right.'

`Such a cruel, bad return!' cried Ruth.

`No, no,' said Tom. `He believes it. I cannot imagine why. But it will be set right.'

More closely yet, she nestled down about him; and wept as if her heart would break.