t. Bertram has had his old luck again. He
sends his love to mamma and the girls.

Your very affectionate son,

ARTHUR WILKINSON.

"There, scribble that off; it will do just as well as anything else."

Poor Wilkinson took the paper, and having read it, to see that it
contained no absurdity, mechanically copied the writing. He merely
added one phrase, to say that his friend's "better luck" consisted
in his being the only double-first of his year, and one short
postscript, which he took good care that Bertram should not see; and
then he fastened his letter and sent it to the post.

"Tell mamma not to be very unhappy." That was the postscript which he
added.

That letter was very anxiously expected at the vicarage of Hurst
Staple. The father was prepared to be proud of his successful son;
and the mother, who had over and over again cautioned him not to
overwork himself, was anxious to know that his health was good. She
had but little fear as to his success; her fear was that he should
come home thin, pale, and wan.

Just at breakfast-time the postman brought the letter, and the
youngest girl running out on to the gravel brought it up to her
expectant father.

"It is from Arthur," said she; "isn't it, papa? I'm sure I know his
handwriting."

The vicar, with a little nervousness, opened it, and in half a minute
the mother knew that all was not right.

"Is he ill?" said she; "do tell me at once."

"Ill! no; he's not ill."

"Well, what is it? He has not lost his degree?"

"He has not been plucked, papa, has he?" said Sophia.

"Oh, no; he has got his degree--a second in classics!--that's all;"
and he threw the letter over to his wife as he went on buttering his
toast.

"He'll be home on Tuesday," said Mary, the eldest girl, looking over
her mother's shoulder.

"And so George is a double-first," said Mrs. Wilkinson.

"Yes," said the vicar, with his mouth full of toast; not evincing any
great satisfaction at the success of his late pupil.

When the mother read the short postscript her heart was touched, and
she put her handkerchief up to her face.

"Poor Arthur! I am sure it has not been his own fault."

"Mamma, has George done better than Arthur?" said one of the younger
girls. "George always does do better, I think; doesn't he?"

"He has made himself too sure of it," said the father, in almost
an angry tone. Not that he was angry; he was vexed, rather, as he
would be if his wheat crop fail