If I went with Matilda, and we had Eleanor Arkwright for a friend, he allowed that he would consent.
"That is if the girl is willing to go.

I will send no child of mine out of my house against her will." Major Buller asked her himself.

Asked with so much kindness, and expressed such cheery hopes that change of air, regular occupation, and the society of other young people would make her feel "stronger and happier" than she had seemed to be of late, that to say that Matilda would have gone anywhere and done anything her father wished is to give a feeble idea of the gush of gratitude which his sensible and sympathetic words awoke in her.

Unfortunately she could not keep herself from crying just when she most wanted to speak, and Uncle Buller, having a horror of "scenes," cut short the one interview in which Matilda felt disposed to confide in her parents.
But she confided to me, when she came to bed that night (_I_ didn't mind her crying between the sentences), that she was very, very sorry to have been "so cross and stupid," and that if we were not going to school she meant to try and be very different.

I begged her to let me ask Uncle Buller to keep us at home a little longer, but Matilda would not hear of it.
"No, no," she sobbed, "not now.