Frederica had not spoken all this time. She was afraid if she said a word she would break into tears and sobs beyond her power to stay, as had happened once or twice before. But when their brother Edgar came in, she gave a cry, and clasped her sister’s hand.
“He is so like papa,” she uttered faintly.
“Is he?” said Selina. “I have not seen him yet.”
She took her brother’s hand, pressing her own small fingers softly and rapidly over it, and then over his face and hair. “Is he like papa?” asked she doubtingly.
“Like, and yet not like,” said Cecilia, and Frederica said the same. But neither of them said that the likeness was of features only, or of expression.
“Are you better?” asked he of Frederica. “Do you know that it was I who prescribed for you last night?”
“Are you a physician?” asked she.
“I hope to be one some day. Indeed, I am one already, in a way. I am going to take you into my special care, till you are the rosy little girl we used to hear of long ago.”
Frederica shook her head sadly. “I am quite changed. I never used to know what it was to be tired. Now I can do nothing, and I am so foolish, that the least thing makes me cry. I am quite ashamed.”
“But all that is to be changed now that I am come to take care of you. You will soon be well and strong again.”