“Ah, well,” said the doctor, “we must do our best. I dare say he’ll pull up again. It was only an idea that struck me.”
And when he had gone, and Jerry’s mother went up-stairs again, it struck her too that the boy did look sadly in want of something of the kind.
“If only we were rich,” she thought. “When we are all well it does not seem to press so—it is illness that brings small means home to one sorely.”
Charlotte opened her letter, and glanced through it; then made a little exclamation. She had her wish. It was something that would please Jerry.
“What is it?” asked her mother.
“It is,”—Charlotte began with a very slight shade of reluctance—“it is a letter from Miss Meredon to ask how Jerry is.”
“It is very nice of her to have thought of it,” said Mrs Waldron.
“She writes, she says, by Lady Mildred’s wish,” said Charlotte; “they are in London.”
“Well, you may run up-stairs and tell Jerry about it. It will please him,” said her mother.