“Mamma’s eyes were blue, I think,” said Arthur.
“And brown hair; and she looked very kind.”
“Oh, then they are alike in one thing!”
“Papa used to keep it in his pocket,” Edgar continued, “and he used to show it to me often when grandmamma was not in the room. I don’t think she liked it, because I remember once when we were looking at it she came into the room, and papa put it back into his pocket directly.”
“Who used you to live with then?”
“Oh, I have always lived at my grandmother’s, only now she is dead. That’s who I am in mourning for,” said Edgar, pointing to his black dress. “But father used often to come and see us. It was his home too when he had leave, other times he was with his regiment. Then, four years ago, they were ordered to India, and he died of cholera, when he had been there two years; and I never saw him since, four years ago.”
“Poor Edgar,” said Arthur again. He knew enough of loneliness and sorrow himself, to feel what a sad, empty life Edgar North’s must be, without anything in heaven or earth to make him glad.
“Did you love your father very much?” asked Arthur presently.
“Oh, Arthur, I did love him so!” said Edgar very sadly. “You see, I had no one else. I remember it was so very nice, when grandmamma had the letter to say he was coming; and he never let me have much lessons, when he was at home.”
“Was it in the town you lived, or the country?”