"I had such a strange, sweet dream," said Patty, her eyes shining. "I think it must have been my dream that waked me."
"What was it, love?" But Patty was silent. "You don't want to tell me your dream, little daughter?"
"I think I'd rather not, mother, if you don't mind."
"No, I don't mind."
"Well, then, I won't tell it."
Patty's mother had no dream of her own to tell, for she had hardly slept a single one of the many hours between dark and dawn. Many of them she had spent on her knees beside her bed, pouring out her heart in prayer for her darling who was, with the returning day, to undergo a painful and dangerous surgical operation.
For days Patty herself had been in a sad state of nervousness and depression; it had been necessary, for certain reasons, that she should know what was before her, and though she bore up bravely for her years, it could not but be to her like entering a dark cloud.
And yet there was the smile on her lips and the light in her eye, though the hour of trial had come!
The weeks slipped away, each one leaving little Patty stronger than it found her, and nearer to the end of her prison-life behind window panes. For the great trial was safely passed, and the surgeon said one reason that the little girl came so safely through it, without fever or inflammation of any sort, was that she was so quiet and brave, and didn't excite or fret herself.
When Patty heard these praises she only smiled and said, "That's my secret." Though she did not ask, Patty's mother sometimes wondered what she meant and why she would not tell her secret.