“Do you think that will help you to understand?” asked his aunt, giving him one of her own letters to read.
“What! Do you mean me to read your letter, auntie? Well!” said Arthur, wondering at this unusual occurrence, and not connecting it at all with his own letter.
Mrs. Estcourt’s letter began ‘Dear Madam,’ and it was some little time before Arthur could understand who it was from, or what it meant. By and by he found that it was from Edgar’s aunt, and that she was wishing him to stay at her house in London, so that he might see her little nephew again. This letter told that Edgar was very ill indeed; that his illness was consumption, and that the doctor expected him to live only a very short time.
It was several minutes before Arthur spoke, after he had read this letter. Breakfast was quite forgotten, and he could hardly understand at first the strange things he had read.
“Now, Arthur dear, you must eat some breakfast before we talk,” said his aunt.
“Aunt Daisy,” he said, when he had finished, “What shall you say, when you answer Edgar North’s aunt’s letter?”
“Well, what shall I say?”
“Auntie,” said Arthur presently, “I am so sorry about Edgar. I never thought he was so very ill. Do you think he is really going to die?”
“Yes, dear. I should think he will not get well. But you need not be sorry, Arthur. Don’t you see, he says he is not afraid; and the world is not such a very bright place that he should be sorry to go, when he knows he has such a home. Don’t you think so, darling?”
“Yes,” said Arthur; but the tears had dimmed his blue eyes, and a sudden feeling in his throat made him stop speaking.