“I tell you no, boy,” he said impatiently. “It would be unjust to you to encourage you to lead such a vagabond life as mine. Say no more about it, sir,” he added harshly. “It is impossible!”
A deep sigh escaped my lips, and then I was silent, for my uncle turned to his writing again, and for the next week he was cold and distant to me, while I went on with my task in a dull, spiritless manner, feeling so miserable that I was always glad to go and hide myself away, to sit and think, and wonder what I should do when my uncle had gone.
Chapter Twelve.
Uncle Dick Says “Yes!”
It was about a fortnight after this conversation, during the whole of which time Uncle Dick seemed to have kept me so at arm’s-length that my very life had become wretched in the extreme, when, being in the drawing-room one evening, my aunt, who had been talking to him about his preparations for going away in three weeks’ time, suddenly drew his attention to me.
“Do you see how ill and white this boy has turned, Richard? Now it’s of no use you denying it; he’s quite upset with your nasty birds and stuff.”
“No, he is not,” cried Uncle Dick suddenly; and his whole manner changed. “The boy is fretting.”
“Fretting!” cried my aunt; “with plenty to eat and drink, and a good bed to sleep on! What has he to fret about?”