the flowers do, and thrived on it.

But there was one objection to this out-of-doors life: Susy did not love
to stay in the house. Ainu days and evenings, to be sure, she made
herself very happy with reading, for she loved to read, particularly
fairy books, and Rollo's Travels.

But now, just as she had learned to skate on the basin with other little
girls and young ladies, and could drive Wings anywhere and everywhere
she pleased, it was a sore trial to give up these amusements for the
sake of spending more hours with poor little Prudy. She was very
self-denying at first, but it grew to be an "old story." She found it
was not only pony and skates she must give up, but even her precious
reading, for Prudy was jealous of books, and did not like to have Susy
touch them. She thought Susy was lost to her when she opened a book, and
might as well not be in the house, for she never heard a word that
anybody said.

Now I know just what you will think: "O, I would have given up a great
deal more than ponies and books for _my_ dear little sister! I would
have told her stories, and never have complained that my 'tongue ached.'
It would not have wearied me to do anything and everything for such a
patient sufferer as little Prudy!"

But now I shall be obliged to confess one thing, which I would have
gladly concealed.

Prudy was not always patient. Some sweet little children become almost
like the angels when sickness is laid upon them; but Prudy had been such
a healthy, active child, that the change to perfect quiet was
exceedingly tiresome. She was young, too,--too young to reason about the
uses of suffering. She only knew she was dreadfully afflicted, and
thought everybody ought to amuse her.

"O, dear me!" said Susy, sometimes, "I just believe the more anybody
does for Prudy, the more she expects."

Now this was really the case. When Prudy first began to lie upon the
sofa, everybody pitied her, and tried to say and do funny things, in
order to take up her attention. It was not possible to keep on giving so
much time to her; but Prudy expected it. She would lie very pleasant and
happy for hours at a time, counting the things in the room, talking to
herself, or humming little tunes; and then, again, everything would go
wrong. Her playthings would keep falling to the floor, and, as she could
not stoop at all, some one must come and pick them up that very minute,
or they "didn't pity her a bit."

Every once in a while, s