“Oh, she will have to know after a while, but—not as long as we can keep it from her!” There was silence for a minute or two. “Well, we will wait and see. I will not speak to her till you shall give me leave to do so.”
Then there were a few grave questions, and a few quiet replies; and then the doctor said,—
“Take courage, Eunice! I would say to almost any one else, ‘There is no cause for anxiety.’ But having known so well the last years of your grandmother’s life, I can hardly say you have nothing to fear from the disease that was fatal to her; but I do say that, as far as I can judge from your present condition, you may reasonably hope for a good many years of comfortable health. You should have spoken to me sooner, and spared yourself a time of anxiety.”
He did not see the look of relief on which he had counted—at least he did not see it for a moment.
“Thank you, Dr Everett,” she said at last. “And now nothing need be said to Fidelia.”
“Why do you fear for Fidelia? Your sister is braver and stronger than you think.”
“Oh, I think she is brave and strong! It is not that. But I want her to have two or three untroubled years before the work of her life begins; and then—”
“And what is the work of her life to be? Is she to choose it for herself, or is it to be chosen for her, as your work has been? Eunice, don’t you think you may be too tender with your sister? Don’t you think that the Lord has her and her life in His keeping, and that you need not take that burden on you?”
Eunice smiled. “We are bidden to ‘bear one another’s burdens,’ you know.”
“Yes; and we are told that ‘every one shall bear his own burden.’ You cannot shield your sister from all the troubles of life, and it is not well that she should be so shielded. However, all this will keep for another time; and I am more than thankful that there is nothing specially painful to tell her now.” And then he asked—“Will you come down with me, as I promised the girls you should?”