"How nice that cologne is! I haven't had breakfast in a good while before, have I?"
"No, my darling." And Mrs. Laval stooped to press her lips fondly. "What do you say to a little bit of roast bird?"
Matilda was very glad of it; and she enjoyed the delicate thin slice of toast, and the fragrant tea out of a sort of eggshell cup; the china was so thin it was semi-transparent. She made a bird's breakfast, but it was very good, and did her good.
"Mamma," she said, as she drank the last drops from that delicate cup,—"it must be a dreadful thing to be poor! When one is sick, I mean."
"You never will be, darling," said Mrs. Laval.
She was slowly but surely mending all that day. The next morning she had another roast bird for breakfast, and could eat more of it.
"Norton wants to see you dreadfully," Mrs. Laval said as she was feeding her. "And so does David, I believe. How have you and David got to be such good friends?"
"I don't know, mamma. I like David very much."
"Do you?" said Mrs. Laval laughing; "perhaps that is the reason. Like makes like, they say. You are one of the few people that like David Bartholomew!"
"Am I? Why, mamma? Don't you like him?"