CHAPTER XLVII.
DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS.
Doctor Bayless had predicted aright. Leslie continued to gain slowly, and in the third week of her illness, she could sit erect in her bed for an hour or two each day, listening to Mamma’s congratulations, and recalling, one by one, her woes of the past. Not recalling them poignantly, with the sharp pain that would torture her when she should have gained fuller strength, but vaguely, with a haunting pang, as one remembers an unhappy dream.
Day by day, as strength came back, her listlessness gave place to painful thought. One day, sitting for the first time in a lounging-chair, procured at second-hand for her comfort, she felt that the time had come to break the silence which, since her first full awakening to consciousness, she had imposed upon herself.
Mamma was bustling about the room, inwardly longing to begin the passage-at-arms which she knew must soon ensue, and outwardly seeming solicitous for nothing save the comfort of her “dear girl.” As Leslie’s eyes followed her about, each seemed suddenly to have formed a like resolve.
“How many days have I been ill?” asked Leslie slowly, and languidly resting her head upon her hand.
Mamma turned toward her and seemed to meditate.
“How many days, my child? Ah, let us see. Why, it’s weeks since you came to us—two, yes, three weeks; three weeks and a day.”
Leslie was silent for a moment. Then she asked: