The boy stared.
“Yes: grown-up people who mean to be great lawyers, as I believe Uncle Philip does, have to learn lessons like little boys, only much longer and much harder.”
“When will he have done them?”
“Not for a long while yet: but he will make a holiday some time soon, and come to see us. I should like to get well before that. Sometimes I think I shall, and sometimes I think not.”
“Does he expect you will?”
“He expects nothing about it. He does not know that I am ill. I do not wish that he should know it, my dears; so, when I feel particularly well, and when I have heard anything that pleases me, I ask Phoebe to bring me the pen and ink, and I write to Uncle Philip.”
“And why does not mamma tell him how you are?”
“Ah! why, indeed,” muttered Phoebe.
“She knows that I do not wish it. Uncle Philip writes charming long letters to me, as I will show you. Bring me my reticule. Here—here is a large sheet of paper, quite full, you see—under the seal and all. When will you write such long letters, I wonder?”
“I shall when I am married, I suppose,” said Matilda, again drawing up her little head.