A pang of remorse shot through Tom's heart. He came to her side and
threw one arm round her, remembering how his mother's last charge had
been to take care of Lucy, and how poorly he had done it after all.
Lucy had taken care of him instead.

"Lucy, I'm a perfectly horrid boy," he said in a queer, quick way.
"Don't you hate me?"

"Hate you? O Tom, I've nobody but you."

Her sunny head drooped a moment against his arm, and her tears fell
without restraint. "I didn't mean to, Tom," she said at last, looking
up with a faint smile, "but I couldn't help it. I feel dreadful to
think of you going away."

"When I'm a man, Lucy," he said manfully, "what a perfectly stunning
little home you and I shall have together. It won't be so long--why,
I'm thirteen."

"Only about ten or twelve years," said Lucy, able to laugh now. "I
shall be gray-haired long before that time."

"You! why, you'll be the same as you are at fifty. You are like
mamma; she never grew any older-looking. You must write often, mind,
Lucy, and tell me all about everything and everybody."

Lucy promised, and, feeling very sad again, rose to light the lamp in
case she should break down. Aunt Hepsy was wonderfully kind that
night--she could be kind sometimes if she liked--and, altogether, the
evening passed pleasantly. Tom went to bed early, as they were to