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. "Nobody else has any right
to do it but you."

"Well!" said Arthur, drawing a long breath of expectation.

Presently he was de