“What did he talk about?” asked Arthur.
“Well, I can’t tell you exactly, or at any rate I don’t want to tell you.”
“I wish you would,” Arthur said.
Presently Arthur spoke again.
“Yes, it is very nice; that is, it is half nice to think of those times.”
“It must be quite nice for you,” said Edgar, “because, you see, you may think that it will all come again some day, and that you will be with your father and mother again; but I never shall. Oh, Arthur, I do want to see him sometimes! I think if I knew for certain he was alive in India, I could wait any time. It would be so nice to know he was coming back again, and that I was going to live with him.”
And then it struck Arthur, how very much more he had to be thankful for, than he had thought. He looked at Edgar’s sad life, and then he thought of how very much brighter his own was. But he knew enough of dreariness, to be able to enter into Edgar’s sadness.
“Well, Edgar, I’ll tell you what. When my father and mother come home, I will get them to ask you to come to Ashton Grange, and you may be quite sure the people there will want you. I know I shall. I think, although you are such a queer fellow, that I like you very much, and I am so sorry you are so unhappy.”
Something like a happy smile came into Edgar’s face, as he said, “I think I should like that.”
Arthur had not known it, but in Edgar’s heart there had always been a great liking for him. He was so different from himself. Perhaps that was one reason, and Edgar’s was one of those deep, intense natures that cling very closely to their heart’s objects.