own and soften the harsh details of
bodily suffering; everything was in spotless order; the sheets were white
as the driven snow; a formidable phalanx of medicine-bottles stood on the
small square table; there were no books, no pictures, no flowers; a
sampler hung over the mantelpiece, that was all. I saw Mr. Hamilton
glance disapprovingly at the row of bottles.

'I told Kitty to clear all that rubbish away,' he said curtly. 'Why do
you not have something pleasanter to look at, Phoebe?--some flowers, or
a canary? you would find plenty of amusement in watching a canary.'

'Birds are never still for a moment; they would drive me mad,' returned
Phoebe, in the hollow tones that seemed natural to her. 'Flowers are
better; but what have I to do with flowers? Doctor,' her voice rising
into a shrill crescendo, 'you must give me something to send me to sleep,
or I shall go mad. I think, think, think, until my head is in a craze
with pain and misery.'

'Well, well, we will see about it,' humouring her as though she were a
child. 'Will you not speak to this lady, Phoebe? She has come down here
to help us all,--sick people, and unhappy people, and every one that
wants help.'

'She can't do anything for me,' muttered Phoebe restlessly; 'no one--not
even you, doctor, can do anything for me. I am doomed,--doomed before my
time.'

Mr. Hamilton looked at me meaningly, as though to say, 'Now you see what
you have to do: this is more your work than mine.' I obeyed the hint, and
accosted the sick woman as cheerfully as though her dismal speech had not
curdled my blood.

'I hope I shall be some comfort to you; it is hard indeed if no one can
help you, when you have so much to bear!'

'To bear!' repeating my words as though they stung her. 'I have lain here
for three years--three years come Christmas Eve, doctor--between these
four walls, summer and winter, winter and summer, and never knew except
by heat or cold what season of the year it was. And I am young,--just
turned four-and-thirty,--and I may lie here thirty years more, unless
I die or go mad.'

'Now, Phoebe,' remonstrated Mr. Hamilton,--and how gently he
spoke!--'have I not told you over and over that things may mend yet if
you will only be patient and good? You are just making things worse by
bearing them so badly. Why, a friend of mine has been seven years on her
back like you, and she is the happiest, cheeriest body: it is quite a
pleasure to go into her room.'

'Mayb