eary, restless look brooding over Edgar's
dark eyes, and his face was pale and worn-looking. Arthur's cheeks were
ruddy and round, and his thick brown hair clustering on his sunburnt
forehead; but with all the energy and liveliness that could be seen on his
face, a peaceful, restful look could be noticed there too.

"This walk to-day reminds me of long ago," said Edgar, after a while. "We
used to walk, papa and I. Sometimes we set off directly after breakfast,
and took some luncheon with us, and then father used to fish, and it was
such fun when he caught some; and then we had luncheon, and sometimes
father went to sleep for a little, and sometimes he would tell me stories;
and talk, oh, so nicely!"

"What did he talk about?" asked Arthur.

"Well, I can't tell you exactly, or at any rate I don't want to tell you."

"I wish you would," Arthur said.

Presently Arthur spoke again.

"Yes, it is very nice; that is, it is _half_ nice to think of those
times."

"It must be quite nice for you," said Edgar, "because, you see, you may
think that it will all come again some day, and that you will be with your
father and mother again; but I never shall. Oh, Arthur, I do want to see
him sometimes! I think if I knew for certain he was alive in India, I
could wait any time. It would be so nice to know he was coming back again,
and that I was going to live with him."

And then it struck Arthur, how very much more he had to be thankful for,
than he had thought. He looked at Edgar's sad life, and then he thought of
how very much brighter his own was. But he knew enough of dreariness, to
be able to enter into Edgar's sadness.

"Well, Edgar, I'll tell you what. When my father and mother come home, I
will get them to ask you to come to Ashton Grange, and you may be quite
sure the people there will want you. I know I shall. I think, although you
are such a queer fellow, that I like you very much, and I am so sorry you
are so unhappy."

Something like a happy smile came into Edgar's face, as he said, "I think
I should like that."

Arthur had not known it, but in Edgar's heart there had always been a
great liking for him. He was so different from himself. Perhaps that was
one reason, and Edgar's was one of those deep, intense natures that cling
very closely to their heart's objects.

By and by they began their homeward way, and as they walked along the
lane, Arthur said:

"Tell me what it was your father used to talk about. I b