You must not think that Maria conformed to the usages of an invalid. She was up before breakfast in the morning, she did not go to bed until the usual hour at night, and she sat down to the customary meals with Meta. She has risen from the breakfast-table now, on this fine morning, not at all cold for late autumn, and Margery has carried away the breakfast-things, and has told Miss Meta that if she will come out as soon as her mamma has read to her, and have her things put on, she may go and play in the garden.
But when the little Bible story was over, her mamma lay down on the sofa, and Meta appeared inclined to do the same. She nestled on to it, and lay down too, and kissed her mamma’s face, so pretty still, and began to chatter. It was a charming day, the sun shining on the few late flowers, the sky blue and bright.
“Did you hear Margery say you might go out and play, darling? See how fine it is.”
“There’s nothing to play with,” said Meta.
“There are many things, dear. Your skipping-rope and hoop, and——”
“I’m tired of them,” interposed Meta. “Mamma, I wish you’d come out and play at something with me.”
“I couldn’t run, dear. I am not strong enough.”
“When shall you be strong enough? How long will it be before you get well?”
Maria did not answer. She lay with her eyes fixed upon the far-off sky, her arm clasped round the child. “Meta, darling, I—I—am not sure that I shall get well. I begin to think that I shall never go out with you again.”
Meta did not answer. She was looking out also, her eyes staring straight at the blue sky.