unt heaved a very deep sigh, and said no more.

Mrs. Estcourt was very glad to see her little nephew busily occupied, for
that day at least. For several days she had been trying to bring herself
to the point of telling Arthur, that she thought he had better attend Mr.
Carey's school; and day after day she had put it off, thinking it would
make him unhappy.

Arthur's letter to his mother could not be called a very well written one;
there were several mistakes in the spelling, and here and there, a great
blot could tell that a good deal of his heart had gone into it; but
whatever it was, it was a loving little letter.

"MY OWN DEAR MOTHER,--Aunt says there is time for a letter to get to you;
so this is an answer to the one you sent me. I think it was a most
beautiful letter; and it was very odd that it made me cry.

"I like Aunt Daisy very much; I like her much better than any other lady
in the world--except you, of course.

"Myrtle Hill is much grander than the Grange. I do try to be careful about
the things, dear Mamma. Oh, mother! I do want to see you so very much
sometimes. I could never tell you how much; only I do not want you to
think I am unhappy.

"Mamma, I thought of a text the second evening I came here that made me
not so unhappy. I did not think so much of how kind and good the Lord
Jesus was until I came here. Tell papa I give him my love. I have made a
lot of mistakes, and I could not help these blots.

"Good-bye, my own dear mother.

"Ever your loving

"ARTHUR."

"Now, Aunt Daisy, will you direct this, please?" asked Arthur.

"Oh, but you are such a great boy! I think you had better do it yourself,"
said his aunt.

"Shall I? Can I? I never did before; but I daresay I could," Arthur said,
and he was half pleased and half afraid.

"Will that do?" he asked, after a long time had been spent, very carefully
trying to write his best on the thin envelope.

"Why, Arthur, you are getting out of practice with your writing, I should
think," said his aunt. And she thought this might lead on to her proposal,
about the school.

"No; I don't write well, I know," said Arthur; "but I try; and I heard
some one once say, that it is not always the most stupid people who write
the worst."

Mrs. Estcourt laughed.

"No, my dear little boy, I did not say it was. But, dear Arthur,
seriously, I think you ought to write bett