On a bright midwinter morning, Rollo was sitting before the sputtering gas-log, endeavouring to warm himself. Although he had on his red-flannel wristers and the tippet which his Aunt Lucy had given him for Christmas, and his hands were extended over the blue flames, yet he felt cold. Ever and anon he shivered slightly.
“Jonas,” said he, addressing his father’s secretary, who had just entered the room, “why am I so chilly? The room according to the mercury-tube is warm, and yet I shiver.”
“Some one is walking over your grave,” said Jonas cheerfully, “Such tremblings are oft times presentiments of death.” So saying, he passed out of the room whistling a merry funeral march.
This was the one thing necessary to make Rollo feel colder and more disconsolate than ever before. He squirmed round on his green cricket, and seemed to shrink to a smaller size, as he again extended his hands, his expression becoming more and more disconsolate as the picture conjured up by Jonas’s remarks floated before his eyes. He saw himself lying on his trundle bed, his family weeping about him. Among them, he saw in his imagination his little friend Anabelle approaching, sadly, carrying a large wreath of lilies tied with a white ribbon, marked “Rollo.” At this thought, two large tears rolled slowly down Rollo’s cheeks. It was more than he could bear. And thus his mother found him when she entered the room.
Now the reasons for our little hero’s depression were three. I wonder if any of my young readers can guess them!
First, there was the natural reaction to the gay Holiday season, which always plunges the world into profound gloom; secondly, Rollo was by nature inclined to be rather bilious; and thirdly,—well,—I shall wait before I tell you the third reason and perhaps you may divine it for yourselves, and will not that be fun!
“Great news, Rollo,” cried his mother, brightly but not so loudly as to be unladylike, “great news! Your Uncle George is to be married and to whom do you think?”
Rollo thought of several of the gay ladies whom he had met during his evening parties with Uncle George, but, having lived in the city now for nearly a half-year, he had learned that it is not best to express one’s thoughts too frankly at all times, and therefore answered, “To whom, Mother? I am sure I cannot guess.”
“Why, to Anabelle’s mother,” was the reply. “Her first husband was a very wicked man, and Anabelle’s mother was forced to leave him. She has just returned from visiting her folks in Reno, Nevada. The wedding is to be in her apartment on Park Avenue, and your Uncle writes to say that he hopes that you and Anabelle will be page and flower-girl on that occasion. Anabelle is to be allowed to come home from school for the great event.”