“I’m the new gardener’s boy, miss,” he answered; “I ain’t been here long.”
Philippa looked down at him, wondering what she should say next.
“Are you,” she began hesitatingly, after a moment’s pause—“are you very poor?”
The boy seemed a little puzzled. He sat back on his heels, and scraped the gravel thoughtfully from the blade of his knife.
“We ain’t near so bad off as some in Upwell,” he said at last; “but we could do with a little more sometimes, now that Becky’s so bad.”
“Oh, you live at Upwell, do you?” said Philippa; “and who is Becky, and why is she bad?”
“She’s my sister, miss,” answered the boy, “and she’s had a fall and hurted her back. She can’t run about, and hasn’t not for ever so long. It’s very hard on Becky. She was always one to like running about.”
“Won’t she ever get well?” asked Philippa, drawing a little nearer, and speaking with real interest.
“The doctor says she will, if so be she keeps quiet a bit longer, and has lots of nourishing things,” replied the boy.
“Why doesn’t she have them, then?” asked Philippa.