“Margaret, dear, I begin to like my lameness, I think.”
“Why, dear?”
“Why, just because God made it, and bade me bear it. May I not think it is a mark on me from his hand?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Why do you think it came on me?”
“To walk back to Him with, dear.”
“Yes, yes; I see it all.”
Until now, Margaret had not known to what a degree the lameness of Euphra had troubled her. That her pretty ancle should be deformed, and her light foot able only to limp, had been a source of real distress to her, even in the midst of far deeper.
The days passed on, and every day she grew weaker. She did not suffer much, but nothing seemed to do her good. Mrs. Elton was kindness itself. Harry was in dreadful distress. He haunted her room, creeping in whenever he had a chance, and sitting in corners out of the way. Euphra liked to have him near her. She seldom spoke to him, or to any one but Margaret, for Margaret alone could hear with ease what she said. But now and then she would motion him to her bedside, and say—it was always the same—
“Harry, dear, be good.”