PHASE II.

I can stand up with assistance from the bed-post and totter feebly to an
arm-chair by the fire, where I sit in a dressing-gown and weep. What for? I
couldn't say, except that it seems a fit and proper thing to do.

I am still of opinion that I am not long for this world, and my favourite
occupation at present is counting up the number of wreaths that I might
justifiably expect to have sent to my funeral. I don't tell my nurse, who
would immediately try to "cheer me up" by talking to me or giving me a
magazine to look at. And I would _much_ rather count wreaths. The Smiths
probably would not be able to afford one....

My thoughts are distracted by the sudden apparition of a little meal. I
begin to take an interest in these little meals, which are of such frequent
occurrence that I am reduced to tears again, this time at the thought of
the extra expense I am causing. And all for nothing. Why don't they save
the money for wreaths?

The doctor comes while I am swallowing my egg, miserably yet with a certain
gusto, and I dry my eyes hastily as I hear him bounding up the stairs.

"Hullo," he calls out before he is well through the door, "how are we
to-day, eh? Beginning to sit up and take notice? I think we'll change your
medicine."

"_I_ think," I remark resignedly, "that it will be best for someone to dig
a hole and bury me."