“Father doesn’t care much, that I’m pretty sure of,” continued Arthur; “but I don’t mind that so much. I wonder will mother miss me in India. I wonder will you miss me, Hector, old boy. You ought, and you will too, I expect. Do you think you will, Hector? Speak to me, do!”
But Hector only gravely wagged his tail.
“Oh, dear! I wish a great deal,” said Arthur.
Just then there was a rustling noise at the door, and Arthur lay very still and quiet as he saw that it was his mother who was coming in. He was hidden on his sofa, so she did not see that he was there.
Presently she took her work from the table, and sat down in a low chair by the fire; and Arthur watched her as she sat there, and gazed at her sweet, gentle face.
He could not understand all that was there; but he could see enough to make him very sorry that he had said “Mother doesn’t care much.”
There was such a look of patient sweetness there, and the eyes that she now and then lifted up were deep with an expression of pain, only over it all peace was shedding a softness and beauty that he could feel. He watched her for a long time in silence, until at last a look of intense pain seemed to furrow her brow, and suddenly she buried her face in her hands, and he could just hear her say, “My darling, my darling!”
Arthur started up, and as she heard the sound she looked over to where he was.
“My dear little Arthur, I did not know any one was in the room.”
“Mamma, I did not mean to hide—to look—I mean, to listen. I forgot I ought to have said I was here. Mother, may I say what I was thinking before you came in?”