Yet the poor child was never happy except when he was in Walter’s society, and in Power’s study. Even there he was changed. The bright merry laugh which once rang out incessantly was rarely or never heard now; and a somewhat sad smile was all that could be elicited from him. He seemed, too, to have lost for a time all his old interest in work. The form competition had no further attraction for him; the work seemed irksome, and he had no spirits to join in any game. Once Power kindly rallied him on his general listlessness, but Eden only looked up at him appealingly, and said, while the weak tears overflowed his eyes, “Don’t be angry with me, Power, I can’t help it; I don’t feel quite, right yet. O, Power, I’m afraid you’ll never like me again as you did.”
“Why, Arty, your illness is all the more reason why I should.”
“But, Power, I shall never be the same as I once was. It seems as if some light had gone out and left me in the dark.”
“Nonsense, Arty; the summer holidays will bring you round again.”
But Eden only shook his head, and muttered something about Colonel Braemar not being kind to him and his little sister.
“Do you think they would let you come and stay part of the holidays with us?”
Eden brightened up in a moment, and promised to write and ask.