"My poor little Winnie!" replied the young lady, smoothing the pained lines from the invalid's brow with soft, gentle touch. But the child had not yet finished.
"Edith," she continued, a wild, haunting look of unrest stealing into her eyes, "I am so tired lying here day after day. I want to be out in the sunshine with the birds and the flowers. Tell me, when shall I be able to walk in the sunlight once more?"
Edith's face was wet with tears. "Try to be patient, dear," she said in a somewhat broken voice; "one does not recover very quickly from an illness such as yours."
Winnie seemed dissatisfied. "You don't look me straight in the face when you speak, Edith, and your voice has a little tremble in it. Hush! hear how the birds are singing! They know I dearly love the sunshine, and are calling me out into the midst of it; I hear them every day warbling so happily. Do you think they ever wonder why I never come—why I never dance up and down the garden walks and spend hours with them and the flowers as I did last year? And the sea, Edith—some nights, when the wind is sleeping and not a leaf stirring on the trees, I can hear the waves crooning a low, sweet song as they wash along the wide beach of sand. They also seem to be calling me out into their midst; and I—O Edith, I cannot come."
There was a passionate ring of pain in the voice, and the look of unrest had given place to one of intense yearning. Edith's tears fell fast as she laid her head down on the pillow beside her little sister and pressed warm kisses on the quivering lips.
"Little Winnie," she whispered, "don't you think it is hard, hard for us to see you lying suffering here? Oh, my dear, can't you guess how we miss your little dancing figure, and your bright, merry chatter? Our hearts are sore for you, dearest, in your pain and weariness, and we would sacrifice anything to be able to raise you up strong and well soon. But we cannot; and, oh, little sister, try to wait patiently a little longer."
"You say that every day, Edith," answered the child pettishly. "It is always the old, old story—wait a little longer; and when you speak in that strain a great fear creeps into my heart and won't be shut out. I try not to listen; I think upon other things; I tell it to go away, but it still remains. Edith, O Edith! tell me that some day I shall stand up strong and well; tell me quick, quick, for something whispers that will never be."
"Nonsense, dear!" faltered the elder sister; "you must not become fanciful. In a short time I hope to see you quite better."
"You don't say you are perfectly certain, Edith," cried Winnie, still suspicious, "and you look at anything rather than me. I believe my fear is too true; and if so, how shall I live through the long, long years?"
Edith hardly knew how to reply. "Hush, Winnie, hush!" she began pleadingly; "you are rushing to rash conclusions. And only think, dear, we have you, though weak and helpless, spared to us still. What if you had died?"