hem. Oh yes, I know
you do not believe you can, but the way will come if you try. All that I
do is to whisper soft songs in their ears, or give them a little waft of
summer freshness, but it sometimes stops their painful tossing, and
brings sleep to their tired eyes."

"I will think; I will try," said Phil.

"That is right," replied the fairy. "Now I will call some of my friends,
the flower fairies, hidden in these water-lilies, and you shall see them
dance." She clapped her hands softly together, and out of each lily
crept a tiny shape of radiant whiteness and lily-like grace, so pure, so
exquisite, that they did indeed seem to be the very essence and spirit
of the flower. And now began another of those fantastic movements which
Phil had before witnessed. Now in wreaths, now apart, and again in
couples, they swayed about in an ecstasy of mirth, and the wind harp
gave out strains of wild and melodious sound. They nodded to each other
in their glee, and Phil could hardly tell whether they really were
fairies or flowers, for they looked just as the flowers might when blown
about in a breeze. As he gazed, his eyelids began to droop. He was very
tired. The music grew fainter and fainter. He seemed to be again in the
boat, listening to the water lapping its sides, and Graham seemed to be
with him, reaching out for lilies; and then all faded, and Phil was fast
asleep.

CHAPTER IX

A VISIT FROM THE YOUNG DOCTOR

"Now, Phil," said Miss Rachel, "I am not going to be so busy for a
while, and though you cannot study yet, for the doctors say you must
not, I shall read aloud to you a little every day. Graham has promised
to come often to visit you, and with our boating and driving, and
pleasant friends coming to stay with us, I think we shall have rather a
nice summer. What do you think?"

Phil's face lighted up with a grateful smile, which grew into rather a
sober expression.

"I think it is all delightful; but--"

"But what, my dear; are you not contented?"

"Oh yes, more than that: I am as happy as I can be; but--"

"Another but."

"Miss Rachel, what becomes of all the poor sick children in the city who
have no such friend as you are to me?"

"They suffer sadly, dear Phil."

"Then don't you think I ought to remember them sometimes?"

"Yes, in your prayers."

"Is there no other way?"

"I am not sure that there is for a child like you. Perhaps there may be,
and we will think about it; but you must not