“But it would hurt them both very badly, Tommy!” said Clare, as if unfolding the reality of the thing to a foolish child. “Well! all right! the worse the better! Ain’t they hurt _us_?” rejoined Tommy. “That’s how we know it’s not nice!” answered Clare. “If they set it a going, we ain’t to keep it a going!” “Then they’ll be at it for ever,” cried Tommy, “an’ I’m sick of it! I’ll _kill_ granny! I swear I will, if I’m hanged for it! She’s said a hundred times she’d pull my legs when I was hanged; but _she_ won’t be at the hanging!” “Why shouldn’t you run for it first?” said Clare. “Then they wouldn’t want to hang you!” “Then I shouldn’t have nobody!” replied Tommy, whimpering. “I should have thought Nobody was as good as granny!” said Clare. “A big bilin’ better!” answered Tommy bitterly. “I wasn’t meanin’ granny--nor yet stumpin’ Simpson.” “I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said Clare. Tommy burst into tears. “Ain’t you the only one I got, up or down?” he cried. Tommy had a little bit of heart--not much, but enough to have a chance of growing. If ever creature had less than that, he was not human. I do not think he could even be an ape. Some of the people about the parson used to think Clare had no heart, and Mrs. Goodenough was sure of it. He had not a spark of gratitude, she said. But the cause of this opinion was that Clare’s affection took the shape of deeds far more than of words. Never were judges of their neighbours more mistaken. The chief difference between Clare’s history and that of most others was, that his began at the unusual end. Clare began with loving everybody; and most people take a long time to grow to that. Hence, those whom, from being brought nearest to them, he loved specially, he loved without that outbreak of show which is often found in persons who love but a few, and whose love is defiled with partisanship. He loved quietly and constantly, in a fashion as active as undemonstrative. He was always glad to be near those he specially loved; beyond that, the signs of his love were practical--it came out in ministration, in doing things for them. There are those who, without loving, desire to be loved, because they love themselves; for those that are worth least are most precious to themselves. But Clare never thought of the love of others to him--from no heartlessness, but that he did not think about himself--had never done so, at least, until the moment when he fled from the farm with the new agony in his heart that nobody wanted him, that everybody would be happier without him. Happy is he that does not think of himself before the hour when he becomes conscious of the bliss of being loved. For it must be and ought to be a happy moment when one learns that another human creature loves him; and not to be grateful for love is to be deeply selfish. Clare had always loved, but had not thought of any one as loving him, or of himself as being loved by any one.