"George has been out at work these two hours," replied her mother, "and here am I with all the ironing to do, and every thing else to attend to, and to nurse you into the bargain."
"No, indeed, mother, I don't need any nursing," returned the poor girl, who, though convinced her mother did not mean any unkindness by this manner of speaking, was yet unable to repress the tears which filled her eyes and forced themselves down her cheek as she spoke. "Only tell Peggy to bring me up some water to drink, and I want nothing else."
"Aye, it's fine talking. But do you think I can have you lying sick in bed, without coming to look after you? And I'm sure I don't know how I'm to find time to do it, and to do all the work besides. But I will send Peggy up with a drink for you, and will come up myself as often as I can," added the mother, as she closed the door after her.
When left to herself, Sally's mind dwelt continually on the thought of George's melancholy the night before, which she was sure was still unremoved, or he would never have thought of going to work without first coming to inquire after her. Anxiety to know the cause only increased the longer she dwelt upon the subject. In vain did her little sisters try their utmost efforts to amuse her, for which purpose, even little Croppy was brought up stairs, and introduced into the bed room; she looked at it with pleasure, and gave the little girls strict injunctions to be kind and attentive to it whilst she was unable to be so herself; but again her mind recurred to the recollection that something was amiss with her favourite brother; and this idea, much more than the bodily pain that she suffered, made every hour appear like two, till he came home to his dinner. At length she heard her father's voice below, and knowing that George was in all probability there also, she knocked down for her little attendant Peggy, and desired her to ask George to come up and see her. He came immediately, and the moment Sally saw him, she perceived that the same expression of melancholy remained on his countenance.
"George," said she, in a gentle, affectionate voice, as he came toward her bed-side, "I wanted to see you, to know if you have forgiven me."
"Forgiven, you, Sally! what had I to forgive?" asked he, in a tone of surprise.
"For being the means of keeping you from going up stairs to read last night."
"Oh! Sally, you surely do not think that I was angry at you for being sick?"
"No, not angry at me for being sick, but angry at me for having made myself sick by my own imprudence, and so keeping you from the only enjoyment you have."
"And don't you think, Sally, that I would rather help you than read any book whatever?"