face in his hands
and sobbed. He was only fourteen, remember, and there was no one to see.
And with these sobs and tears--good honest tears that he need not have
been ashamed of--there melted away all the unkind, ungrateful feelings
out of his poor sore heart. He saw himself as he had really
been--selfish, unreasonable, and spoilt.

"Yes," he said to himself, "that was all I _really_ had to complain of.
They considered me too much--they spoilt me. But, oh, I would be so
different now! Only--I can't go home and say to Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot,
'I've had enough of working for myself; you may pay for me now.' It
would seem _too_ mean. No, I must keep to my plan--it's too late to
change. But I think I might go home to see them all, and ask them to
forgive me. In three weeks I shall have been here three months, and then
I may ask for a holiday. I'll write to Vicky now at once, and tell her
so--I can post the letter when I go to the station. They must have
thought me _so_ horrid for not having written before. I wonder how it
was I never got the other letters? But it doesn't matter now I've got
this one. Oh, dear Vicky, I think I shall nearly go out of my mind with
joy to see your little face again!"

He had provided himself, luckily, with some letter-paper and envelopes,
so there was no delay on that score. And once he had begun, he found no
difficulty in writing--indeed, he could have covered pages, for he
seemed to have so much to say. This was his letter:--

"Crickwood Farm, February 2.

"MY DEAREST VICKY,

"I have only just got your letter, though you wrote it on the 15th
of January. Mrs. Eames--that's the farmer's wife--found it behind
a dish on the dresser, where it has been all the time. I never got
your other letters; I can't think what became of them. I've asked
the postman nearly every day if there was no letter for me. Vicky,
I can't tell you all I'd like to say. I thought I'd write to
mamma, but I feel as if I couldn't. Will you tell her that I just
_beg_ her to forgive me? Not only for leaving home without leave,
like I did, but for all the way I went on and all the worry I gave
her. I see it all quite plain. I've been getting to see it for a
good while, and when I read your dear letter it all came out quite
plain like a flash. I don't mind the hard work here, or even the
messy sort of ways compared to home--I wouldn't mind anything if I
thought I w