. I
shall see you gathering the snow, and building up your man: and if you
will turn about and shake your hand this way now and then, I shall be
sure to observe it, and I shall think you are saying something kind to
me."

"I wish the snow would come," cried George, stamping with impatience.

"I do not believe mamma will let us," observed Matilda. "She prohibits
our going into Mr Grey's field."

"But she shall let us, that one time," cried George. "I will ask papa,
and Mr Grey, and Sydney, and Uncle Philip, and all. When will Uncle
Philip come again?"

"Some time soon, I dare say. But, George, we must do as your mamma
pleases about my plan, you know. If she does not wish you to go into
Mr Grey's field, you can make your snow-man somewhere else."

"But then you won't see us. But I know what I will do. I will speak to
Sydney, and he and Fanny and Mary shall make you a snow-man yonder,
where we should have made him."

Mrs Enderby pressed the boy to her, and laughed while she thanked him,
but said it was not the same thing seeing the Greys make a snow-man.

"Why, George!" said Matilda, contemptuously.

"When _will_ Uncle Philip come?" asked the boy, who was of opinion that
Uncle Philip could bring all things to pass.

"Why, I will tell you how it is, my dear. Uncle Philip is very busy
learning his lessons."

The boy stared.

"Yes: grown-up people who mean to be great lawyers, as I believe Uncle
Philip does, have to learn lessons like little boys, only much longer
and much harder."

"When will he have done them?"

"Not for a long while yet: but he will make a holiday some time soon,
and come to see us. I should like to get well before that. Sometimes I
think I shall, and sometimes I think not."

"Does he expect you will?"

"He expects nothing about it. He does not know that I am ill. I do not
wish that he should know it, my dears; so, when I feel particularly
well, and when I have heard anything that pleases me, I ask Phoebe to
bring me the pen and ink, and I write to Uncle Philip."

"And why does not mamma tell him how you are?"

"Ah! why, indeed," muttered Phoebe.

"She knows that I do not wish it. Uncle Philip writes charming long
letters to me, as I will show you. Bring me my reticule. Here--here is
a large sheet of paper, quite full, you see--under the seal and all.
When will you write such long letters, I wonder?"

"I shall when I am married, I suppose," said Matilda, again drawi