“What did you come for, then?”
“It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us,
because we hadn’t got drownded.”
“Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul
in this world if I could believe you ever had as good
a thought as that, but you know you never did—and
I know it, Tom.”
“Indeed and ’deed I did, auntie—I
wish I may never stir if I didn’t.”
“Oh, Tom, don’t lie—don’t
do it. It only makes things a hundred times worse.”
“It ain’t a lie, auntie; it’s the
truth. I wanted to keep you from grieving—that
was all that made me come.”
“I’d give the whole world to believe that—it
would cover up a power of sins, Tom. I’d
’most be glad you’d run off and acted so
bad. But it ain’t reasonable; because,
why didn’t you tell me, child?”
“Why, you see, when you got to talking about
the funeral, I just got all full of the idea of our
coming and hiding in the church, and I couldn’t
somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark
back in my pocket and kept mum.”
“What bark?”
“The bark I had wrote on to tell you we’d
gone pirating. I wish, now, you’d waked
up when I kissed you—I do, honest.”
The hard lines in his aunt’s face relaxed and
a sudden tenderness dawned in her eyes.
“Did you kiss me, Tom?”
“Why, yes, I did.”
“Are you sure you did, Tom?”
“Why, yes, I did, auntie—certain
sure.”
“What did you kiss me for, Tom?”
“Because I loved you so, and you laid there
moaning and I was so sorry.”
The words sounded like truth. The old lady could
not hide a tremor in her voice when she said:
“Kiss me again, Tom!—and be off with
you to school, now, and don’t bother me any
more.”
The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got
out the ruin of a jacket which Tom had gone pirating
in. Then she stopped, with it in her hand, and
said to herself:
“No, I don’t dare. Poor boy, I reckon
he’s lied about it—but it’s
a blessed, blessed lie, there’s such a comfort
come from it. I hope the Lord—I know
the Lord will forgive him, because it was such goodheartedness
in him to tell it. But I don’t want to find
out it’s a lie. I won’t look.”
She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute.
Twice she put out her hand to take the garment again,
and twice she refrained. Once more she ventured,
and this time she fortified herself with the thought:
“It’s a good lie—it’s
a good lie—I won’t let it grieve me.”
So she sought the jacket pocket. A moment later
she was reading Tom’s piece of bark through
flowing tears and saying: “I could forgive
the boy, now, if he’d committed a million sins!”
There was something about Aunt Polly’s
manner, when she kissed Tom, that swept away his low
spirits and made him lighthearted and happy again.
He started to school and had the luck of coming upon
Becky Thatcher at the head of Meadow Lane. His
mood always determined his manner. Without a
moment’s hesitation he ran to her and said:
