"But—but, Sister,—not all of your story is true. I was cross and cranky and screamed when the pain was bad; and I couldn't think of anyone but that dreadful man with the long knives, or of those silly little birds with yellow ribbons around their necks. No wonder Uncle teases me about yellow."
"But, Mary, you were not yourself for many, many days. Do you remember the morning I told you that you must fight to get well? I had good reason to regret that advice; for instead of fighting the illness, you used those little fists on everyone who came near you. When your uncle tried to listen to your lungs, you struck out so well that your mother and I had to hold your hands——"
"Why, Sister, you don't mean that!"
"Indeed I do! I shall not soon forget the time you caught the Doctor's head between your hands. My! what a boxing you gave his poor ears!"
"Sister!—I—boxed—Uncle's—ears!—O Sister!" and Mary buried her burning face in the pillow.
"But, darling, that is nothing to be ashamed of. You did not know what you were doing. We expected worse things than that."
"Worse than boxing poor, dear Uncle's ears? Could anything be worse than that?" came the muffled question.
"Indeed, yes, Mary."
"But, Sister," Mary sat up, "surely not when you think of how awful he looked that night. Poor Father looked oh, so tired! But Uncle—I didn't know him until he smiled in his eyes."
"Did you know him when he was in here a few minutes ago, dear?"