As for Kate--who had now been at home some weeks--he would pour out his heart to her in a letter.

This was better than an interview, which she would doubtless refuse:--a letter she would be obliged to read and, perhaps, answer.

As for his dear Uncle George--it would be like tearing his heart out to leave him, but this wrench had to be met and it was best to do it quickly and have done with it.
When this last thought took possession a sudden faintness crept over him.

How could he leave his uncle?
What St.George was to him no one but himself knew--father, friend, comrade, adviser--standard of men and morals--all and more was his beloved uncle.

No thought of his heart but he had given him, and never once had he been misunderstood.