“Yes,” her aunt agreed, “I am sure too that he was right in choosing the life. Most boys have a fancy for it, but with many it goes off, and Michael loves it more and more. And he is growing so strong—you would scarcely believe, Mary, that long ago, before you came to us, he was rather a delicate little boy, not nearly as sturdy as Fritz.”
“I remember hearing that he was very ill, with that fever,” said Mary, “when—,” but she did not finish the sentence, and her aunt understood why. There had been other children—two dear little daughters were between Michael and Fritz, in that family.
Auntie gave Mary another kiss, and something in Mary’s voice made her look at her.
“Molly, dear,” she said,—she did not often call her by this pet name, but it seemed as if she used it now for Michael’s sake,—“you are looking rather pale, as well as sad. I am afraid town doesn’t suit you as well as the country.”
“It is that I can’t bear—‘people,’” Mary was going to have said, but it struck her that wood-pigeons were scarcely “people,” and she was thinking of them as well as of Michael, “I can’t bear goings away,” she said.
“Could you not bear to go away yourself—for a little while?” said her aunt, “for a little change?”
Mary shook her head.
“No, auntie, dear,” she said, “I’d rather stay with you.”
“But it is dull for you, dear, and I am afraid I shall not be able to have you with me as much as I would like, while our cousins are here.”
Mary’s face fell.