A month after, in the summer term, he was sitting alone in his study in
the afternoon (for he could not summon up spirit enough to play
regularly at cricket), writing a long letter to his aunt. He spoke
freely and unreservedly of his past errors,--more freely than he had
ever done before,--and expressed not only deep penitence, but even
strong hatred of his previous unworthy courses. "I can hardly even yet
realize," he added, "that I am alone here, and that I am writing to my
aunt Trevor about the death of my brother, my noble, only brother,
Vernon. Oh how my whole soul yearns towards him. I _must_ be a better
boy, I _will_ be better than I have been, in the hopes of meeting him
again. Indeed, indeed, dear aunt, though I have been so guilty, I am
laying aside, with all my might, idleness and all bad habits, and doing
my very best to redeem the lost years. I do hope that the rest of my
time at Roslyn will be more worthily spent than any of it has been
as yet."
He finished the sentence, and laid his pen down to think, gazing quietly
on the blue hills and sunlit sea.
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