injured, and that probably years of suffering were before her. Everything
was done that could be done; but she was not moved from that room for nine
months, during which, though her pain certainly grew less by degrees, her
want of power to move herself remained almost the same.

When I had left her at last a little composed, with her mother seated by
her bedside, I called my other two daughters--Wynnie, the eldest, and
Dorothy, the youngest, whom I found seated on the floor outside, one on
each side of the door, weeping--into my study, and said to them: "My
darlings, this is very sad; but you must remember that it is God's will;
and as you would both try to bear it cheerfully if it had fallen to your
lot to bear, you must try to be cheerful even when it is your sister's part
to endure."

"O, papa! poor Connie!" cried Dora, and burst into fresh tears.

Wynnie said nothing, but knelt down by my knee, and laid her cheek upon it.

"Shall I tell you what Constance said to me just before I left the room?" I
asked.

"Please do, papa."

"She whispered, 'You must try to bear it, all of you, as well as you can.
I don't mind it very much, only for you.' So, you see, if you want to make
her comfortable, you must not look gloomy and troubled. Sick people like to
see cheerful faces about them; and I am sure Connie will not suffer nearly
so much if she finds that she does not make the household gloomy."

This I had learned from being ill myself once or twice since my marriage.