’I want to tell you more, but it hurts me to write long.  If I could only see you—­not only in my dreams.  I wake, and my heart sickens with longing for a sight of my brave boy’s merry face, till I almost feel as if it would make me well; but it is a blessing past hope to have my father with me, and know him as I have never done before.  Give little Albinia these beads, with my love, and be a better brother to her than I was to poor Lucy.

’Good-by, Maurice.  No one can tell what you have been to me since your mother put you into my arms, and I felt I had a brother again.  God bless you and cancel all evil you may have caught from me.  Papa will give you my sword.  Perhaps you will wear it one day, and under my colonel.  I have never been so happy as in the time it was mine.  When you look at it, always say this to yourself:  “Fear God, and fear nothing else.”  O that I had done so!

’Let your dear, dear mother be happy in you:  it will be the only way to make her forgive me in her heart.  Good-by, my own dear, brave boy.

’Your most affectionate brother,
‘G.  KENDAL.’

‘I say, Smut,’ quoth Maurice, ’I think you and our Tabby would make two famous horses for Awkey’s little cart.  I shall take you home and harness you.’

Sophy sat breathless at his indifference.  ‘You mustn’t,’ she said in hasty anger; ‘Smut is not yours.’

’Well, Jack said that our Tabby had two kittens up in the loft; I think they’ll make better ponies.  I shall go and try them!’

‘Don’t plague the kittens.’

’I’ll not plague them; I’ll only make ponies of them.  Give me the letter.’

’No, not to play with the cats.  I thought you would have cared about such a letter!’

‘You have no right to keep it!  It is mine; give it me!’ cried Maurice, passionately.

‘Promise to take real care of it.’

He only tore it from her, and was gone.

‘I’m a fool to expect anything from such a child,’ she thought.

At two o’clock the Vicar hurried into the bank.  ’Good morning, Mr. Goldsmith, I beg your pardon; I wanted to ask if Mr. O’More has seen little Maurice Kendal.’

‘Not since yesterday—­what’s the matter?’

’The child is not come in to dinner.  He is nowhere at home or at Willow Lawn.’

‘Ha!’ cried Ulick.  ‘Can he be gone to see his pony at Hobbs’s!’

’No, it has been sent to Fairmead.  Then you have no notion where the child can be?  Sophy is nearly distracted.  She saw him last about ten o’clock, bent on harnessing some kittens, but he’s not in the hay-loft!’

’He may be gone to the toy-shop after the harness.  Or has anyone looked in the church-tower—­he was longing to go up it, and if the door were open—­’

‘The very thing!’ cried the Vicar.  ‘I’ll go this moment.’

‘Or there’s old Peter, the sailor,’ called Ulick; ’if he wanted any tackle fitted, he might go to him.’