'
And then--I could not help it--I laid my head on my arm as I stood
against the mantel-piece, and I sobbed like a child.
He did not speak for some minutes, and then he put his arm round me as
tenderly as my mother could have done, and said, 'What is it, Jack? Is
it talking of your mother that has upset you so?'
'No,' I said, 'it isn't that--I love to talk of her; I love to hear of
her; everything she said is precious to me; it isn't that.'
'What then?' he said; 'what troubles you, Jack?'
'It's the thought that I shall never see her again,' I said; 'I know I
shall not. _She_ went one way and _I_ am going another.'
'Why not turn round and go her way, Jack?' he said cheerily.
'Oh, I can't,' I said; 'it's no use--I can't turn. There are too many
hands on the wrong end of the rope. I've been miserable ever since I
heard you talk of it. I could not sleep last night for thinking of it.
"What are the depths, the fearful depths, to which you are being drawn?"
those words have never left me, night or day, since you uttered them.
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