separated from my dear friend made me sick at heart. All our feelings were, however, nothing, compared with those of my sister Mary.
One day at dinner time, after a long and sullen pause, my father said, ‘I hope you do not intend to leave us soon, Duncan?’ ‘I am thinking of going away tomorrow, Sir,’ said Duncan. The knife fell from my mother’s hand: she looked him steadily in the face for the space of a minute.—‘Duncan,’ said she, her voice faultering, and the tears dropping from her eyes, ‘Duncan, I never durst ask you before, but I hope you will not leave us altogether?’ Duncan thrust the plate from before him into the middle of the table—took up a book that lay on the window, and looked over the pages—Mary left the room. No answer was returned, nor any further inquiry made, and our little party broke up in silence.
When we met again in the evening, we were still all sullen. My father said, ‘You will soon forget us, Duncan: but there are some among us who will not so soon forget you.’ Mary again left the room, and silence ensued, until the family were called together for evening worship.
The next morning, after a restless night, Duncan rose early, put on his best suit, and packed up some little articles to carry with him. I lay panting and trembling, but pretended to be fast asleep. When he was ready to depart he took his bundle below his arm, came up to the side of the bed, and listened if I was sleeping. He then stood long hesitating, looking wistfully to the door and then to me alternately; and I saw him three or four times wipe his eyes. At length he shook me gently by the shoulder and asked if I was awake. I feigned to start, and answered as if half asleep. ‘I must
