"I 'm 'fraid not, Mas'r," said Tom, with a grave face.
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St. Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-cup, and looked at Tom.
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"Why, Tom, what 's the case? You look as solemn as a coffin."
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"I feel very bad, Mas'r. I allays have thought that Mas'r would be good to everybody."
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"Well, Tom, have n't I been? Come, now, what do you want? There 's something you have n't got, I suppose, and this is the preface."
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"Mas'r allays been good to me. I have n't nothing to complain of, on that head. But there is one that Mas'r is n't good to."
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"Why, Tom, what's got into you? Speak out; what do you mean?"
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"Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studied upon the matter then. Mas'r is n't good to himself."
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Tom said this with his back to his master, and his hand on the door-knob. St. Clare felt his face flush crimson, but he laughed.
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"O, that 's all, is it?" he said, gayly.
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"All!" said Tom, turning suddenly round and falling on his knees. "O, my dear young Mas'r! I 'm 'fraid it will be loss of allall body and soul. The good Book says, 'it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder!' my dear Mas'r!"
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Tom's voice choked, and the tears ran down his cheeks.
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"You poor, silly fool!" said St. Clare, with tears in his own eyes. "Get up, Tom. I 'm not worth crying over."
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But Tom would n't rise, and looked imploring.
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"Well, I won't go to any more of their cursed nonsense, Tom," said St. Clare; "on my honor, I won't. I don't know why I have n't stopped long ago. I 've always despised it, and myself for it,so now, Tom, wipe up your eyes, and go about your errands. Come, come," he added, "no blessings. I 'm not so wonderfully good, now," he said, as he gently pushed Tom to the door. ''There, I 'll pledge my honor to you, Tom, you don't see me so again," he said; and Tom went off, wiping his eyes, with great satisfaction.
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"I 'll keep my faith with him, too," said St. Clare, as he closed the door.
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