‘I’d have got there somehow,’ cried Maurice. ‘I’d have seen and heard Gilbert. He’s written me a letter to say he wants to see me, and I can’t even make that out!’
‘Has not your sister read it to you!’
‘I hate Sophy’s reading!’ cried Maurice. ‘It makes it all grumpy, like her. Take it, Ulick—you read it.’
That rich, sensitive, modulated voice brought out the meaning of the letter, though there were places where Ulick had nearly broken down; and Maurice pressed against him with the large tears in his eyes, and was some minutes without speaking.
‘He does not think of your coming; he does not expect you, dear boy,’ said Ulick. ‘It is a precious letter to have. I hope you will keep it and read it often, and heed it too.’
‘I can’t read it,’ said Maurice, ruefully. ‘If I could, I shouldn’t mind.’
‘You soon will. You see how he tells you you are to be a comfort; and if you are a good boy, you’ll quickly leave the dunce behind.’
‘I can’t,’ said Maurice. ‘Mamma said I should not do a bit of a lesson with Sophy, or I should tease her heart out. Would it come quite out?’
‘Well, I think you’ve gone hard to try to-day,’ said Ulick.
‘Mamma said my being able to read would be a comfort, and papa says he never saw such an ignorant boy! so what’s the use of minding Gilbert’s letter? It wont let me.’