“Wake up, Bob!”
“What the deuce is the row?” said a very sleepy voice.
“It’s nearly breakfast-time,” I explained.
“Bother breakfast-time!” said the rebellious spirit in the bed.
“And here’s a letter, Bob,” said I.
“Why on earth couldn’t you say so at once? Come on with it;” on which cordial invitation I marched into my brother’s room and perched myself upon the side of his bed.
“Here you are,” said I: “Indian stamp—Brindisi postmark. Who is it from?”
“Mind your own business, Stumpy,” said my brother, as he pushed back his curly tangled locks, and, after rubbing his eyes, proceeded to break the seal. Now, if there is one appellation for which above all others I have a profound contempt, it is this one of “Stumpy.” Some miserable nurse, impressed by the relative proportions of my round grave face and little mottled legs, had dubbed me with the odious nickname in the days of my childhood. I am not really a bit more stumpy than any other girl of seventeen. On the present occasion I rose in all the dignity of wrath, and was about to dump my brother on the head with the pillow by way of remonstrance, when a look of interest in his face stopped me.
“Who do you think is coming, Nelly?” he said. “An old friend of yours.”
“What! from India? Not Jack Hawthorne?”