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Mrs. Estcourt, Mr. Vivyan's only sister, was a widow lady living by herself. Her home was in the neighbourhood of a large town, and here, in a comfortable, moderately-sized house, she had lived for many years. She had no children of her own, and when her husband had died she had seemed to wish to avoid much intercourse with any one, so that Arthur knew very little of his aunt.
He sobbed himself to sleep that night, and when the morning sunbeams stole into the room and lighted on the white curtains of his bed, he awoke with a dull, desolate feeling of a great pain in his heart. Mrs. Vivyan's morning-room was on the pleasant sunny side of the house, and was a very favourite retreat of her little boy.
Vivyan's time had now ended, so nothing hindered their return to England, and even now, by the time this letter arrived, they would be on their way home.
"Why, I don't know; some of the others said things about you; and, besides, you know you are." He would not say that he had noticed Arthur Vivyan's ways, and that he had seen there, what showed him there was a difference between him and the other boys; still less would he tell him just then, that there was an aching wish in his heart that he could say the same for himself.
He could hardly have explained his own feelings; only a very dreary aching was in his heart; and as he thought of the strange new place, where he was going, and then of the miles and miles of land and sea, that would soon lie between himself and his father and mother, he felt very strange and desolate, and you would hardly have recognized the grave, serious-looking face as Arthur Vivyan's.
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