e midst of it; I hear them
every day warbling so happily. Do you think they ever wonder why I
never come--why I never dance up and down the garden walks and spend
hours with them and the flowers as I did last year? And the sea,
Edith--some nights, when the wind is sleeping and not a leaf stirring
on the trees, I can hear the waves crooning a low, sweet song as they
wash along the wide beach of sand. They also seem to be calling me out
into their midst; and I--O Edith, I cannot come."

There was a passionate ring of pain in the voice, and the look of
unrest had given place to one of intense yearning. Edith's tears fell
fast as she laid her head down on the pillow beside her little sister
and pressed warm kisses on the quivering lips.

"Little Winnie," she whispered, "don't you think it is hard, hard for
us to see you lying suffering here? Oh, my dear, can't you guess how
we miss your little dancing figure, and your bright, merry chatter?
Our hearts are sore for you, dearest, in your pain and weariness, and
we would sacrifice anything to be able to raise you up strong and well
soon. But we cannot; and, oh, little sister, try to wait patiently a
little longer."

"You say that every day, Edith," answered the child pettishly. "It is
always the old, old story--wait a little longer; and when you speak in
that strain a great fear creeps into my heart and won't be shut out. I
try not to listen; I think upon other things; I tell it to go away, but
it still remains. Edith, O Edith! tell me that some day I shall stand
up strong and well; tell me quick, quick, for something whispers that
will never be."

"Nonsense, dear!" faltered the elder sister; "you must not become
fanciful. In a short time I hope to see you quite better."

"You don't say you are perfectly certain, Edith," cried Winnie, still
suspicious, "and you look at anything rather than me. I believe my
fear is too true; and if so, how shall I live through the long, long
years?"

Edith hardly knew how to reply. "Hush, Winnie, hush!" she began
pleadingly; "you are rushing to rash conclusions. And only think,
dear, we have you, though weak and helpless, spared to us still. What
if you had died?"

"I wish I had," replied the girl wildly; "I would far rather lie
quietly under the daisies than live a long, long crippled life. Oh, to
think I shall never again run races on the sandy shore, and laugh when
the little waves splash my feet; never pluck the wild