‘Just gone half after six,’ replied his small friend, helping him to sit up again.
‘Marchioness,’ said Richard, passing his hand over his forehead and turning suddenly round, as though the subject but that moment flashed upon him, ‘what has become of Kit?’
He had been sentenced to transportation for a great many years, she said.
‘Has he gone?’ asked Dick—‘his mother—how is she,—what has become of her?’
His nurse shook her head, and answered that she knew nothing about them. ‘But, if I thought,’ said she, very slowly, ‘that you’d keep quiet, and not put yourself into another fever, I could tell you—but I won’t now.’
‘Yes, do,’ said Dick. ‘It will amuse me.’
‘Oh! would it though!’ rejoined the small servant, with a horrified look. ‘I know better than that. Wait till you’re better and then I’ll tell you.’
Dick looked very earnestly at his little friend: and his eyes, being large and hollow from illness, assisted the expression so much, that she was quite frightened, and besought him not to think any more about it. What had already fallen from her, however, had not only piqued his curiosity, but seriously alarmed him, wherefore he urged her to tell him the worst at once.
‘Oh there’s no worst in it,’ said the small servant. ‘It hasn’t anything to do with you.’
‘Has it anything to do with—is it anything you heard through chinks or keyholes—and that you were not intended to hear?’ asked Dick, in a breathless state.