it was most unlike Eleanor to have such a cause make her uncomfortable. She charged it upon the conversation of the morning, and supposed herself nervous or feverish; but this, if an explanation, was no cure; and through the frequent wakings of a disturbed night, the thought of that piece of armour which made one of her fellow creatures so blessedly calm, came up again and again to her mind.
"I am feverish – this is nightmare," said Eleanor to herself. But it must be good to have no such nightmare. And when the broad daylight had come, and she was pronounced to be very ill, and the doctor was sent for, Eleanor found her night's visions would not take their departure. She could not get up; she was a prisoner; would she ever be free?
She was very ill; the fever gained head; and the old doctor, who was a friend of the family, looked very grave at her. Eleanor saw it. She knew that a battle was to be fought between the powers of life and death; and the thought that no one could tell how the victory would be, came like an ice wind upon flowers. Her spirit shrank and cowered before it. Hopes and pleasures and plans, of which she was so full yesterday, were chilled to the ground; and across the cleared pathway of vision, what appeared? Eleanor would not look.
But the battle must be fought; and it had to be fought amid pain and fever and weariness and the anxious looks of friends; and it was not soon decided. And the wish for that helmet of shelter, whatever it might be, came at times bitterly strong over Eleanor's heart. Many a heavily drawn sigh, which her mother charged to the body's weariness, came from the mind's longing. And in the solitude of the night, when her breath was quick and her pulse was high and she knew everything was going wrong, the thought came with a sting of agony, – if there was such a helmet, and she could not have it. O to be well and strong, and need none! – or while lying before death's door to see if it would open, O to have that talisman that would make its opening peace! It was not at Eleanor's hand, and she did not know where to find it. And when the daylight came again, and the doctor looked grave, and her mother turned away the anxious face she did not wish Eleanor to read, the cold chill of fear crept over Eleanor's heart. She hid it there. No creature in the house, she knew, could meet or quiet it; if indeed her explanation of it could have been understood. She banished it as often as it was possible; but during many days that Eleanor lay on a sick bed, it was so frequent a visiter that her heart grew sore for its coming.
There were June roses and summer sunshine outside; and sweet breaths came in at the open windows, telling the time of year. Julia reported how fine the strawberries were, and went and came with words about walks and flowers and joyous doings; while Eleanor's room was darkened, and phials of medicine and glasses stood on the table, and the doctor went and carne, and Mrs. Powle hardly left her by day, and at night tile nurse slept, and Eleanor tossed and turned on her pillow and thought of another "night" that "cometh."
The struggle with fever and pain was over at last. Then came weakness; and though hope revived, fear would not die. Besides, Eleanor said to herself, though she should get entirely well of this sickness, who would guaranty her that another would not come? And must not one come – some time – that must be final? And how should that be met? Nay, though getting well again and out of present danger, she would have liked to have that armour of shelter still!
"What are you crying for?" said her little sister coming suddenly into her room one day. Eleanor was so far recovered as to be up.
"I am weak and nervous, – foolish."
"I wouldn't be foolish," said Julia.
"I do not think I am foolish," said Eleanor slowly.
"Then why do you say you are? But what is the matter with you?"
"Like all the rest of the world, child, – I want something I cannot get.
What have you there?"
"Ferns," said Julia. "Do you know what ferns are?"
"I suppose I do – when I see them."
"No, but when you don't see them; that's the thing."
"Do you, pray."
"Yes! A fern is a plant which has its seeds come on the back of the leaf, and no flower; and it comes up curled like a caterpillar. Aren't those pretty?"
"Where did you learn all that?"
"I know more than that. This leaf is called a frond."
"Who told you?"
"Mr. Rhys."
"Did you learn it from Mr. Rhys?"
"Yes, to be sure I did, and a great deal more. He is going to teach me all about ferns."
"Where do you see Mr. Rhys?"
"Why! wherever I have a mind. Alfred goes walking with him, and the other boys, and I go too; and he tells us things. I always go along with Mr. Rhys, and he takes care of me."
"Does mamma know?"
"Yes, but papa lets Mr. Rhys do just what he pleases. Papa says Mr.
Rhys is a wonderful man."
"What is he wonderful for?" said Eleanor languidly.
"Well, I think, because he is making Alfred a good boy."
"I wonder how he has done it," said Eleanor.
"So do I. He knows how. What do you think – he punished Alfred one day right before papa."
"Where?" said Eleanor, in astonishment.
"Down at the school. Papa was there. Papa told about it. Alfred thought he wouldn't dare, when papa was there; and Alfred took the opportunity to be impudent; and Mr. Rhys just took him up by his waistband and laid him down on the floor at his feet; and Alfred has behaved himself ever since."
"Was not papa angry?"
"He said he was at first, and I think it is likely; but after that, he said Mr. Rhys was a great man, and he would not interfere with him."
"And how does Alfred like Mr. Rhys?"
"He likes him – " said Julia, turning over her ferns. "I like him. Mr. Rhys said he was sorry you were sick. Now, that is a frond. That is what it is called. Do you see, those are the seeds."
Eleanor sighed. She would have liked to take lessons of Mr. Rhys on another subject. She half envied Julia's liberty. There seemed a great wall built up between her and the knowledge she wanted. Must it be so always?
"Julia, when are you going to take a walk with Mr. Rhys again?"
"To-morrow," was the quick answer.
"I will give you something to ask him about."
"I don't want it. I always have enough to ask him. We are going after ferns; we always have enough to talk about."
"But there is a question I would like you to ask."
"What is it? Why don't you ask him yourself?"
Eleanor was silent, watching Julia's uncompromising business-like air as she turned over her bunch of ferns. The little one was full of her own affairs; her long locks of hair waving with every turn of her busy head. Suddenly she looked up.
"What is your question, Eleanor?"
"You must not ask it as if from
