“Phil Lovel.
“P. S.—Please, I’d like to hear from you, and as mother says you are not on no account to know where we are, will you write me a letter to the post-office at the town where this is posted? You will see the name of the town on the envelope, and please direct your letter:
‘Master Phil Lovel, ‘Post-office. ‘To be called for.’
“Be sure you put ‘to be called for’ in big letters.
“Good-by again. Love to everybody. Phil.”
Gabrielle and Rupert read this very characteristic little epistle without comment. When they had finished it, Rupert slipped it back into its envelope and gave it to his sister.
“We must both write to the poor little chap,” he said. “The postmark on the envelope is Southampton. I suppose Southampton, England, will find him.” Then he added after a pause: “I wonder what queer thing Aunt Bella is thinking about now?”
“She always was the silliest person in the world,” said Gabrielle in a tone of strong contempt. “If she were my mother I shouldn’t love her. I wonder how Phil loves her. Poor little Phil! He always was a dear little fellow—not a bit like Aunt Bella, thank goodness!”
Rupert laughed.
“Why, Gabrielle,” he said, “you can have no observation; Phil is the image of his mother. There is nothing at all belonging to his father about Phil except his eyes.”