“Have you reflected,” said Conyers, slowly, “that if you reject my assistance now, it will be too late to ask for it a few weeks, or even a few days hence?” “I _have_ thought of all that, sir. I 'll never trouble you about myself again.” “My dear Tom,” said Conyers, as he laid his arm on the other's shoulder, “just think for one moment of all the misery this step will cause your sister,--that kind, true-hearted sister, who has behaved so nobly by you.” “I have thought of that, too, sir; and in my heart I believe, though she 'll fret herself at first greatly, it will all turn out best in the end. What could I ever be but a disgrace to her? Who 'd ever think the same of Polly after seeing _me?_ Don't I bring her down in spite of herself; and is n't it a hard trial for her to be a lady when I am in the same room with her? No, sir, I'll not go back; and though I haven't much hope in me, I feel I'm doing right.” “I know well,” said Conyers, pettishly, “that your sister will throw the whole blame on me. She 'll say, naturally enough, _You_ could have obtained his discharge,--_you_ should have insisted on his leaving.” “That's what you could not, sir,” said Tom, sturdily. “It's a poor heart hasn't some pride in it; and I would not go back and meet my father, after my disgrace, if it was to cost me my right hand,--so don't say another word about it. Good-bye, sir, and my blessing go with you wherever you are. I 'll never forget how you stood to me.” “That money there is yours, Dill,” said Conyers, half haughtily. “You may refuse my advice and reject my counsel, but I scarcely suppose you 'll ask me to take back what I once have given.” Tom tried to speak, but he faltered and moved from one foot to the other, in an embarrassed and hesitating way. He wanted to say how the sum originally intended for one object could not honestly be claimed for another; he wanted to say, also, that he had no longer the need of so much money, and that the only obligation he liked to submit to was gratitude for the past; but a consciousness that in attempting to say these things some unhappy word, some ill-advised or ungracious expression might escape him, stopped him, and he was silent. “You do not wish that we should part coldly, Tom?” “No, sir,--oh, no!” cried he, eagerly. “Then let not that paltry gift stand in the way of our esteem. Now, another thing. Will you write to me? Will you tell me how the world fares with you, and honestly declare whether the step you have taken to-day brings with it regret or satisfaction?” “I'm not over-much of a letter-writer,” said he, falter-ingly, “but I'll try. I must be going, Mr. Conyers,” said he, after a moment's silence; “I must get back before I'm missed.” “Not as you came, Tom, however. I'll pass you out of the barrack-gate.”