must not mind that too much. An invalid’s instincts as to eating and drinking are more to be depended upon than those of a healthy person; but it is not so, I think with regard to anything involving effort. That she must sometimes be urged to. She must not judge that by inclination. I have had, in my short practice, two patients, who considered themselves bedlars, as you will find the common people in the part you are going to, call them—bedridden, that is. One of them I persuaded to make the attempt to rise, and although her sense of inability was anything but feigned, and she will be a sufferer to the end of her days, yet she goes about the house without much inconvenience, and I suspect is not only physically but morally the better for it. The other would not consent to try, and I believe lies there still.”
“The will has more to do with most things than people generally suppose,” I said. “Could you manage, now, do you think, supposing we resolve to make the experiment, to accompany us the first stage or two?”
“It is very likely I could. Only you must not depend upon me. I cannot tell beforehand. You yourself would teach me that I must not be a respecter of persons, you know.”
I returned to my wife. She was in Connie’s room.
“Well, my dear,” I said, “what do you think of it?”
“Of what?” she asked.
“Why, of Shepherd’s letter, of course,” I answered.
“I’ve been ordering the dinner since, Harry.”
“The dinner!” I returned with some show of contempt, for I knew my wife was only teasing me. “What’s the dinner to the Atlantic?”
“What do you mean by the Atlantic, papa?” said Connie, from whose roguish eyes I could see that her mother had told her all about it, and that she was not disinclined to get up, if only she could.
“The Atlantic, my dear, is the name given to that portion of the waters of the globe which divides Europe from America. I will fetch you the Universal Gazetteer, if you would like to consult it on the subject.”
“O papa!” laughed Connie; “you know what I mean.”
“Yes; and you know what I mean too, you squirrel!”
“But do you really mean, papa,” she said “that you will take me to the Atlantic?”
“If you will only oblige me by getting Well enough to go as soon as possible.”
The poor child half rose on her elbow, but sank back again with a moan, which I took for a cry of pain. I was beside her in a moment.
“My darling! You have hurt yourself!”
“O no, papa. I felt for the moment as if I could get up if I liked. But I soon found that I hadn’t any back or legs. O! what a plague I am to you!”
“On the contrary, you are the nicest plaything in the world, Connie. One always knows where to find you.”
She half laughed and half cried, and the two halves made a very bewitching whole.
“But,” I went on, “I mean to try whether my dolly won’t bear moving. One thing is clear, I can’t go without it. Do you think you could be got on the sofa to-day without hurting you?”
“I am sure I could, papa. I feel better today than I have felt yet. Mamma, do send for Susan, and get me up before dinner.”
When I went in after a couple of hours or so, I found her lying on the conch, propped up with pillows. She lay looking out of the window on the lawn at the back of the house. A smile hovered about her bloodless lips, and the blue of her eyes, though very gray, looked sunny. Her white face showed the whiter because her dark brown hair was all about it. We had had to cut her hair, but it had grown to her neck again.
“I have been trying to count the daisies on the lawn,” she said.
“What a sharp sight you must have, child!”
“I see them all as clear as if they were enamelled on that table before me.”
I was not so anxious to get rid of the daisies as some people are. Neither did I keep the grass quite so close shaved.
“But,” she went on, “I could not count them, for it gave me the fidgets in my feet.”
“You don’t say so!” I exclaimed.
She looked at me with some surprise, but concluding that I was only making a little of my mild fun at her expense, she laughed.
“Yes. Isn’t it a wonderful fact?” she said.
“It is a fact, my dear, that I feel ready to go on my knees and thank God for. I may be wrong, but I take it as a sign that you are beginning to recover a little. But we mustn’t make too much of it, lest I should be mistaken,” I added, checking myself, for I feared exciting her too much.
But she lay very still; only the tears rose slowly and lay shimmering in her eyes. After about five minutes, during which we were both silent,—
“O papa!” she said, “to think of ever walking out with you again, and feeling the wind on my face! I can hardly believe it possible.”
“It is so mild, I think you might have half that pleasure at once,” I answered..
And I opened the window, let the spring air gently move her hair for one moment, and then shut it again. Connie breathed deep, and said after a little pause,—
“I had no idea how delightful it was. To think that I have been in the way of breathing that every moment for so many years and never thought about it!”
“It is not always just like that in this climate. But I ought not to have made that remark when I wanted to make this other: that I suspect we shall find some day that the loss of the human paradise consists chiefly in the closing of the human eyes; that at least far more of it than people think remains about us still, only we are so filled with foolish desires and evil cares, that we cannot see or hear, cannot even smell or taste the pleasant things round about us. We have need to pray in regard to the right receiving of the things of the senses even, ‘Lord, open thou our hearts to understand thy word;’ for each of these things is as certainly a word of God as Jesus is the Word of God. He has made nothing in vain. All is for our teaching. Shall I tell you what such a breath of fresh air makes me think of?”
“It comes to me,” said Connie, “like forgiveness when I was a little girl and was naughty. I used to feel just like that.”
“It is the same kind of thing I feel,” I said—“as if life from the Spirit of God were coming into my soul: I think of the wind that bloweth where it listeth. Wind and spirit are the same word in the Greek; and the Latin word spirit comes even nearer to what we are saying, for it is the wind as breathed. And now, Connie, I will tell you—and you will see how I am growing able to talk to you like quite an old friend—what put me in such a delight with Mr. Shepherd’s letter and so exposed me to be teased by mamma and you. As I read it, there rose up before me a vision of one sight of the sea which I had when I was a young man, long before I saw your mamma. I had gone out for a walk along some high downs. But I ought to tell you that I had been working rather hard at Cambridge, and the life seemed to be all gone out of me. Though my holidays had come, they did not feel quite like holidays—not as holidays used to feel when I was a boy. Even when walking along those downs with the scents
