"I don't think that is the trouble with Sally's; though of course I can't tell. But she's always had poor sight, and now that she has to support the family with her needle, her eyes are nearly worn out."
Sally had been for several minutes making vain attempts to thread a needle.
Elsie sprang to her side with a kindly, eager, "Let me do it, won't you?"
It was done in a trice and the girl thanked her with lips and eyes.
"It often takes me full five or ten minutes," she said, "and sometimes I have to get mother to do it for me."
"What a pity! it must be a great hindrance to your work."
"Yes, indeed, and my eyes ache so that I can seldom sew or read for more than an hour or two at a time. Ah, I'm afraid I'm going to lose my sight altogether."
The tone was inexpressibly mournful, and Elsie's eyes filled again.
"Don't fret about it," she said, "I think—I hope you can be cured."
The rain had nearly ceased, and Philip, saying the worst was over, and they were in danger of being late at dinner, hurried the girls into the phaeton.