“You married, my love! And pray when are you to be married?”
“Mamma often talks of the time when she shall lose me, and of what things have to be done while she has me with her.”
“There is a great deal to be done indeed, love, before that day, if it ever comes.”
“There are more ways than one of losing a child,” observed Phoebe, in her straightforward way. “If Mrs Rowland thinks so long beforehand of the one way, it is to be hoped she keeps Miss Matilda up to the thought of the other, which must happen sooner or later, while marrying may not.”
“Well, Phoebe,” said the old lady, “we will not put any dismal thoughts into this little head: time enough for that: we will leave all that to Miss Young.” Then, stroking Matilda’s round cheek, she inquired, “My love, did you ever in your life feel any pain?”
“Oh, dear, yes, grandmamma: to be sure I have; twice. Why, don’t you remember, last spring, I had a dreadful pain in my head for nearly two hours, on George’s birthday? And last week, after I went to bed, I had such a pain in my arm, I did not know how to bear it.”
“And what became of it?”
“Oh, I found at last I could bear it no longer, and I began to think what I should do. I meant to ring the bell, but I fell asleep.”
Phoebe laughed with very little ceremony, and grandmamma could not help joining. She supposed Matilda hoped it might be long enough before she had any more pain. In the night-time, certainly, Matilda said. And not in the daytime? Is not pain as bad in the daytime? Matilda acknowledged that she should like to be ill in the daytime. Mamma took her on her lap when she was ill; and Miss Young was so very sorry for her; and she had something nice to drink.
“Then I am afraid, my dear, you don’t pity me at all,” said grandmamma. “Perhaps you think you would like to live in a room like this, with a sofa and a screen, and Phoebe to wait upon you, and whatever you might fancy to eat and drink. Would you like to be ill as I am?”