“Yes, my dear, that I will,” said the little lady, patting Feelier’s hand. “And now lie still, and don’t talk; let’s keep the room quiet, and try to make her better.”
“Yes, Miss Burge; but please will teacher get well?”
“Why, surely, my dear; and very soon.”
“Because mother said I was a little wretch and gave teacher the fever, and I wish I may die instead.”
“But you shall both get well, my dear, very soon; and then you shall both go down to the sea, and you shall be Miss Thorne’s little maid.”
“Shall I?” cried the girl, with her eyes sparkling and a flush coming into her thin, sunken cheeks.
“Yes, that you shall, my dear; only lie very still, and don’t talk.”
“Please, Miss Burge,” whispered Feelier, “let me tell you this.”
“Well, only this one thing, and then you must be very quiet, my dear.”
“Yes, I will,” whispered Feelier, in a quiet, old-fashioned way; “but that’s how teacher keeps on all night and all day; she keeps on wanting Mr William Forth Burge to come to her, and mother says I kep’ on just the same, asking for teacher to come, and I was quiet when she did, and then”—sob—“she caught the fever too.”