“Have your brothers’ letters made you feel sober, Winnie?” said her mother.

“I want to see him, mamma! —­”

“Who?”

“Governor. —­”

It was the utmost word Winifred’s lips could speak.

“But dear Winnie,” said her mother sorrowfully, “it is for their good and their pleasure they are away.”

“I know it, mamma, —­ I know I am very selfish —­”

“I don’t think you are,” said her mother.  “Winnie, remember that they are getting knowledge and fitting themselves to be better and stronger men than they could be if they lived here and learnt nothing.”

“Mamma,” said Winifred looking up as if defining her position, “I don’t think it is right, but I can’t always help it.”

“We have one friend never far off.”

“Oh mamma, I remember that all the while.”

“Then can’t you look happy?”

“Not always, mamma,” said the little girl covering her face quickly.  The mother stooped down and put her arms round her.

“You must ask him, and he will teach you to be happy always.”

“But I can’t, mamma, unless I could be right always,” said poor Winifred.

Mrs. Landholm was silent, but kissed her with those soft motherly kisses which had comfort and love in every touch of them.  Soon answered, for Winifred lifted up her head and kissed her again.

“How much longer must they be there, mamma?” she asked more cheerfully.

“Two years,” Mrs. Landholm answered, with a sigh that belonged to what was not spoken.

“Mamma,” said Winifred again presently, trying not to shew from how deep her question came, “aint you afraid Winthrop wants something more to wear?”

And Mrs. Landholm did not shew how deep the question went, but she said lightly,

“We’ll see about it.  We’ll get papa to write and make him tell us what he wants.”

“Maybe he won’t tell,” said Winifred thoughtfully.  “I wish I could write.”

“Then why don’t you set to and learn?  Nothing would please Governor so much.”

“Would it!” said Winifred with a brightened face.

“Asahel,” she said, as Asahel came in a few minutes after, “mamma says Governor would like nothing so well as to have me learn to write.”

“I knew that before,” said Asahel coolly.  “He was talking to me last summer about learning you.”

“Was he!  Then will you Asahel?  Do you know yourself?”

“I know how to begin,” said Asahel.

And after that many a sorrowful feeling was wrought into trammels and pothooks.

CHAPTER XIV.

Bard.  On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to the breach! Nym.  Pray thee, corporal, stay; the knocks are too hot; and for mine own part, I have not a case of lives:  the humour of it is too hot, that is the very plain-song of it.  KING HENRY V.

“To Mr. Winthrop Landholm, Shagarack College.