There was a pa.s.sionate ring of pain in the voice, and the look of unrest had given place to one of intense yearning. Edith's tears fell fast as she laid her head down on the pillow beside her little sister and pressed warm kisses on the quivering lips.

"Little Winnie," she whispered, "don't you think it is hard, hard for us to see you lying suffering here? Oh, my dear, can't you guess how we miss your little dancing figure, and your bright, merry chatter?

Our hearts are sore for you, dearest, in your pain and weariness, and we would sacrifice anything to be able to raise you up strong and well soon. But we cannot; and, oh, little sister, try to wait patiently a little longer."

"You say that every day, Edith," answered the child pettishly. "It is always the old, old story--wait a little longer; and when you speak in that strain a great fear creeps into my heart and won't be shut out. I try not to listen; I think upon other things; I tell it to go away, but it still remains. Edith, O Edith! tell me that some day I shall stand up strong and well; tell me quick, quick, for something whispers that will never be."

"Nonsense, dear!" faltered the elder sister; "you must not become fanciful. In a short time I hope to see you quite better."

"You don't say you are perfectly certain, Edith," cried Winnie, still suspicious, "and you look at anything rather than me. I believe my fear is too true; and if so, how shall I live through the long, long years?"

Edith hardly knew how to reply. "Hush, Winnie, hush!" she began pleadingly; "you are rushing to rash conclusions. And only think, dear, we have you, though weak and helpless, spared to us still. What if you had died?"

"I wish I had," replied the girl wildly; "I would far rather lie quietly under the daisies than live a long, long crippled life. Oh, to think I shall never again run races on the sandy sh.o.r.e, and laugh when the little waves splash my feet; never pluck the wild flowers and make sweet, fragrant posies; never climb the forest trees or sit under the great pines I love so well! I can't bear it, Edith; indeed I can't. I wish I were dead."

Her sister was about to speak, but she pushed her aside, saying feebly, "Oh, if I could only get my strength back again! I never knew what a blessing health was till I lost it." There was such a depth of pathos in the weak voice, such an undertone of sadness, that Edith almost broke down again.

"Winnie," she said softly, "I wonder how Aunt Judith would answer you just now?"

Winnie looked up through her tears. "I don't know," she replied wistfully; "but she can't understand how awful it is to lose health for life in one day."

"No," responded Edith; "but I think, Winnie, Miss Latimer must have had some exceeding bitter sorrow--some terrible trial to bear in her own time."

"How?" with a gesture of surprise.

"Because, dear, those books of hers which I have been reading to you lately are full of grand, loving thoughts, and strong, helpful words, such as could only come from a heart torn and bleeding through suffering. I never saw Miss Latimer, as you know, Winnie, but I am ready to say with you she must be a good, n.o.ble woman."

The little girl's eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g over again. "Don't speak of her, Edith; it makes me wish so much to see her, and mamma has forbidden that."

"Not now, Winnie, not now!" said Edith eagerly; "she would be only too pleased to see your friend. At first, when you were so ill, you called continually for Aunt Judith, and Algy was sent to Dingle Cottage in search of her. He found, however, only a fast-closed door, and could gain no information as to where she had gone from any of the neighbours. It seems the whole family left town for the summer on the afternoon of the examination day, so that I am sure Miss Latimer does not even know you are ill. She and Nellie were not in the school at the time of your accident." Edith's voice faltered at this point: but rapidly recovering herself, she continued: "Then we bought all Aunt Judith's books, dear, to try to cheer you a little. It was the only thing we could do. Some day, when we return to town, you will see Miss Latimer again."

Winnie lay weeping quietly. At last she said, "Please leave me alone for a short time, Edith; I wish to think it all out myself," and the elder sister obeyed.

Slipping on her hat, she pa.s.sed out of the house into the sunshine and wended her way slowly towards the sh.o.r.e, the words ringing in her ears with that low wail of intense pain--"How shall I live through the long, long years?"

Poor Winnie! her fears were but too well grounded. No hope was entertained of her ever being able to leave her couch again.

When the kind-hearted doctor had broken the news to the sorrowing family, almost the first thought of each was, How would she bear it?

How would she, the little restless sprite, always flitting about here and there, endure perhaps a long life of crippled helplessness? And oh! how were they to tell her of the sad future, stretching far into the coming years? It was all very well to waive her questions in the meantime, but that could not be done much longer. Already the child seemed listening to each word with a haunting sense of fear; and now that they had taken her from the busy town to their quiet sea-side home, where summer after summer she had danced about in innocent glee, the dread deepened as the days went by and she felt no sign of returning strength to her feeble frame. There was no need to tell the sad tidings after all, however--she had found out for herself; and the necessary part now was to teach her how to live bravely and cheerfully through the long, long years.

Edith's thoughts were very dreary as she walked quietly through the little sea-side village, and saw the happy, sun-kissed children, full of health and strength, playing on the sandy sh.o.r.e, and shouting their l.u.s.ty laughter to each other, while one who would have joined so heartily in their merriment was lying pale and weary on a lonely couch of pain. The little wistful face and tired eyes kept ever rising up before her, while the words rang continually in her ears,--"How shall I live through the long, long years?"

With a quick impatient movement she drew out her watch, and noting the hour, saw that the mail had been due some little time ago, and letters would be lying at the small post-office. Entering the little shop, she found another occupant besides herself preparing to receive a small budget of papers from the shopwoman's hands.

"No letters to-day, Miss Latimer; only these papers," the girl was saying as Edith stepped towards the counter.--"Good-morning, Miss Blake; we are glad to see you amongst us again."

The lady started at Edith's name, and turning, looked earnestly at the graceful figure from under the brim of a shady hat--a gaze which Edith, busy with her own thoughts, failed to observe.

"Three letters for you to-day, miss," the shopwoman continued, "and one with a foreign post-mark on it. I'm thinking it'll be from Master d.i.c.k."

Edith lifted the letters. "Yes," she said with a bright smile, "you are quite right, Janet. It is addressed to my little sister; how pleased she will be!"

The girl's eyes saddened. "Is Miss Winnie keeping stronger?" she inquired in a subdued voice; "we were all so sorry to hear about her illness, dear lamb."

The young lady shook her head. "Not much, Janet; but of course we have only been here a week as yet. We are hoping she will reap the benefit of the sea-air by-and-by. Good-morning." And Edith, gathering her letters together, left the shop and turned slowly in the direction of home. In a few minutes she heard rapid footsteps behind her, and a low, sweet voice said gently, "May I be pardoned for addressing Miss Blake?"

Raising her eyes in surprise, Edith saw the stranger lady close at her side, looking very much agitated.

"Certainly!" she replied courteously. "Can I a.s.sist you in any way?"

And the stranger replied--

"I do not know whether you will ever have heard Winnie speak of me or not. My name is Latimer, and your little sister was a great friend of my niece. They were always together at school, and Winnie spent two afternoons with us when we were in town, I--"

But she was allowed to proceed no further, for Edith stood holding out her hands, and saying with shining countenance, "You are Aunt Judith, are you not? I am so pleased to have met you, Miss Latimer. My little sister is very ill. Will you come and see her now?"

Miss Latimer looked perplexed. "I am staying here at present," she said simply, "and intend remaining till the end of August; this air seems so beneficial to my invalid sister. I hardly know how to reply to your invitation, Miss Blake. I never knew till the other day about Winnie's accident, and I should dearly like to see the child; but still--"

"Please do not finish your sentence, Miss Latimer," replied Edith, blushing with confusion. "We owe you an ample apology for our rudeness, and both my father and mother will be only too delighted to see you. Winnie has been calling for you continually, and my brother went to Dingle Cottage, but found you out of town."

"Yes," said Miss Latimer; "the doctor advised us to come here on account of my youngest sister. Nellie was with us during the month of June, but has gone home till we return to town. I thank you for your kindness, Miss Blake, and will call at your house to-morrow. I am sorry I cannot accompany you this afternoon."

Edith looked up at the true, n.o.ble face, shaded by the simple summer hat; and as she did so, a slow, sweet smile broke over Aunt Judith's lips and lighted up her whole countenance.

"No wonder Winnie loved her!" thought the gay, fashionable girl. "I feel as if I could kneel in all reverence at her feet, she looks so good and pure." But she only said aloud,--"Then I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon, Miss Latimer. Our house is easily found. You will see the name, Maple Bank, on the gate. Please do not disappoint us; and oh! I am so glad I have met you at last."

So they parted, and Edith stepped homewards with a lightened heart.

Mr. and Mrs. Blake received her news quietly. They would rather the intimacy had not been renewed, but for Winnie's sake no opposition would be made now. They would find out Miss Latimer's present home, and call on her that evening. As for telling Winnie, it might be better, perhaps, to keep her still in ignorance till the following day.

Clare alone turned up her haughty nose when Edith related the morning's adventure, and inquired if she too were becoming infected with the Latimer mania. "For my part," concluded the proud girl, "I think our parents very foolish--encouraging Winnie in all her whims and fancies.

There will be no end to them soon. I am very sorry for the child, but I still decidedly disapprove of giving in to her continually. I should not be surprised if this wonderful Aunt Judith becomes a daily visitor before long. However, I wash my hands of the whole affair." And lifting a book, Clare pa.s.sed out through the window into the garden; while Edith, disgusted at the cruel words, went slowly upstairs, and placed d.i.c.k's precious letter in Winnie's hands.

It was a wonderful epistle, spiced with grand nautical phrases, and brimful of the truly marvellous and incredible in nature. Winnie laughed heartily over the absurd yarns, described with sailor-like veracity, and then gave a little cry of joy when Edith, who was reading the letter aloud, ended with the following words:--"And now, my dear little Win, if we have favourable weather you may expect to see your dear old d.i.c.k home about the end of September; and won't we have a jolly time of it then! No end of larks and mischief. I suppose you will still be at Maple Bank when my ship comes in, so" (here Edith stopped, but the child bade her read every single word) "see and keep well and strong, that you may be able to enjoy all sorts of capers with--Your loving sailor brother, d.i.c.k."

"Don't look at me like that, Edith," said Winnie, when the long letter was carefully folded up and returned to its envelope. "I am not going to cry or even think; my heart is too sore. No one must tell d.i.c.k till he comes home. Let him remain in ignorance as long as possible." Then she closed her eyes wearily and remained silent. But Edith was not to be deceived by any apparent calmness or resignation, and knew only too well that the child's whole soul was crying out in rebellion at the sad trial which had befallen her.

Daylight stole softly, silently away; the summer breeze sighing a dreamy even-song through the forest trees, lulled the singing birds to rest; the little flowers drooped their pretty heads, and closed their dewy petals in slumber; the busy whirr and hum of insects ceased,--and the nature-world was hushed in sleep. Only the restless sea broke on the peaceful calm with its ceaseless swish-swish of waves. And far, far out on the ocean breast, leaning over the bulwark of a gallant ship, homeward bound, was a young sailor, gazing across the moonlit waters, and thinking of the bright fairy sister waiting to give him a joyous welcome back.

CHAPTER XVI.

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

"How pretty my room is to-day, Edith! You have made it all bright and fairy-like with flowers. Yes, open the blinds, please, and let the sunshine in; my head is really better this morning, and I wish all the light I can possibly get." So spoke Winnie, as she watched her sister scattering sweet posies of flowers throughout the entire room, and felt the sweet, subtle perfume of "the flowers that in earth's firmament do shine."

"Why are you so particular to-day, Edith?" she continued, as that young lady flitted about, looping and relooping the soft lace curtains, pouncing on every stray speck of dust, and sweeping every medicine-bottle out of sight. "Jane tidied the room as usual this morning, and yet here you are, poking into every corner, and arranging and rearranging everything. One would think the Queen was coming to see me. What is the reason of it all?" and Winnie looked decidedly curious.

"So you are going to have a visitor, dear," replied Edith, bringing a fragrant nosegay over to the bedside and laying it on the snowy pillow.