This letter will smell queer, darling; it will be fumigated before posting.
It must be owned that when Bertie Fellowes received this letter, which was neither more nor less than a shattering of all his Christmas hopes and joys, that he fairly broke down, and hiding his face upon his arms as they rested on his desk, sobbed aloud.
The forlorn boy from India, who sat next to him, tried every boyish means of consolation that he could think of. He patted his shoulder, whispered many pitying words, and, at last, flung his arm across him and hugged him tightly, as, poor little chap, he himself many times since his arrival in England, had wished someone would do to him.
At last Bertie Fellowes thrust his mother's letter into his friend's hand. Read it, he sobbed.
So Shivers made himself master of Mrs. Fellowes' letter and understood the cause of the boy's outburst of grief. Old fellow, he said at last, don't fret over it. It might be worse.
Why, you might be like me, with your father and mother thousands of miles away.
When Aggie is better, you'll be able to go home - and it'll help your mother if she thinks you are almost as happy as if you were at home. It must be worse for her - she has cried ever so over her letter - see, it's all tear-blots.
Bonus: In the Chimney Corner - Frances E. Crompton (second story).
