I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterly displeased me, and partly because I wished to shun questions lest, in my present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster self-command.

“Come,” said he, more softly, “tell me the truth⁠—you grieve at being parted from friends⁠—is it not so?”

The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorial curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down on the bench about two yards from me, and persevered long, and, for him, patiently, in attempts to draw me into conversation⁠—attempts necessarily unavailing, because I could not talk. At last I entreated to be let alone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered, my head sank on my arms and the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat a while longer. I did not look up nor speak, till the closing door and his retreating step told me that he was gone. These tears proved a relief.