Neither contradicting nor arguing, I repeated to Miss Johnston the imperative necessity for her attending to my' orders: adding that I had known more than one case of a person being made a cripple for life by neglecting such an injury as hers.
“A cripple for life!” She started—her color came and went—her eye wandered to the chair beside her, on which was her little writing-case; I conclude that in the intervals of her pain she had been trying to send these ill news, or to apply for help to some one.
“You will be lame for life,” I repeated, “unless you take care.”
“Shall I now?”
“No—with reasonable caution I trust you will do well.”
“That is enough. Do not trouble yourself any more about me. Pray go back to my father.”.
She turned from me and closed her eyes. There was nothing more to be done with Miss Penelope. Calling a servant who stood by, I gave my last orders concerning her, and departed. A strange person—this elder sister. What differences of character exist in families!
There was no change in my other patient. As I stood looking at him, his daughter glided round to my side. We exchanged a glance only—she seemed quite to understand that talking was inadmissible. Then she stood by me, silently gazing.
“You are sure there is no change?”
“None.”