But on this occasion my calculations were put an end to by a terrible and unexpected misfortune—the most terrible misfortune which had ever happened to me, as I thought then. Just a week before the beginning of the holidays, I received a letter from my father. “There’s some money in it,” thought I, as I eagerly broke the seal. “Perhaps I am to come home at once. Oh, how jolly!” But, alas! these were the contents:— “_December 13th._ “MY DEAR BOY, “I am as sorry, as you will be, to tell you that we cannot allow you to come home for the Christmas holidays this year. Your little brother Ned has taken scarlet fever, and though we hope he is in no danger, we think it right that you should not come to the house, for fear of infection. I have therefore written to Dr. Lickemwell, asking him to keep you for the holidays. If Ned gets better soon, your mamma and I may, perhaps, come and see you. “I know that this will be a great disappointment to you, but disappointments are things none of us can help meeting in this world, and we must just try to bear them cheerfully, and make the best of them. “I am sure Dr. and Mrs. Lickemwell will do all they can to make you enjoy your holidays, and I hope that your not being able to come home may turn out to be not such a great misfortune after all. I enclose you five shillings as a Christmas present. “I have no time to write more. Mamma cannot write at all, she is so anxious about Ned, but she sends her love to you. And, hoping you are quite well, I am, your affectionate “PATER.” Just fancy my feelings when I had read this letter! It was so sudden and unexpected, that at first I could scarcely believe it to be true. But there was the well-known handwriting, and the words were plain enough. When I had read it over twice, I put the letter into my pocket, and, seeking out a solitary corner of the playground, had a good cry. Need I be ashamed of it? I was only twelve years old, and you may judge for yourselves how great the disappointment was. For two or three days I was very dull and miserable. The pleasure with which I had looked forward to the holidays was all gone, and the glee of the other boys made me feel quite angry. But it takes a great deal to depress a boy’s spirits for any length of time, and I soon began to get over my disappointment, and to console myself with the first maxim of philosophy, “What must be, must be.” Perhaps the five shillings contributed more than the philosophy to reconcile me to my lot.