it again she hesitated.

"It will only be for a little while," she said. "I will wait for a week
or two at least. A month, or even six weeks, will soon pass; and if I
can write and tell them I am almost well again, it will not be half the
vexation to Effie and the others to know that I am here. I will wait a
little while at least."

She waited a month and then wrote--not that she was nearly well again,
but hopefully, more hopefully than she felt, for she could not bear that
Effie and the rest at home should be made unhappy about her. So she did
not tell them that she had been there a whole month, and that she was no
better, but rather worse. She told them how kind everybody was to her,
and how the doctor gave her good hopes of soon being as well as ever and
able to get home again.

"Oh, how glad I shall be when that time comes!" wrote poor Christie.
"But you must not think, Effie, that I am fretful or discontented.
There are many things to make it pleasant for me here that I cannot
write to you about, and the doctors tell me that when I get over this I
shall very likely be better and healthier than ever I was; and whatever
happens, we are quite sure that this trouble was sent to us by One who
cares for us. He has not forsaken me and never will, I am very sure of
that."

If Effie could have known of all the tears that fell before that letter
was fairly folded and sent away, she would hardly have taken all the
comfort from it that Christie intended she should; for notwithstanding
the doctor's frequent and kind assurances that her knee was doing well,
and that she soon would be as well as ever again, her heart sometimes
began to fail her. She did not think that she was in danger, she did
not doubt but that she should see the green leaves and the wheat-fields
at home. It never came into her mind that month after month, each
growing longer and more painful, might pass before a change should come.
And she never, even in the dreariest days, doubted that all would be
well in the end.

But six weeks, two months passed, and she grew no better, but rather
worse. The active measures thought necessary to check the progress of
the disease in her limb caused her often great suffering. Her rest was
uncertain, and broken by troubled dreams. It was only now and then that
she was at all able to interest herself in the work that at first gave
her so much pleasure. Even her books wearied her. She was quite
confined to her