at home that the next afternoon the journey of a few hours was taken, and in the early November twilight he was helped up the familiar steps into the hall, where his mother met him with convulsive kisses and sobs, called him her poor, dear little Freddie, and then—went away to dress for a dinner-party, leaving the boy to the tender mercies of the servants, who were thoroughly rejoiced to have him at home once more.
This afternoon, directly after lunch, she had helped Fred to the sofa where we found him, put a plate of Malaga grapes and a dish of candy on a table beside him, and, telling him to ring for Mary in case he needed anything, she had gone away “to take forty winks,” she said. But the forty winks lasted a long time, and for more than an hour Fred had lain there, listening to the dashes of rain against the window, and counting the street cars that jingled on their way past the house.
Suddenly the door-bell rang, and, at the sound, a dark red flush mounted to the boy’s cheek, and a frown gathered on his face.
“Somebody coming to look at me!” he
