Frank was not so old by two years as the one next to him in age: he was but eight years old, and he did not dare to tell how great was his fear of Mr. Hart.
Frank thought that to feel as he felt must be wrong, and yet he could not help it. He thought this when he saw all boys else so glad to see the friend who was to them all that Mr. Hart ought to have been to Frank.
Frank, when he saw the rush of joy, when he heard the loud laugh of glee with which these boys were wont to greet this friend of theirs, has felt sad.
The bell that calls a child, though from its room of play to the room down stairs, that bell which is a sound so full of joy, brought no joy to poor Frank. It was a sound that he could not bear to hear, for to him it rang a knell of pain. And who can blame Frank for this? who can when they know the scene to which such a bell would call him?
"Come in, Frank," said Mr. Hart one day to him, "come in: here is an egg for you."
Frank could not think that such a thing could be for him, yet he saw the egg, and his face told how glad he was.
"Thank you," said Frank, as in great haste he took hold of the spoon.
He broke the shell with much care, and took it off bit by bit. He had just put his spoon so as to take up some of the nice white, when he found that quite as hard as he had found the shell. This was odd! but still he broke through that, when his spoon fell through it—it was but an egg-shell full of air!
What was poor Frank's look of woe! He gave one quick glance at Mr. Hart: such a glance it was! It said as plain as glance could say, "How can you do this to me?"
Yet the glance did not stop the loud laugh which burst forth; nor did that laugh cease till Frank had left the room, and then it rung in his ears for a long time.