of despair and passion went on, hurrying out her words, ‘It’s very hard! It’s all Uncle Kit’s doing! I hate him! Yes, I do.’ And she rolled over and over in her frenzy of feeling.
‘My dear! my dear!’ cried Honora, kneeling by her, ‘this will never do! Papa would be very much grieved to see his little girl so naughty. Don’t you know how your uncle only wants to do him good, and to make him get well?’
‘Then why didn’t he take me?’ said Lucilla, gathering herself up, and speaking sullenly.
‘Perhaps he thought you gave papa trouble, and tired him.’
‘Yes, that’s it, and it’s not fair,’ cried the poor child again; ‘why couldn’t he tell me? I didn’t know papa was ill! he never told me so, nor Mr. Pendy either; or, how I would have nursed him! I wanted to do so much for him; I wouldn’t have asked him to tell me stories, nor nothing! No! And now they won’t let me take care of him;’ and she cried bitterly.
‘Yes,’ said good, gentle Miss Wells, thinking more of present comfort than of the too possible future; ‘but you will go back to take care of him some day, my dear. When the spring comes papa will come back to his little girl.’
Spring! It was a long way off to a mind of six years old, but it made Lucilla look more amiably at Miss Wells.
‘And suppose,’ proceeded that good lady, ‘you were to learn to be as good and helpful a little girl as can be while he is gone, and then nobody will wish to keep you from him. How surprised he would be!’
‘And then shall we go home?’ said Lucilla.
Miss Wells uttered a somewhat rash assurance to that effect, and the child came near her, pacified and satisfied by the scheme of delightful goodness and progress to be made in order to please her father—as she always called him. Honor looked on, thankful for the management that was subduing and consoling the poor little maid, and yet unable to participate in it, for though the kind old lady spoke in all sincerity, it was impossible to Honora to stifle a lurking fear that the hopes built on the prospect of his return had but a hollow foundation.