“Why, you know you did. Don’t you remember those walks? I have never forgotten those things, Arthur.”
“But you used to be very miserable then.”
“Yes; but I thought about it all afterwards; and then Cousin Amy was so nice.”
“Tell me some of the things she said,” asked Arthur; “that is, if you can; but perhaps you have talked enough for to-night, Edgar. Perhaps I had better go now.”
“Oh, no,” said Edgar; “do stay; it is so nice having you; and I can talk much better in the evenings. I will tell you some of the nice thoughts I had, if you like. You know I have had so much time to think, Arthur. I have had so many hours by myself, lying here.”
“Have you been here long, then, and by yourself? Oh, Edgar, why couldn’t you have let me know?” asked Arthur reproachfully.
“Oh, because I could not write myself. I became worse so suddenly, you know. It seems such a long, strange time since I came, and since last holidays when I saw you, Arthur. At first it was so horrid; and then I got ill, and then Cousin Amy came, and then Louisa and Minnie came home for the holidays, and now you are here.”
“How was it horrid?” asked Arthur.
“Well, I know they did not much want me. I don’t mean they were unkind; but just think of all the children here. It does not make much difference to Uncle North, because he is away all the day at his office, nor to poor Aunt North either, because she is always ill; but I know Maude has enough to do already; and Arnold says he thinks boys are a great bother. Then the others used to be making such a noise, and taking long walks, and I could not; and they all said I was not happy; but I was just as happy as anywhere else, only I could not be the same as they were.”
“That little girl seems nice,” said Arthur, “the one that told you I was here.”