"He has never got mine," he reflected, "Poor fellow! what a shock it will be when he arrives."
At that very moment Uncle Charlie was reading Sir Everard's letter at an hotel in London. It dropped from his hand, and he remained wrapped in sad meditation.
"Too late to-night," he said at last, looking at his watch, "but by the first train to-morrow morning."
He roused himself, and went to the window. There, looking down upon the ceaseless stream of carriages in the busy street below, his thoughts reverted to the Sunday at Wareham, and the boy's strength and beauty. He thought of him as he had last seen him, radiant with health and spirits, waving his hat on the door-step as the dog-cart drove away. But perhaps recollection brought the child most clearly before him creeping up his leg, when he came to say "Good-night," and begging for more stories on the morrow.
"Going to-morrow! what a short visit!"
"I will pay you a longer visit next time."
"But when will next time be?"
"Yes, when will next time be?"