"My father never lets me go to see her when she's worst," he went on,
"only Sarah goes into her room, and him. She talks and laughs often, and
yet my father says she is ill. When I am a man I shall be a doctor, and
learn how to make her well. But it will be a long time before I am
clever enough for that, I'm afraid. My father says she's too ill for
anybody to come to see us; isn't it a pity?"
"Yes, my dear," she answered.
"She can never hear me say my hymns now," he said; "and when she's not
so ill that my father won't let me see her, she sits crying, crying ever
so; and if I want to play with her, or read to her, she can't bear it,
she says. I should think there ought to be somebody to cure her, if we
could only find out. My father scarcely ever laughs now, because she's
so ill; and when he plays with me he only looks sad, and he speaks in a
quiet voice as if it would make her worse. Do try, Miss Holland, and ask
everybody that comes to your house if they don't know of some very, very
clever doctor for my mother."
"I will try," she said.
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