He knew that the faithful old sailor would not let me come to any harm, and even if I had managed for the time being to elude him, was sure to bring me back sooner or later.
Our return, therefore, by the first train on the following day did not surprise him.
I was greatly puzzled, as I have said, by the gentle manner of his reception; but when we were alone together in the sitting-room, and he began slowly to unfold the letter, I understood it all.

I caught a sight of my mother's handwriting in the superscription, and there was nothing left to tell me.
My grandfather held the letter a few seconds irresolutely, and then commenced reading it aloud; but he could get no further than the date.
"I can't read it, Tom," said the old gentleman, breaking down.

"I thought I could." He handed it to me.

I took the letter mechanically, and hurried away with it to my little room, where I had passed so many happy hours.
The week that followed the receipt of this letter is nearly a blank in my memory.

I remember that the days appeared endless; that at times I could not realize the misfortune that had befallen us, and my heart upbraided me for not feeling a deeper grief; that a full sense of my loss would now and then sweep over me like an inspiration, and I would steal away to my chamber or wander forlornly about the gardens.