CHAPTER IV

The Princess's Letter

BERT found an early opportunity of pleading his own cause with the landlady. But in vain he begged her to let him remain longer in the miserable room he had called his home. He had no right to it. The poor furniture it contained was the property of the landlady, and she saw her way to letting the room to better advantage.

"What does a boy like you want with a room?" she asked. "You're always in the street. All you need is a place to sleep in. I'll put a shake-down for you in the corner under the stairs, and you'll be as cosy there as possible."

"But we shall want a room when Prin comes back," said Bert.

"Oh, well, it will be time enough to talk of that when she does come back," said the woman; and the words sent a chill to Bert's heart.

He had to content himself with the arrangement she proposed. She had no unkind intentions towards the boy; she only wanted to do the best she could for herself. In the days that followed, she was good to Bert in her way, sometimes giving him a basin of broth or a few potatoes for his supper, and demanding no rent of him, save a few simple services, which he willingly rendered instead of payment.

But the boy's life was very desolate. He had no "chum" amongst the boys in the street. His devotion to the Princess had prevented him from forming any friendship, and some instinct now withheld him from entering into alliance with these rude, low lads. He went regularly to school, and his quickness and intelligence made him a favourite with his master, who showed him much kindness in a careless fashion, little thinking how he was brightening Bert's life, or what a lonely life it was.

Out of school hours, Bert earned his living by selling papers, and having no longer to provide delicacies for the Princess, he soon found himself able to save some of his pennies. This was a great satisfaction to Bert. He set his heart on accumulating a hoard of pennies by the time Prin returned, and his imagination was largely occupied in arranging the details of the feast which he meant his money to furnish in honour of her return.

Meanwhile a week passed by, and the letter Prin had promised her brother did not arrive. He was growing impatient for news of her, and watched eagerly every night and morning for the coming of the postman. But that functionary always gave the same reply to his eager question. There was no letter for him. Probably the Princess was too absorbed in her new surroundings to give a thought to her little brother.

One evening when Bert came in, having sold all his papers, the landlady had news for him.

"There's been a gentleman here asking a lot of questions about you," she said. "He wants you to go into a home or something."

"Then I ain't going into a home," said Bert, stamping his foot by way of giving emphasis to his words. "I hope you told him so."

"Oh, I told him nothing," said the landlady, with a cunning look, "except that you no longer lived in that room down there. Did I know where you was? he said; and of course I didn't know where you was—I never know where you are when you ain't here."

"Of course not," said Bert, with a twinkle in his eyes. He understood that she had purposely misled the gentleman.

"I'm glad you didn't tell him nothing. I don't want to go away and be shut up in a home. What would the Princess say if she came back and found me gone?"

"Oh, as for that—" The woman laughed significantly. She did not believe that the lady who had taken the girl away would ever let her come back to that street. But she felt no compunction for having done her best to prevent the gentleman from tracing Bert. The boy was useful to her, and she wished to keep him at hand.

"Why, I declare!" she exclaimed the next moment, as the form of the postman suddenly appeared at the end of the passage, obscuring the light. Bert started at the sound of the loud rat-tat, then sprang eagerly to the door.

"Here, young man," cried the postman good-temperedly. "Isn't it you who are always asking me for a letter, and isn't your name Bertram Sinclair? Here you are then."

Bert could hardly believe in his good fortune as he seized the letter. The Princess had written at last, when he had ceased to hope that she would. Yes, the direction was written by her in a clear, though somewhat straggling hand. Carefully Bert opened the envelope. He would not tear it more than he could help, for even that was precious, as coming from the Princess. The light was waning in the passage, so he went to the door and seated himself on the step to read his precious letter. It was not very long, and he soon mastered its contents. The spelling was somewhat peculiar, but what Prin said was this:—

"DEAR BERT,—

"Perhaps you think that I might have written before, but really everything is so lovely here that I couldn't be bothered to write. It's not a bit like London here. There's a garden full of flowers, and fields, and woods with lots of primroses and violets that any one may pick. The lady keeps cows, and I have as much milk as I can drink, and every day I drive about in a beautiful carriage. Every one says how well I look, so different from what I was when I came. I am to stay here all the summer, and the lady says I must go to school of a morning, which I shall not like so much. She says she would like to keep me altogether, for I am so quick and clever she could teach me anything. Would you mind If I never came back at all?

"How is old Mother Kay? Does she drink as much as ever? I hate to think of how horrid everything used to be. I am so much better off here. Hoping you are as well as this leaves me.

"I remain,

"Yours truly,

"PRIN."

It was not a very affectionate or sisterly letter, but, such as it was, it was the only letter Bert had ever had from the Princess, and he regarded it with considerable admiration. Yet there was that in it which stung him. Would he mind if she never came back? Surely Prin might have known that he would mind.