It was pushed under the door. I opened it. It was from the doctor at the asylum where my father was placed, and it read as follows:—
“Your father died suddenly early this morning. Please come at once.”
There have been no further developments, and I do not know what to do. I feel that I must see her, and ask her. I cannot understand. And, alas! I cannot get to her.
Since writing the above, I have had a letter from my Principal. He wants my resignation. He says something about “strangeness of manner—medical advice—real kindness to me—hope for recovery.” Mrs. Smith has asked me, with tears in her eyes, to leave my apartments. She says that I have been most regular in my payments, and in every way showed myself to be a perfect gentleman; but the other lodgers are frightened of me, and I frighten her sometimes. She can feel for me, because she had a cousin who once went off like that; but would I mind going?
Well, I have resigned my post, and to-night I leave my lodgings. I am very lonely.
“BILL.”
THE STORY OF A BOY WHOM THE GODS LOVED.
BILL came slowly up the steps from a basement flat in Pond Buildings, crossed the pavement, and sat down on the kerb-stone in the sunshine, with his feet in a delightful puddle. He was reflecting.
“All that fuss about a dead byeby!” he said to himself.
He was quite a little boy, with a dirty face, gipsy eyes, and a love for animals. He had slept the deep sleep of childhood the night before, and had heard nothing of what was happening. In the early morning, however, he had been enlightened by his father—a weak man, with a shuffling gait, who tried to do right and generally failed.