an tell then whether I will ever be able to--to
dance again or not!" The thought was so terrible that her mother had
difficulty soothing her.

"If you do what he tells you now you'll be dancing again in less than no
time," reassured Uncle Johnny. "Dr. Bowerman wants to frighten you so
that you will be careful."

The first week or so of the enforced quiet passed very pleasantly;
mother had engaged a cheery-faced nurse who proved to be excellent
company; every afternoon some of the girls ran in on their way home from
school with exciting bits of school gossip and the whispered inquiry--of
which Isobel never wearied--how had it felt to faint straight into Dana
King's arms? Uncle Johnny brought jolly gifts, flowers, books, puzzles;
Gyp tirelessly carried messages to Amy Mathers and Cora Stanton and back
again.

But as the days passed these pleasant little excitements failed her, one
by one. Mother decided that the nurse was not needed--there was no
medicine to be given--and a tutor was engaged, instead, to come each
morning. Her school friends grew weary of the details of Isobel's
accident and the limitations of her pink-and-white room; other things at
school claimed their attention--a new riding club was starting, and the
Senior parties; they had not a minute, they begged Gyp to tell Isobel,
to play--they were "awfully" sorry and they'd run in when they could.
Gyp and Jerry, too, were swimming every afternoon in preparation for the
spring inter-school swimming meet. The long hours dragged for the little
shut-in; she nursed a not-unpleasant conviction that she was abused and
neglected. She consoled her wounded spirit with morbid pictures of how,
after a long, bedridden life, she would reap, at its end, a desperate
remorse from her selfish, inconsiderate family; she refused to be
cheered by the doctor's assertion that she was making a tremendously
"nice" recovery and would be as lively on her feet as she'd ever
been--though he never failed to add: "You don't deserve it!"

One afternoon, three weeks after the accident, Isobel looked at her
small desk clock for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. A ceaseless
patter of rain against the window made the day unusually trying. Her
mother had gone, by the doctor's orders, to Atlantic City for a week's
rest, leaving her to the capable ministrations of Mrs. Hicks. That lady
had carried off her luncheon tray with the declaration that "a body
couldn't please Miss Isobel anyways and