she lay
awake in stormy nights, or when the wind blew,--and it seemed to blow
oftener than usual that winter,--imagining the frigate in a gale, and
whispering little prayers for Ned's safety. Then her good sense would come
back, and remind her that wind in Burnet did not necessarily mean wind in
Shanghai or Yokohama or wherever the "Natchitoches" might be; and she
would put herself to sleep with the repetition of that lovely verse of
Keble's "Evening Hymn," left out in most of the collections, but which was
particularly dear to her:--

"Thou Ruler of the light and dark,
Guide through the tempest Thine own Ark;
Amid the howling, wintry sea,
We are in port if we have Thee."

So the winter passed, and the spring; and another summer came and went,
with little change to the quiet Burnet household, and Katy's brief life
with her husband began to seem dreamy and unreal, it lay so far behind.
And then, with the beginning of the second winter came a new anxiety.

Phil, as we said in the last chapter, had grown too fast to be very
strong, and was the most delicate of the family in looks and health,
though full of spirit and fun. Going out to skate with some other boys the
week before Christmas, on a pond which was not so securely frozen as it
looked, the ice gave way; and though no one was drowned, the whole party
had a drenching, and were thoroughly chilled. None of the others minded it
much, but the exposure had a serious effect on Phil. He caught a bad cold
which rapidly increased into pneumonia; and Christmas Day, usually such a
bright one in the Carr household, was overshadowed by anxious forebodings,
for Phil was seriously ill, and the doctor felt by no means sure how
things would turn with him. The sisters nursed him devotedly, and by
March he was out again; but he did not get _well_ or lose the persistent
little cough, which kept him thin and weak. Dr. Carr tried this remedy and
that, but nothing seemed to do much good; and Katy thought that her father
looked graver and more anxious every time that he tested Phil's
temperature or listened at his chest.

"It's not serious yet," he told her in private; "but I don't like the look
of things. The boy is just at a turning-point. Any little thing might set
him one way or the other. I wish I could send him away from this damp lake
climate."

But sending a half-sick boy away is not such an easy thing, nor was it
quite clear where he ought to go. So matters