‘Well, mother, I will try to write a book, if it is only to please you. I will write something for my pupils—a book that may be useful and popular in schools all over England. The English history my boys read seems to me very dull and dry. I think I’ll try my hand at a boy’s history of England. I fancy I could make it interesting.’
‘I’m sure you could,’ said the mother, fondly.
Here at least in this quiet schoolhouse parlour was happiness almost perfect. It was a delight to Cyril Culverhouse, when he dropped in for half an hour on his homeward way, to see how well this one good work of his had prospered.
A great change in Cyril’s fortune was at hand—a change that came upon him as an almost overwhelming blow, for it gave a new colour to his life, and made the problem of existence doubly difficult.
Walking home to his lodgings one September afternoon with Mr. Dulcimer, Cyril met the village postman.
‘Any letters for me, Sparkes?’ asked the Vicar.
Cyril was not curious enough to inquire about his letters. He expected no pleasant tidings. Who should write to him? He stood alone in the world, for he did not hope that his cousin would ever regard him with friendliness again.
‘No, sir, there ain’t none for you,’ replied Sparkes; ‘but there’s a letter for you, Mr. Culverhouse, from Indy.’
Kenrick had written then, after all, thought Cyril, moved at the idea. Distance and lapse of time had softened the natural bitterness of his feelings.
And then and there, in deliberate defiance of the postal rules and regulations, Sparkes handed the curate a thin miserable-looking letter, in a black-edged envelope, addressed by a strange hand.