"Will you, Arthur? Will you really?" said Edgar, turning round a very anxious, eager face; and he said it again. "Oh, do please, every day, Arthur! I don't believe any one else does. Father used to pray for me; oh, I know he did!" and Edgar's words ended in smothered sobs.

Arthur's arms were round his neck now. "Dear Edgar, don't cry. You know I do love you just as if you were my brother; and I will pray for you every day. I do sometimes already. And then we can write to each other, you know, can't we?" Looking through the trees they could see that the other boys were fast dispersing, and that only one or two of the day boys were left; so Arthur knew that he must go, and that it must be a very long good-bye to Edgar.

They walked together to the gate, and then they stopped. Edgar seemed to be searching in his pocket for something. Presently he found it, and placed it in Arthur's hand.

"What is this?" said Arthur.

"Well, it is a present for you. I have nothing else to give you, and I did want to give you something."

"But what is it?" said Arthur; for he seemed puzzled by the appearance of Edgar's gift, although it was open in his hand.

"Well, I'll tell you," said Edgar. "I have two medals that my grandfather got at college, and father gave them to me when he went away; and, you know, if you were my brother you would have one; so I want you to take it.

I have one just like it."

"Very well," said Arthur; "thank you, Edgar, and I don't like saying good-bye at all, you know; but we must; and, Edgar, won't you do it, what we talked about?"

"And you remember what you promised about praying. Mind you do, Arthur.

Good-bye."

Then Arthur went away; and as he was walking homewards, there was more than one tear brushed away by his little hot, ink-stained hand, though it was not a heart-grief to him, and he did not know what a lonely, desolate feeling was in Edgar's heart, as he watched him walking slowly away until the distance hid him from his eyes; for Arthur was the chief object in his heart just then.

The next day the play-ground at Mr. Carey's school was quiet and empty, and the broad shadows fell softly on the silent gra.s.s. The sheep in the fields must have wondered at the stillness. And Mr. Carey was enjoying the half-yearly silence that reigned there.

Arthur had been looking forward to the holiday journey on the Continent with glowing expectation; he could hardly believe at first that he was really going to see the towns and countries of which he had learnt in his geography lessons. He tried to imagine the journey, and to see pictures of the places where they were going; but that was not very easy, as he had never been so far before as this last journey he had taken, and he knew nothing at all of travelling by sea; this he found out to be a very unpleasant reality; and he wished very much that, while he remained abroad with his aunt, the tunnel under the sea would be finished between Dover and Calais.

They had a very pleasant time in Switzerland. Then Arthur saw the deep blue lake with its solemn projecting mountains that swelled in great mounds around, and far down where the gleaming peaks of white made the blue look deeper; and in the evening, when the sun was hiding behind, and was throwing a flame-coloured glow on the grandeur around, he would stand on the terrace and feel the solemn hush that told the night was coming.

Several weeks were pa.s.sed among the mountains, and it was not until just before the opening of the school that he found himself back at Myrtle Hill.

CHAPTER X.

AT REST NOW.

"I wonder why Edgar North does not write to me. I can't think what can have happened to him. Just think, auntie; I know that when his last letter came, the leaves had not all gone from the trees, and now look at the snow."

Several months had pa.s.sed away since Arthur and his aunt had come home, and the winter chill and shadows were gathering around. Many letters had found their way to Myrtle Hill from the far-away mother in India, and sometimes, though not so often, answers went back to tell her things about her child that made her glad.

At first Arthur had often had tidings of his absent friend, beginning, "My dear Arthur, I hope you are quite well;" and there was a sadness that spoke in his short notes that Arthur could scarcely understand. But in one of his letters Edgar had said, "I have to be indoors by myself a great deal, and then I think of the things we used to talk about". That was the last letter that had come from him, and now it was several months ago, and Arthur was wondering at the long silence, as he had written twice in answer to this letter. But many things had taken up his thoughts and his time, and the winter holidays had begun, before he had thought much of his absent friend.

"Aunt Daisy," said Arthur one morning, about two days after he had seen his lesson books put away for the present, "I really wish I knew what has become of Edgar; I think it is the strangest thing that he never writes to me. People do not generally stop caring about their friends suddenly, do they?"

"No, dear, not generally. Perhaps little boys may be peculiar kinds of creatures, you know," she said, smiling.

"I am sure, aunt," said Arthur, looking aggrieved, "you think boys are much nicer than you did once. And, besides, Edgar and I are not little."

"No, dear," said his aunt, laughing and kissing him. "I do think they are very nice sometimes; and you are getting a great big fellow, whatever Edgar is."

"I wish he would write to me," said Arthur, pausing before he began his breakfast.

"Perhaps he may be ill," his aunt suggested.

"Perhaps he may be, auntie," said Arthur thoughtfully. "I wish I knew.

Poor Edgar! fancy his being ill all alone."

"Alone, dear! Why, is he not with his uncle and his aunt?"

"Yes; but then, you know, _all_ aunts are not nice. And there are a lot of cousins. Perhaps you might not want to have me, if you had ever so many children, Aunt Daisy."

Mrs. Estcourt smiled, and perhaps she thought that Arthur was not so very far from right. Arthur still wondered why no letter came, and at last he had almost made up his mind to write again; but this would be a task not at all to his taste, and one which he would very much rather avoid.

One morning when he came down to breakfast, he saw that there was something on his plate. It really was a letter at last! and, of course, Arthur concluded that it could be from no one but his friend in London.

"A letter for me at last! Well, it is quite time. Now I shall have to answer it, I suppose. Oh! I forgot. Good morning, auntie!"

But when Arthur had gone back to his place, and had examined his letter more closely, he saw that it was not Edgar's round, plain hand that had directed the envelope.

"Why, aunt," he said, "I don't believe it is from Edgar at all. Who can it be from? Edgar does not write that way. That is a lady's writing. What lady could be writing to me? Mamma is the only one, and her letter could not be from London."

"Suppose you were to open it," said his aunt. "n.o.body 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."

"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.