which has been broken by the fall.

After this come those long, weary days of confinement, when you lie
still through all the hours of noon, looking out upon the cheerful
sunshine only through the windows of your little room. Yet it seems a
grand thing to have the whole household attendant upon you. The doors
are opened and shut softly, and they all step noiselessly about your
chamber; and when you groan with pain, you are sure of meeting sad,
sympathizing looks. Your mother will step gently to your side and lay
her cool, white hand upon your forehead; and little Nelly will gaze at
you from the foot of your bed with a sad earnestness, and with tears of
pity in her soft hazel eyes. And afterward, as your pain passes away,
she will bring you her prettiest books, and fresh flowers, and whatever
she knows you will love.

But it is dreadful when you wake at night from your feverish slumber,
and see nothing but the spectral shadows that the sick-lamp upon the
hearth throws aslant the walls; and hear nothing but the heavy breathing
of the old nurse in the easy-chair, and the ticking of the clock upon
the mantel! Then silence and the night crowd upon your soul drearily.
But your thought is active. It shapes at your bedside the loved figure
of your mother, or it calls up the whole company of Dr. Bidlow's boys
and weeks of study or of play group like magic on your quickened vision;
then a twinge of pain will call again the dreariness, and your head
tosses upon the pillow, and your eye searches the gloom vainly for
pleasant faces; and your fears brood on that drearier, coming night of
Death--far longer, and far more cheerless than this.

But even here the memory of some little prayer you have been taught,
which promises a Morning after the Night, comes to your throbbing brain;