Doctor Campbell attended on her, but made no allusion to the subject which he knew was filling her mind. He saw that she was passing through a great and severe struggle, but he thought she would fight it out better without any human interference. He was right.
Marion was fighting a battle with her old self-will, possibly, too, with her old desire of doing some great thing which should reflect honour on herself.
At last, one morning, she called the doctor into her room. She told him all her desires and all her hindrances, concealing nothing and answering all the doctor's trying questions as honestly as she knew how. The examination was a close and searching one, and the doctor's decision is recorded in the first part of this chapter:
"It won't do, Marion. I am very sorry both for your sake and that of the cause, but I dare not give you any encouragement."
It was no wonder that Marion cried bitterly. She wept for no light affliction. It was a sore trial to give up her cherished plan, to have made herself ready for a race, and then to be forbidden to run.
Doctor Campbell stood by in silence. He saw that her grief was very great, and he did not try to administer comfort till the first violence of it should have spent itself.
"I hope I am not self-willed," said Marion, at last, through her tears. "I don't mean to be."
"I don't think you are, my child."
"It isn't only giving up this particular work," said Marion, after another pause, during which she was trying to regain her composure. "But it seems so dreadful to have to be an invalid all my life, just good for nothing."
"It is sad to be an invalid, certainly," replied Doctor Campbell; "but I don't think you have that to fear. If you are careful to avoid needless exposure and over-exertion, I think you may keep very comfortable. Moreover, if you were a good deal of an invalid, you need not be useless on that account. A great deal of the best work of the world has been done by invalids."