"A dull prospect, is it not?" said Percy, with a faint smile, reading the expression of his companion's eye. "I think that there is nothing but dull prospects for me," and he looked sadly down at his swathed foot.
"Oh no! You will get all right again," replied Willy cheerfully.
"Never, never! O Willy! You do not know what a terrible trial is hanging over me. The surgeon examined this poor foot yesterday. He said that the mischief was increasing; that there was but one remedy left—that I must submit to amputation."
"What is that?" inquired Willy anxiously.
"That my foot must be cut off! Is it not dreadful?" continued Percy, observing Willy's look of horror.
"Most dreadful! But is it really necessary is there no other way of curing you?"
"Alas! No other way. The surgeon is coming to-morrow. O Willy!" exclaimed Percy, with a sudden passionate burst of grief, "I am so wretched, so wretched—and you are the only one to whom I can speak freely—who will understand me, feel for me! My uncle I see little of, and he is so firm himself, he would only despise me if I poured out my heart to him and told him that I was afraid—but I am afraid, Willy, horribly afraid, my whole soul revolts from what is before me. I would give worlds to escape it!" And he buried his pale face in his hands.
Willy looked at him with silent sympathy, he could only feel for him, he knew not how to console. As he was trying to think of some words of comfort, Percy raised his head, and rapidly proceeded: "My uncle has just left me displeased. O Willy! He is not like your dear old uncle!—displeased because I had ventured to church to-day. He said that it was absurd and imprudent in a boy who had to undergo such an operation to-morrow to wear out his strength to-day—and perhaps he was right. But, Willy, I could not stay, I could not spend the long morning here alone in this gloomy room, with nothing to think of but the agony before me! I thought that if I were to find comfort anywhere it must be in church—and when I saw you and Tom it seemed a little gleam of joy. Oh! You cannot think how my heart sank when I fancied that you had forgotten me!"
"It seemed as if the sermon had been made expressly for you," observed Willy.
"I have been repeating the text over and over to myself, 'Wait on the Lord, be of good courage; wait, I say, on the Lord!' But, Willy, I seem to have no strength at all—pain and want of sleep have taken it all away. I cannot endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. I am ashamed of my own weakness, but I cannot help it."