"But, mother, he ought to know what made me ill, and how, if I had been obedient, I should never have gone to Hendon that day. Will you please tell him everything. I shall feel happier then."
"Won't you wait till you can tell him yourself."
"No, I want him to know as soon as possible, and I'm not strong enough yet, for much scribbling. But please, I'll put a few words into your letter. I'll write them now, if you'll bring me a piece of paper and a pencil."
She brought what he required to "Lancie's sofa," where he was now lying, and in a few minutes, he handed her a tiny note. It ran as follows:—
"DEAR FATHER,—I have asked mother to tell you all. I had been on the ice that day when I promised you I would be obedient and dutiful, and I let you go away thinking I was truthful and honest. Mother has forgiven me. Can you?
"Your sorrowful boy,
"Robert."
After this his mind seemed more at ease, a certain restlessness that had beset him vanished, and his recovery was much more rapid.
His last day at home was marked by an event that was memorable to all, and especially to Dora. She was practising in the drawing room after tea when Mary brought her a letter. The envelope was very business-looking, the handwriting decidedly masculine, and she broke the seal wondering who could have sent her such an epistle.
Apparently the contents were slightly mystifying, for, having glanced at the first two or three lines, her lips tightened, a half-eager, half-doubtful expression came into her eyes, and, with a low, breathless, "It can't be true," she began again.
This time she read steadily to the end. Then she started up with an energy that threw the music stool to the ground, crossed the hall at a bound, and the next instant was in the sitting room, where the whole family was gathered.
"Mother! Mother!" she exclaimed, as she waved a piece of paper above her head, "What do you think has happened?"