for deliverance, setting forth pathetic girlish
arguments why she should be spared the coming trial. When the thought
arose of many others younger than herself who were leading maimed lives,
she thrust the memory aside as something which could not be faced, and
her lips refused to utter the words which she had been taught to affix
to her petitions. "`Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done.' I
can't say it, Lord. I can't mean it!" she cried tremblingly. "Not yet!
Forgive me, and be patient with me. I'm so frightened!" and even as
the prayer went up, the assurance came into her soul that the Heavenly
Father would understand, and show towards her the divinest of sympathy
and patience.

For some reason which she would have found difficult to explain to
herself Sylvia felt an intense disinclination to let her attendants know
what she had overheard. She perceived that they were more than usually
tender towards herself, and they on their part were puzzled by the quiet
of the once restless patient. She grumbled no more about small
unpleasantnesses--oh, how small they seemed! She was content to lie
still and think her own thoughts, and seemed to have lost all interest
in the ordinary events of the day.

Only once in the twenty-four hours did a smile light up the set face,
and that was when Bridgie O'Shaughnessy appeared for her afternoon
visit, and seated herself by the bedside. On one of these occasions, a
week after the surgeon's first visit, Whitey went out for, her daily
walk, and Sylvia watched her go and peered anxiously round the screen to
make sure that the door was really shut. Then she stretched out her
hand, and gripped Bridgie by the wrist. It was a very thin, feeble-
looking hand, but the grip had nothing feeble about it--it was almost
painful in its strength, and the brown eyes had a glazed misery of
expression which made Bridgie tremble at the thought of what was to
come.

"Bridget O'Shaughnessy, you call yourself my friend. Will you tell me
the truth?"

"I'll not promise that, me dear. I'll not deceive you about anything if
I can help it, but you are an invalid, and there are some questions
which you should not ask me. Only the doctor should answer them."

But Sylvia went on with her story as if she had not heard the protest.

"The other morning Sir Alfred Heap came to see my foot. He said very
little about it to me, and after examining it, went out of the room to
consult with Dr Hor