His home was not pleasant.

He who presided over it, and who should have made a paradise of it, was its evil genius, a demon of wickedness, who blasted its flowers as fast as they bloomed.
Tom had seemed truly penitent both during his illness and since his recovery.

His one great desire now was to get away from home, for home to him was a place of torment.

Bobby suspected all this, and in his great heart he pitied his companion.

He did not know what to do.
"I am sorry for you, Tom," said he, after he had considered the matter in this new light; "but I don't see what I can do for you.