“Very often, dear, and horses too; but that poor little fellow is not rich, you know.”
“I should like to be him,” said Jock.
“A little circus-boy? to ride upon the stage, and have all the most horrid people staring at you?”
“And jump through the hoop, and gallop, gallop, and have a pony like that all to myself. A—h!” Jock cried with a long-drawn breath.
“Would you like a pony so very much, Jocky? Then some day you shall have one,” said his sister in her tranquil voice. “I will buy you one when I am rich.”
“Are you soon going to be rich?” said the little boy doubtfully. Like wiser people, he preferred the smallest bird in the hand to a whole aviary in the dim and doubtful distance. But Lucy had not a very lively sense of humor. She knew the circumstances better than he did, and said, “Hush! hush!” with a little awe.
“Not for a very long time, I hope,” she said.
Her little brother looked at her with wondering eyes; but this mystery was too deep for him to solve. He had no insight into those deep matters which occupied his father’s time, nor had he the least notion that Lucy’s wealth depended upon that father’s death, though it had all been discussed with so much detail day by day over his dreaming head.
“When you are rich, shall I be rich too, Lucy?” he said.
“I am afraid not, Jock; but if I am rich, it will not matter; you shall have whatever you please. Won’t that do just as well?”