There were June roses and summer sunshine outside; and sweet breaths came in at the open windows, telling the time of year. Julia reported how fine the strawberries were, and went and came with words about walks and flowers and joyous doings; while Eleanor's room was darkened, and phials of medicine and glasses stood on the table, and the doctor went and carne, and Mrs. Powle hardly left her by day, and at night tile nurse slept, and Eleanor tossed and turned on her pillow and thought of another "night" that "cometh."
The struggle with fever and pain was over at last. Then came weakness; and though hope revived, fear would not die. Besides, Eleanor said to herself, though she should get entirely well of this sickness, who would guaranty her that another would not come? And must not one come—some time—that must be final? And how should that be met? Nay, though getting well again and out of present danger, she would have liked to have that armour of shelter still!
"What are you crying for?" said her little sister coming suddenly into her room one day. Eleanor was so far recovered as to be up.
"I am weak and nervous,—foolish."
"I wouldn't be foolish," said Julia.
"I do not think I am foolish," said Eleanor slowly.
"Then why do you say you are? But what is the matter with you?"
"Like all the rest of the world, child,—I want something I cannot get.
What have you there?"
"Ferns," said Julia. "Do you know what ferns are?"
"I suppose I do—when I see them."