"See here, Tom, I'll write and ask my mother to invite you to go home
with me for the holidays."
"Will you really?"
"Yes, I will. And if she says yes, we shall have such a splendid time.
We live in London, you know, and have lots of parties and fun."
"Perhaps she will say no?" suggested poor little Tom.
"My mother isn't the kind that says no," Bertie declared loudly.
In a few days' time a letter arrived from Bertie's mother. The boy
opened it eagerly. It said:
My own dear Bertie:
I am very sorry to tell you that little Alice is ill with scarlet
fever. And so you cannot come for your holidays. I would have been glad
to have you bring your little friend with you if all had been well here.
Your father and I have decided that the best thing that you can do is
to stay at Miss Ware's. We shall send your Christmas present to you as
well as we can.
It will not be like coming home, but I am sure you will try to be
happy, and make me feel that you are helping me in this sad time.
Dear little Alice is very ill, very ill indeed. Tell Tom that I am
sending you a box for both of you, with two of everything. And tell him
that it makes me so much happier to know that you will not be alone.
Your own mother.
When Bertie Fellows received this letter, which ended all his Christmas
hopes and joys, he hid his face upon his desk and sobbed aloud.
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