re's a million pair of legs to that tune and every one of 'em can
dance. Play something without legs."

The utter ridiculousness of the complaint did not occur to Faith, but
with an unusual display of patience, she tried air after air, hoping to
find something which might satisfy the childish whim of the lame sister,
only to be rewarded at last by a peevish call, "You may as well give it
up, Faith. They've _all_ got legs."

The entire family was at their wits' end. No one had a sane suggestion
to offer, and their hosts of friends were in the same predicament. When
it seemed as if something must surely give way under the strain, Peace
suddenly subsided into a state of utter indifference to her
surroundings, more alarming to her loved ones than had been her peevish,
unreasonable demands. Nothing interested her, books she loathed,
conversation bored her, neighborly calls from her dearest friends
wearied her, she no longer yearned for the sunshine and flowers of the
garden; indeed, she showed no desire to be out-of-doors at all, but lay
day after day in the wheel-chair by the balcony window, staring with
somber, unseeing eyes out over the river. Nothing family or friends
could do roused her from her apathy, and despair descended upon the
household. Must this little life which they loved so dearly fade away
before their eyes, and they helpless to prevent?

"O, Donald," sobbed Mrs. Campbell, clinging desperately to her husband's
strong arm, "I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it! She takes it so hard!
It is torture to watch her suffer so. Our precious Peace!"

"If only her St. Elizabeth could come to her!" sighed the baffled
President.

But it was not her beloved saint of the parsonage who saved the day. It
was her Lilac Lady, now sleeping under the sod of the wind-kissed
hillside, and Aunt Pen was her messenger.

It was a breathless, sultry afternoon in late summer when the
sweet-faced matron of Oak Knoll turned in at the President's gate and
sought out the invalid lying motionless under the oak trees where the
fierce heat had driven her. The little face among the pillows was no
longer rosy and round; blue veins showed at the temples, the lips were
colorless, the eyes hollow; the hands, once so brown and strong, were
thin and waxy-white; the whole body lay inert,--lifeless, it seemed; and
a pang of fear gripped the gentle heart brooding so tenderly over the
poor wrecked life.

"Are you asleep, darling?" she whispered so