“Nonsense!” said Rollitt, pulling out his paper and going on writing.
“Here are two letters for you,” said the boy.
Rollitt motioned him gruffly to lay them down on the table and depart—which he did gladly.
Rollitt went on writing. It may be no breach of confidence if we allow the reader to glance over his shoulder.
“Dear Mother,—You ask me if I am happy, and how I like school. I am not happy, and I hate Fellsgarth. Nobody cares about me. It’s no use my trying to be what I am not. I am not a gentleman, and I hope I never shall be, if the fellows here are specimens. Just because I’m poor they have nothing to do with me. I don’t complain of that. I prefer it. I’d much sooner be working for my living like father than wasting my time at a place like this. If those ladies would give the money they spend on keeping me here to you and father it would do much more good. There is only one boy I care about here, and he is a little fellow who was kind to me of his own accord, and doesn’t fight shy of me because I’ve no money and live on charity. I would ever so much rather come and live at home at the end of this term. It would be even worse at Oxford than it is here; and the ladies, if they want to be kind, will let me leave. I know you and father want me to become a grand gentleman. I would a hundred times rather be what I really am, and live at home with you.
“Your loving son,—
“Alfred.”
This dismal letter concluded, the writer produced his books and began work, heedless of the two letters on his table, which lay all day where Fisher minor had deposited them.
He went in and out to class, and those who watched him saw no signs of trouble in his demeanour. In the afternoon he stole up to the river with his rod; and any one who had seen him land his three-pounder, and leave it, as he left all his fish, at Widow Wisdom’s cottage, would have been puzzled by his indifferent air.
That evening, as he was about to go to bed, he discovered the letters.