it would have been if she hadn’t, and how she and Clover had meant to go to Paradise that afternoon. They might have been there under the cool trees now. As these thoughts ran through her mind, her head grew hotter and her position in the bed more uncomfortable.
Suddenly she became conscious that the glaring light from the window was shaded, and that the wind seemed to be blowing freshly over her. She opened her heavy eyes. The blinds were shut, and there beside the bed sat little Elsie, fanning her with a palm-leaf fan.
“Did I wake you up, Katy?” she asked in a timid voice.
Katy looked at her with startled, amazed eyes.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Elsie, “I won’t disturb you. Johnny and me are so sorry you’re sick,” and her little lips trembled. “But we mean to keep real quiet, and never bang the nursery door, or make noises on the stairs, till you’re all well again. And I’ve brought you something real nice. Some of it’s from John, and some from me. It’s because you got tumbled out of the swing. See – ” and Elsie pointed triumphantly to a chair, which she had pulled up close to the bed, and on which were solemnly set forth: 1st. A pewter tea-set; 2d. A box with a glass lid, on which flowers were painted; 3d. A jointed doll; 4th. A transparent slate; and lastly, two new lead pencils!
“They’re all yours – yours to keep,” said generous little Elsie. “You can have Pikery, too, if you want. Only he’s pretty big, and I’m afraid he’d be lonely without me. Don’t you like the fings, Katy? They’re real pretty!”
It seemed to Katy as if the hottest sort of a coal of fire was burning into the top of her head as she looked at the treasures on the chair, and then at Elsie’s face all lighted up with affectionate self-sacrifice. She tried to speak, but began to cry instead, which frightened Elsie very much.
“Does it hurt you so bad?” she asked, crying, too, from sympathy.
“Oh, no! it isn’t that,” sobbed Katy, “but I was so cross to you this morning, Elsie, and pushed you. Oh, please forgive me, please do!”
“Why it’s got well!” said Elsie, surprised. “Aunt Izzie put a fing out of a bottle on it, and the bump all went away. Shall I go and ask her to put some on you too – I will.” And she ran towards the door.
“Oh, no!” cried Katy, “don’t go away, Elsie. Come here and kiss me, instead.”
Elsie turned, as if doubtful whether this invitation could be meant for her. Katy held out her arms. Elsie ran right into them, and the big sister and the little, exchanged an embrace which seemed to bring their hearts closer together than they had ever been before.
“You’re the most precious little darling,” murmured Katy, clasping Elsie tight. “I’ve been real horrid to you, Elsie. But I’ll never be again. You shall play with me and Clover, and Cecy, just as much as you like, and write notes in all the post-offices, and everything else.”
“Oh, goody, goody!” cried Elsie, executing little skips of transport. “How sweet you are, Katy! I mean to love you next best to Cousin Helen and Papa! And” – racking her brains for some way of repaying this wonderful kindness – “I’ll tell you the secret, if you want me to very much. I guess Cousin Helen would let me.”
“No,” said Katy; “never mind about the secret. I don’t want you to tell it to me. Sit down by the bed, and fan me some more instead.”
“No!” persisted Elsie, who, now that she had made up her mind to part with the treasured secret, could not bear to be stopped. “Cousin Helen gave me a half-dollar, and told me to give it to Debby, and tell her she was much obliged to her for making such nice things to eat. And I did. And Debby was real pleased. And I wrote Cousin Helen a letter, and told her that Debby liked the half-dollar. That’s the secret! Isn’t it a nice one? Only you mustn’t tell anybody about it, ever – just as long as you live.”
“No!” said Katy, smiling faintly, “I won’t.”
All the rest of the afternoon Elsie sat beside the bed with her palm-leaf fan, keeping off the flies and “shue”-ing away the other children when they peeped in at the door. “Do you really like to have me here?” she asked, more than once, and smiled, oh, so triumphantly, when Katy said “Yes!” But though Katy said yes, I am afraid it was only half the truth, for the sight of the dear little forgiving girl, whom she had treated unkindly, gave her more pain than pleasure.
“I’ll be so good to her when I get well,” she thought to herself, tossing uneasily to and fro.
Aunt Izzie slept in her room that night. Katy was feverish. When morning came, and Dr. Carr returned, he found her in a good deal of pain, hot and restless, with wide-open, anxious eyes.
“Papa!” she cried the first thing, “must I lie here as much as a week?”
“My darling, I’m afraid you must,” replied her father, who looked worried, and very grave.
“Dear, dear!” sobbed Katy, “how can I bear it?”
Chapter IX.
Dismal Days
If anybody had told Katy, that first afternoon, that at the end of a week she would still be in bed, and in pain, and with no time fixed for getting up, I think it would have almost killed her. She was so restless and eager, that to lie still seemed one of the hardest things in the world. But to lie still and have her back ache all the time, was worse yet. Day after day she asked Papa with quivering lip: “Mayn’t I get up and go down stairs this morning?” And when he shook his head, the lip would quiver more, and tears would come. But if she tried to get up, it hurt her so much, that in spite of herself she was glad to sink back again on the soft pillows and mattress, which felt so comfortable to her poor bones.
Then there came a time when Katy didn’t even ask to be allowed to get up. A time when sharp, dreadful pain, such as she never imagined before, took hold of her. When days and nights got all confused and tangled up together, and Aunt Izzie never seemed to go to bed. A time when Papa was constantly in her room. When other doctors came and stood over her, and punched and felt her back, and talked to each other in low whispers. It was all like a long, bad dream, from which she couldn’t wake up, though she tried ever so hard. Now and then she would rouse a little, and catch the sound of voices, or be aware that Clover or Elsie stood at the door, crying softly; or that Aunt Izzie, in creaking slippers, was going about the room on tiptoe. Then all these things would slip away again, and she would drop off into a dark place, where there was nothing but pain, and sleep, which made her forget pain, and so seemed the best thing in the world.
We will hurry over this time, for it is hard to think of our bright Katy in such a sad plight. By and by the pain grew less, and the sleep quieter. Then, the pain became easier still, Katy woke up as it were – began to take notice of what was going on about her; to put questions.
“How long have I been sick?” she asked one morning,
“It is four weeks, yesterday,” replied Papa.
“Four weeks!” said Katy. “Why, I didn’t know it was so long as that. Was I very sick, Papa?”
“Very, dear. But
