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 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. The
lonely boy from India, who sat next to him, tried to comfort his friend
in every way he could think of. He patted his shoulder and whispered
many kind words to him.

At last Bertie put the letter into Tom's hands. "Read it," he sobbed.

So then Tom understood the cause of Bertie's grief. "Don't fret over
it," he said at last. "It might be worse. Why, your father and mother
might be thousands of miles away, like mine are. When Alice is better,
you will be able to go home. And it will help your mother if she thinks
you are almost as happy as if you could go now."

Soon Miss Ware came to tell Bertie how sorry she was for him.

"After all," said she, smiling down on the two boys, "it is an ill wind
that blows nobody good. Poor Tom has been expecting to spend his
holidays alone, and now he will have a friend with him. Try to look on
the bright side, Bertie, and to remember how much worse it would have
been if there had been no boy to stay with you."

"I can't help being disappointed, Miss Ware," said Bertie, his eyes
filling with tears.

"No; you would be a strange boy if you were not. But I want you to try
to think of your poor mother, and write her as cheerfully as you can."

"Yes," answered Bertie; but his heart was too full to say more.

The last day of the t