room now, and, of course, left the greater part of the
time alone. She was not often obliged to keep her bed all day, but
being moved to her chair near the window, she could not leave it again
but with the help of the nurse. Hour after hour she used to sit,
leaning back wearily, listening to the distant sounds in the house or
the street, watching the clouds or the rain-drops on the window if the
day was overcast, or the motes dancing in the sunshine if it were fair.

Oh, how long these days seemed to her! The leaves were not fully out
when she came in, and now summer was nearly over. She used to think how
the harvest-fields were growing yellow, and how busy all the people at
home would be at work gathering in the grain. The roses had come and
gone. The numberless blossoms of the locust-tree had nodded and
breathed their fragrance in at the nursery window, and faded, and it was
almost time for the few late blossoms whose coming had so surprised her
last year.

Was it any wonder that many a time her pillow was wet with tears? She
tried not to murmur. The nurse and the doctors, too, thought her very
patient and quiet, and praised and encouraged her, telling her their
hopes that her suffering would not last much longer. But still she grew
weaker every day, far weaker than she knew, for she could not try her
strength now by walking in the hall or climbing the broad stairs that
led to the wards. Yes, she grew weaker. Her appetite quite failed, and
except when the doctor gave her something to ease the pain and soothe
her restlessness, she slept little at night, but dozed in her chair
through the day, starting many a time from a dream of home, or of the
days when she was so happy with Gertrude and little Claude, with a pang
which was always new and hard to bear.

Thus awaking one day, she opened her eyes to see a grave, kind face
bending over her. She did not recognise it immediately, but raised
herself up to look again, as it was withdrawn. She knew the voice,
though, which said so kindly:

"My poor child, I fear you have suffered much."

With a flow of tears such as no one had seen her shed since she came,
she grasped the kind hand that was held out to her. It was only for a
moment, however.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said; "I couldn't help it. I am so glad
to see you."

It was of no use to try to check her tears. They must flow for a minute
or two.

"You remind me so much of Miss Gertrude and m