Added to the joy of
again meeting my mother and sister, I would also meet Charley Gray, who
was also to spend his vacation at home. We had kept up a regular
correspondence during the past year. I could always judge of Charley's
mood by the tone of his letters. Sometimes he would write a long and
interesting letter, in such a glowing, playful style, that I would read
it over half-a-dozen times at the least, and perhaps his very next
letter would be just the reverse, short, cold and desponding. Any one
who knew Charley as I did could easily tell the state of mind he was in
when he wrote, but so well did I know the unhappy moods to which he was
subject, that a desponding letter now and then gave me no surprise. In
fact, had the style of his letters been uniformly gay and lively, I
should have been more surprised, so well did I understand his variable
temper. But we both looked forward to our anticipated meeting with all
the eagerness and impatience of youthful expectation. For, as I said
near the opening of my story, I loved Charley as a brother, and so
agreeable and pleasant was his disposition when he was pleased, you
quite forgot for the time being the unhappy tempers to which he was
subject.
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