“Yes, dear,” said Mother, absently, “anything wrong?” She wrote a few more words and then laid down her pen and began to fold up what she had written. “I was just writing to Jim's grandfather. He lives near here, you know.”
“Yes, you said so at tea. That's what I want to say. Must you write to him, Mother? Couldn't we keep Jim, and not say anything to his people till he's well? It would be such a surprise for them.”
“Well, yes,” said Mother, laughing, “I think it would.”
“You see,” Peter went on, “of course the girls are all right and all that—I'm not saying anything against THEM. But I should like it if I had another chap to talk to sometimes.”
“Yes,” said Mother, “I know it's dull for you, dear. But I can't help it. Next year perhaps I can send you to school—you'd like that, wouldn't you?”
“I do miss the other chaps, rather,” Peter confessed; “but if Jim could stay after his leg was well, we could have awful larks.”
“I've no doubt of it,” said Mother. “Well—perhaps he could, but you know, dear, we're not rich. I can't afford to get him everything he'll want. And he must have a nurse.”
“Can't you nurse him, Mother? You do nurse people so beautifully.”
“That's a pretty compliment, Pete—but I can't do nursing and my writing as well. That's the worst of it.”
“Then you MUST send the letter to his grandfather?”