ow able to sit up and work and read; head and eyes had come
back to their normal condition, but the treacherous disease had left its
poison in foot and ankle, and the pain on movement became more and more
acute. It required all the cheer that the new friend could give to
hearten the invalid when once more she was sent back to counterpane
land, with a big cage over the affected part to protect it from the
bedclothes, and all manner of painful and exhausting dressings to be
undergone.

Sylvia fumed, and grumbled, and whined; she grew sulky and refused to
speak; she waxed angry and snapped at the nurse. Worst of all, she lost
hope, and shed slow, bitter tears, which scalded the thin cheeks.

"I shall never get better, Whitey," she sobbed miserably. "I shan't
try; it's too much trouble. You might as well leave me alone to die in
peace."

"It's not a question of dying, my dear. It's a question of healing your
foot. If I leave you in peace, you may be lame for life. How would you
like that?" said Whitey bluntly. She knew her patient by this time, and
understood that while the idea of fading away in her youth might appear
sufficiently romantic, Miss Sylvia would find nothing attractive in the
prospect of limping ungracefully through life. The dressings and
bandagings were endured meekly enough after that, but the girl's heart
was full of dread, and the long dark days were hard to bear.

It became a rule that, instead of taking the meal alone, Bridgie
O'Shaughnessy should come across the road to tea, and sit an hour in the
sick-room while Whitey wrote letters or went out for a constitutional.
She came with hands full of photographs and letters and family trophies,
to give point to her conversation, and make her dear ones live in
Sylvia's imagination.

One day there was a picture of the old home--such a venerable and
imposing building that Aunt Margaret, beholding it, felt her last
suspicions of counterfeit coining die a natural death, and gave
instructions to Mary that the second-best tea-things were to be taken
upstairs whenever Miss O'Shaughnessy was present. Sylvia was impressed
too, but thought it very sad that anyone who had lived in a castle
should come down to Number Three, Rutland Road. She delicately hinted
as much, and Bridgie said--

"Yes, it would be hard if we took it seriously, but we don't. It's just
like being in seaside lodgings, when the smallnesses and inconveniences
make part of the fun.