“That’s curious, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Yes, uncle, I suppose it is, and I can’t make it out. I don’t understand it a bit. It’s because he is ill, I suppose, and is sorry he used to be so rough with me. I wish he would get quite well and go back to London.”
“Humph! And you would rather not go up to attend to him?”
“I’d go if you ordered me to, but I should be very miserable if I had to—worse than I am now. But, uncle, I am doing my best.”
“Of course, Tom. There, I did not mean it, my boy. You are doing your duty admirably to your invalid relative. I hope we both are; and sick people’s fancies are to be studied. I don’t think though you need be quite so blunt, Master Blount, though,” added Uncle Richard, smiling.
“I’ll try not to be, uncle.”
“And talk about hating people. Rather rough kind of Christianity that, Tom.”
“I beg your pardon, it slipped out. I hope I don’t hate him.”
“So do I, my lad. There, go and do everything you can for him while he stays. He is certainly much better, and fancies now that he is worse than he is.”
“I’ll do everything I can, uncle,” said Tom eagerly.