"I should say not," Tom answered, with a short, amused laugh.
The little girl concluded that she had said something her brother considered silly, so put no more questions. On the strength of his two years' seniority, he sometimes treated her with an air of superiority, which she secretly disliked.
"I wish the holidays were over," Tom said presently, in a grumbling tone. "There's nothing for me to do, and no one for me to play with except you. I say, Nellie," he continued, his voice brightening, "wouldn't you like to go with me to Hatwell Green to-morrow and see the gipsies' encampment?"
"Yes, indeed I should," Nellie answered. Then her face clouded, and she added: "But I'm afraid I couldn't walk there and back."
"Why, it's only a mile distant!"
Sudden tears filled the little girl's eyes, and her lips quivered.
"If you only knew how tired I get, Tom," she faltered. "It isn't that I don't want to go." Her voice broke with a sob.
Tom felt as though a cold hand had gripped his heart. It was fear— fear that he might lose his little sister. He knew how ill she was. He turned away from her, and moved to the open window, where he stood quite still and silent for some minutes.
"Here's Miss Perry's car again!" he exclaimed by and by. "And, yes, Peter Perry's in it. Come and look!"
Nellie obeyed. As she reached her brother's side, Tim, who had followed her, jumped on a chair and stood with his forefeet on the window-ledge, also looking out. After the motor, which was being driven slowly, had passed by, Tom cried: "There! What do you think of that? His face was turned this way, and he must have recognised me, yet you see he took no notice. He must have recognised Tim, too. Oh, I know the sort of boy he is: nasty, stuck-up snob!"