Grandma's ankle was much better, to be sure, but still it did not
allow her to walk or stand on it but very little, so that she could not
be of much assistance in the nursing that followed. Poor little Kenneth
suffered greatly from his burns, and his fever ran high, and the very
hot weather made it harder for him to bear. He cried continually for his
mother. He had not fretted for her, especially, while he was well, but
now that he was sick he wailed constantly for "Mamma."

Cricket was up and about, after a day or two. Her arms and hands were
still bandaged, and she was very helpless about dressing and undressing
herself, but she felt better to be up. She longed to do something for
Kenneth, but this was impossible, with both arms in slings. These were
rather dark days for the poor little girl, for, on account of the
anxiety about Kenneth, she received less attention than she otherwise
would have had. She was very grateful, however, that nobody reminded her
that it was chiefly her fault.

Unfortunately, her right hand, with which she had first clasped Kenneth,
was much more seriously burned than the other. The left hand came out of
its sling at the end of three or four days, and while the arm remained
bandaged, she could use her fingers.

"If it was only the other way," she mourned, "I could write a lot of
stories and things for the 'Echo,' and my time would not be _all_
wasted."

"Learn to write with your left hand," suggested grandma.

"Could I?" said Cricket, brightening. "Why, why not? It won't be like
learning to write over again. I've often tried it, only my left-hand
fingers don't seem to have any _push_ in them."

"If you practise half an hour a day, you will soon do wonders," said
grandma, encouragingly. "I had a brother, once, who was left-handed, and
he learned to use his right hand equally well. He drew beautifully, and
would often work with a pencil in each hand. Not only that, but I have
often seen him write with one hand and draw with the other."

"Isn't that wonderful?" exclaimed Cricket. "I'll begin to practise this
minute, Eunice, if you'll get me paper and pencil," she added, eagerly.

She worked busily for a few minutes, in silence, after the materials
were brought her.

"It looks exactly like Zaidee's writing," she said, at length, in
disgust, after her first few attempts. She wrote a firm, pretty hand for
a girl of her age, and these shaky, disjointed letters, sprawling across
the page,