A Little Girl in Old Chicago

by Amanda M. Douglas

"Almost two months."

"Two months! And the wheat—the corn—ruined! And what is the matter with my side? I can't move my leg. Why, I don't understand."

"You were hurt by a fall. You have been very ill with a fever. And now you are better. You are going to get well."

I leaned my head down on his shoulder and cried. I could not help it.

"Poor little girl!" he said. "Poor little girl!"

Then Dr. Carpenter came in, and I know he was greatly relieved.

"But we are not out of the woods!" He shook his head dubiously. "You can blow out your candle very easily, but with care you may burn it to the socket. Still you have had a mighty tight squeeze. And there must be no crying over him," shaking his finger at me.

"Except for joy," I retorted, wiping my eyes.

"I do begin to recall things, but I had no idea I had been ill so long. And my hip—my leg?"

"It was a very bad break. It hasn't gone on as we hoped, the fever was too much for it. But we think it will be all right in the end. It will be a winter's job, and call for a good deal of patience."