_wasn't_ born neat."

"Oh, do!" cried Katy, enchanted. Cousin Helen had done her good,
already. She looked brighter and less listless than for days.

"This girl was quite young," continued Cousin Helen; "she was strong and
active, and liked to run, and climb, and ride, and do all sorts of jolly
things. One day something happened--an accident--and they told her that
all the rest of her life she had got to lie on her back and suffer pain,
and never walk any more, or do any of the things she enjoyed most."

"Just like you and me!" whispered Katy, squeezing Cousin Helen's hand.

"Something like me; but not so much like you, because, you know, we hope
_you_ are going to get well one of these days. The girl didn't mind it
so much when they first told her, for she was so ill that she felt sure
she should die. But when she got better, and began to think of the long
life which lay before her, that was worse than ever the pain had been.
She was so wretched, that she didn't care what became of anything, or
how anything looked. She had no Aunt Izzie to look after things, so her
room soon got into a dreadful state. It was full of dust and confusion,
and dirty spoons and phials of physic. She kept the blinds shut, and let
her hair tangle every which way, and altogether was a dismal spectacle.

"This girl had a dear old father," went on Cousin Helen, "who used to
come every day and sit beside her bed. One morning he said to her:

"'My daughter, I'm afraid you've got to live in this room for a long
time. Now there's one thing I want you to do for my sake.'