that young Cary stumbled back into his seat, and, crumpling over, buried his face in his hands, making great uncouth gasps as he strove to choke back his grief.
Gerald groped hastily around the table, and flung an arm about his shoulders.
“Steady on, dear fellow, steady,” he said, though his own voice broke.
“When did you hear?” Cary got out at last.
“We got the official notice just the day before you came—and Withers has written us particulars since.”
“And you let me come in spite of it! And stay on, when every word I said about him must have—have fairly crucified each one of you! Oh, forgive me! forgive me!” he cried distractedly. He saw it all now; he understood at last. It was not on Gerald’s account that they could not talk of flying and of Chev, it was because—because their hearts were broken over Chev himself. “Oh, forgive me!” he gasped again.
“Dear lad, there is nothing to forgive,” Lady Sherwood returned. “How could we help loving your generous praise of our poor darling? We loved it, and you for it; we wanted to hear it, but we were afraid. We were afraid we might break down, and that you would find out.”
The tears were still running down her cheeks. She did not brush them away now; she seemed glad to have them there at last.
Sinking down on his knees, he caught her hands. “Why did you let me do such a horrible thing?” he cried. “Couldn’t you have trusted me to understand? Couldn’t you see I loved him just as you did—No, no!” he broke down humbly. “Of course I couldn’t love him as his own people did. But you must have seen how I felt about him—how I admired him, and would have followed him anywhere—and of course if I had known, I should have gone away at once.”
“Ah, but that was just what we were afraid of,” she said quickly. “We were afraid you would go away and have a lonely leave somewhere. And in these days a boy’s leave is so precious a thing that nothing must spoil it—nothing,” she reiterated; and her tears fell
