“I opened my door and glided noiselessly down stairs. I passed Aunt Marion’s door. Grandmamma was kneeling by the bed, and Uncle Bell stood at the window with his back towards me. Fairy was whining at the door of the sick room. The front door was open; there came in a fresh smell of pure air and new hay from outside, and I heard a laugh from the lawn. A face—one, two, three, Nellie’s, Robbie’s, Willie’s—appeared. There were smiles and tears both on them, and in joyful tones, they poured into my ear the good tidings, ‘Cora is better.’
“So she was. In a week we gathered about her as she reclined in her chair, pale and quiet, and we brought her June roses, June cherries, and young, downy June chickens to inspect—enchanted at winning a smile, and ready to run at her slightest bidding.
“But the lesson taught me through pain and suspense lasted all the time of my stay there; and patience and self-denial, with a whole train of good feelings, came out of Cora’s illness and suffering.
“She, too, was changed. When winter came, and I went to boarding-school, we bade each other good-bye with real sorrow, and we have continued friends all the years of our life.
“I think neither of us will ever forget the spilt cream, the picnic, and the little silk apron.”
CHAPTER XIV.
“Oh, Miss Lane, is that all?” cried the children. “Please tell us the rest. What became of Willie? and did your papa come back?”