All this time Philip was snoring. The farmer’s wife let him sleep until Hannah had had her tea, and had washed the plates and dishes, and made all neat; then she shook him up and down as if he were a big bottle of medicine, and, taking his arm, helped him up-stairs into the garret, where was a little cot bed in a corner, with a straw mattress, covered with coarse, but clean sheets.
“Is—this—my—room?” gasped Philip, with a horror-struck countenance.
“Plenty good enough for a stable-boy,” answered Mrs. Goodfellow, for of course you know by this time that she was Johnny Goodfellow’s mother.
“But I’m a-f-r-a-i-d.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I d-o-n’t know. It’s such a big, dark place.”
“Oh, if that’s all, there’s nothing here but dried apples and onions; two broken chairs, which my Johnny has played horses with many a time, and an empty poll parrot’s cage, which has travelled with him and his horses, all over the world, up here in the old garret. Bless your heart! Johnny thinks it’s great fun to bring little Essie up here, to play, rainy days. So you say your prayers, and go to sleep; as it is your first night here, I’ll leave the light. Good-night.”
She left the unhappy boy, who sat on the side of his cot, and stared fearfully around. The little oil lamp gave but a feeble glimmer, and he jumped as if he had seen a ghost, as his eye caught sight of an old great-coat hanging from one of the rafters; then he began slowly to undress. As he took off his jacket a letter fell out of the pocket. It was the one Dr. Gradus had given him from his father, which in his misery he had forgotten. He opened it and read as follows:
“My dear Son—You seem to think that the whole world is made of plum puddings and pie-crust, and that all you have got to do is to eat your way through it, with as little exertion as possible. ‘There is no royal road to learning.’ If you want to grow up any better than a two-legged donkey, you must study and work.
“If you won’t do this, you had better go on all fours at once.