"No, thank you, Betty," she says, in her weak, patient voice. But Betty sees that two large tears are rolling down her cheeks.
"O Lucy, you mustn't fret, that's ever so bad for you, and, besides, you're getting well so fast. Shall I read to you? You were very interested in some book just before you were taken ill—tell me where to find it."
"No, no, Betty, not that book; it's of—no—use—now." Lucy's lips quiver so painfully, that she can hardly pronounce the words, and she buries her face in her pillow.
"Lucy, don't! Oh, please, don't! I was horrid to you that day, and I've been sorry ever since. Do let me read, if it's only to make up a little."
Her arm around her sister's neck.
"But, Betty, it's of no use. I can never, never, never do it now. I heard the doctor tell mother this morning that I should always have to be careful, or I should be just as bad again, and—and—it's only really strong people who can do—what I wanted to do." Lucy's voice dies away into such a faint whisper that her sister can only just catch the last words.
"Do what?" asks Betty, in great surprise. Then, suddenly, an idea strikes her. "Ah! Lucy, were you studying for something all the time—not just reading to amuse yourself—were you learning about some work you wished to do?"
"Yes, Betty."