When the first stage of my illness was passed, poor mamma, completely worn out, would often leave me to the care of Mammy or Jane; with numerous directions to see that I took whatever had been left for me by Doctor Irwin. I always liked to have Jane with me, for I loved her; and the medicine never seemed to taste so bad when she gave it to me. She had various ways of smoothing this disagreeable duty; and one night when I had been rather obstreperous, she cut a pill in two and took half, by way of keeping me company; saying as she swallowed it that "perhaps it might do her some good." When I became well enough to leave my bed I sat in a nice easy-chair drawn close up to the window, from whence I could see the early flowers that were now blooming in full beauty in the garden below, while some amusing book rested on my lap. I remember that they brought me the very first strawberries that ripened; and the neighbors were so kind that many a well-relished delicacy was sent in "for Mrs. Chesbury's sick child."
I was just able to run about, but still looking very pale and thin, when Aunt Henshaw arrived on a visit. "What!" exclaimed she, "can this be the madcap, Amy? Why, you look like a ghost, child! What in the world have you been doing to yourself—studying too hard?"
The old lady possessed no great powers of penetration, and not being sufficiently discerning to distinguish between the love of reading and the love of study, she concluded, from seeing me often with a book in my hand, that I was quite a studious character. Aunt Henshaw remained a week or two; and though not exactly sick, I remained thin and drooping, and seemed to get no stronger as the season advanced. The state of my health was canvassed over and over again in the family circle; and one day, when they were all gazing upon me with anxious solicitude, and remarking upon my pale cheeks, Aunt Henshaw observed: "She needs a change of air, poor child! She must go home with me."
CHAPTER X.
I was quite surprised at the effect which this remark produced. Although an only daughter, I had never been much caressed at home—I was always so troublesome that they loved me best at a distance. If I happened to get into the library with my father, I was sure to upset the inkstand, or shake the table where he sat writing—or if admitted to my mother's apartment, I made sad havoc with her work-basket, and was very apt to clip up cut out articles with my little scissors—which said scissors I regarded with the greatest affection; in the first place because they were my own private property, and in the next place, they afforded me the delightful pleasure of clipping—that great enjoyment of childhood; but they did so much mischief that complaints against them were loud and long, and I quite trembled at an oft-repeated threat of taking them away.
My mother evidently disapproved of Aunt Henshaw's proposal, and my father drawing me towards him affectionately, said: "I am afraid we could not part with our little madcap—we should miss her noise sadly."
The idea of being missed, and actually made a subject of argument, was something quite new to me; and glancing in surprise from one to the other, I awaited the issue in silence, scarcely knowing whether I wished to go or stay. But Aunt Henshaw carried her point. She represented so many advantages to be gained by the change, where I could run about quite wild, rolling among the fresh hay, and breathing the pure air—insisting that it must bring a color into my pale cheeks—that my parents at length yielded.