"No, I won't," said Marion, bravely winking away the tears. "I don't see what makes me such a cry-baby."
"It's because you are so weak," said Betsy, with sympathy. "When I was sick, I cried because mother gave Bob an orange and wouldn't let me have any."
"It isn't only that, but—I'll tell you all about it, only you mustn't tell any one," said Marion; "or don't you care about hearing my worries?"
"Of course I do," answered Betsy, flattered by the proposal and seating herself on Marion's footstool.
"Well, I shouldn't mind, only you see I don't get any better, at least very little, and I can't help thinking how dreadful it would be if I should never be any better—if I should be confined to my bed or my chair for ever, like poor Miss Phelps in Rock Bottom, you know."
"Oh, Marion, you mustn't think of anything so dreadful," said Betsy, jumping up and putting her arms round Marion's neck. "I don't wonder you do, though."
"I know I ought not to borrow trouble, and I don't mean to do it," continued Marion; "but when my back aches at night and I can't sleep, or when I am alone a good while, it will come over me. Just think! Never to walk any more for ever!"
"It wouldn't be for ever, you know," whispered Betsy, holding Marion in a very close embrace.
"No, I know that. But twenty, or even ten, years isn't a very pleasant prospect."
"But, Marion, I don't believe there is any danger, do you?"