“O dear, I hate to write,” said Oscar.  “Why can’t you write to mother, aunt, and tell her how I am?”

“No, no,” said Mr. Preston, “that won’t do.  You promised your mother that you would write yourself, and she ’ll expect to hear from you, and not from somebody else.  Your aunt can write, if she chooses, but you must write too.  I ’ll give you a pen and some paper and ink after breakfast, and you can write just a much as you please.”

“I guess it won’t be much—­I don’t know how to write a letter,” replied Oscar.

“A boy of your age not know how to write a letter—­and been all your lifetime to such grand schools as they have in Boston, too!  I don’t believe that,” said Mr. Preston, shaking his head.

“I shall have to go and see the Shanghae Rooster,” said Oscar, looking at Jerry very knowingly.

Jerry laughed at this allusion, but the others did not appear to understand its meaning.  It was evident that they were innocent of all knowledge of the mysterious letter; and as Jerry wished them to remain so, he adroitly turned the remark by replying: 

“No you won’t—­father has got plenty of steel pens.”

After breakfast, Mr. Preston told Oscar to follow him.  They went up stairs, and Mr. P. took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the door of what was known by the name of “the private room.”  It was a very small apartment, and was originally designed for a closet or store-room; but Mr. Preston now used it as a sort of office.  Here he kept his business papers, and here he did what little writing he had to do.  There was one window in the room, which looked out upon the garden in the rear of the house.  The furniture consisted of a chair, a small portable desk, placed upon a table, an old map of the State of Maine, a dictionary, almanac, and several other odd volumes and pamphlets.

“There,” said Mr. Preston, “you may sit right down to my desk, and write as long as you please, if you won’t disturb my papers.  There are paper, ink, pens, and wafers—­you can use what you want.  When you get done, lock the door, and give the key to your aunt.”

Oscar found there was no backing out from a letter this time; so he sat down, and tried to make up his mind to face the dreaded duty.  He heard his uncle tell the children not to interrupt him, till he had finished his letter; and when Mr. Preston and his man James went off to work, Jerry accompanied them.  Oscar was thus left to himself.  After thinking about the matter a few moments, he dipped his pen in the ink-stand, and, having consulted the almanac, wrote the proper date for the letter, together with the address, “Dear Mother.”  Here he came suddenly to a stand.  He was at a loss how to commence.  He sat uneasily in his chair, now nibbling the end of the pen-holder, and now running his fingers slowly through his hair, as if to coax out the thoughts he wished to express.