We need not dwell on the first weeks of Arthur's stay at Mr. Martin's.
They thought him a little homesick, but presumed he would soon get over
it; he performed the little tasks they exacted of him with great
alacrity, and was quite a favorite with Mrs. Martin, who said he was the
most quiet, and well-behaved child she ever saw. At first, Arthur
thought of nothing but home, and home-scenes; but he struggled bravely
to rise above sad and sorrowful thoughts, and to be contented. "They
shall never hear me complain," he said to himself, "and dear mother too
shall never know how bad I feel. I want to do my duty, and be a
_brave_ boy."
Every fortnight a letter came from home, and though Arthur read it with
streaming eyes, it was a precious treasure. He would read them over and
over, till he seemed to hear his mother's voice once more, and feel her
loving hand upon his head. He answered them; but wrote only a few words,
saying, he was well, and the other common place remarks children usually
write. He was not happy, but he was calmer now, and did not _every_
night cry himself to sleep. The visit at home, was a bright, cheering
spot, to which he often looked forward; and as week after week passed
away, slowly indeed, he rejoiced in the certainty that that
long-looked-for period was getting nearer and nearer, and _would_
come at last.
