“Suppose you were to open it,” said his aunt. “Nobody else has any right to do it but you.”
“Well!” said Arthur, drawing a long breath of expectation.
Presently he was deep in the interest of his letter, and it was not for several minutes that he spoke again.
“Well, this is a very queer letter, and I cannot understand it at all. I can make out that Edgar is very, very ill. And, Auntie, do you know he seems to think perhaps he is never going to get well at all,” Arthur said very gravely and sadly.
“Has Edgar written to you himself?” asked his aunt.
“Yes. At least, that is, he said it, and one of his cousins wrote it down. Would you like to read his letter, auntie?”
This was Edgar’s letter to Arthur:
“My dear Arthur,—My aunt is writing to your aunt, and my cousin Minnie is writing this for me. I am in bed, so I am not able. You see, Arthur, I am very ill, and the doctor says I shall not get better; but I am not afraid now, dear Arthur. Cousin Minnie is very nice. I like her so much; but she has to go away soon. Arthur, I hope you will be able to come. I have prayed that you may; and I think your aunt will let you, because, you see, I am going to die, most likely, and I want to see you again.
“Your affectionate friend,
“Edgar North.”
“What can he mean, Aunt Daisy? What can he mean by saying, ‘I hope you will be able to come’? It is so strange not to explain.”