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