Stepping into his room, one day, with a handsome volume of illustrated natural history, the dear old lady put it in his hands with the announcement that it was full of nice pictures.
He took it with a grateful smile, but tears which he could not control rushed to his eyes.
“What is it, dearie, what is it?” exclaimed kind Aunt Delia in amazement, taking him in her arms as if he had been a baby. “Is my boy fretting for his cousins? Poor fellow, it is lonely for you here with only the old folks.”
“No, no, no,” denied Philip emphatically, “I want no one but you. I never was used to young folks anyway.”
“Poor boy!” said Aunt Delia, kissing his pale, sad little face. “But you love your little cousins?”
“Oh, yes,” was the reply in a half whisper, as if it was almost irreverent to confess to such a feeling toward creatures so superior.
“Well, a year seems long to look forward to, but it soon passes by; and before we know it next summer will come, and then we shall have the girls again.”
Philip did not look as if the prospect gave him joy, and his aunt saw with puzzled surprise that it was so. She would like to have asked him why, but there was an odd, unchildlike reserve about him which she felt a delicacy in attempting to penetrate. To relieve what seemed like embarrassment upon his part, she dropped the subject and again turned to the book, which had not yet been opened.
“See,” she said, “here are lions and tigers, and all sorts of things that boys love to look at.” To her surprise, Philip pushed the book away and suddenly threw his arms around his aunt’s neck and buried his face on her shoulder.
“Oh, Aunt Delia!” he whispered; “I am so ashamed—a great boy like me, and not able to read.”