"You were very young to be sent to school," Nellie remarked; "how did you like it?"
"Oh, pretty well. I wasn't the youngest there. It was a school for kids whose mothers and fathers were abroad—in India, and different places. But I was glad when father came home. He said we should have such good times together, but—but—" The bright blue eyes grew misty for a moment, the clear voice choked; then, with a struggle for self-control, he continued: "Father was wounded, you know, but he was getting better, only, he caught a cold, and—he died."
"We are so sorry for you," Nellie said gently. "I hope you'll be friends with us—will you?"
Bob nodded. His heart warmed towards his companions, and he replied heartily, "Of course we'll be friends. I'm looking forward to Saturday. Are there only you two? I mean, are you Mr. Coker's only children?"
"Oh, no! There's Lilian," Rupert answered; "she's eleven years old, but she doesn't go about with Nellie and me much."
"Is she a stuck-up sort of girl, then?" inquired Bob.
"Oh, no, no! You mustn't think that. But she can't do just as we do, because she is blind."
"Blind!"
"Yes, she has been blind all her life, but you'd never think it to see her. She's very clever, plays the piano beautifully, and—"
"But isn't she dreadfully unhappy?" Bob interposed. "I should think she must be."