Elma's delicate brows were furrowed in her attempt to make out what Cornelia _did_ mean, and what she didn't! There was a note in her voice which did not ring true--a good-naturedly mocking note, which accorded ill with the words themselves. She blushed still deeper, and put on an air of wounded dignity. "I certainly am very far from well. My head feels so light and swimming. I should be very sorry to have to walk far at present. Coming upstairs just now tried me horribly." Cornelia clapped her hands in approval. "Capital! capital! Keep it at that, and you can't do better. Go slow, and don't try to mend all of a sudden. Even when you _do_ begin to buck up, in a day or two's time, the very sight of a horse will set you palpitating for all you're worth. You'll kind-er feel as if you'd rather crawl home on all fours than sit behind the steadiest old nag that was ever raised. It's three or four miles from home, isn't it, or maybe more--much too far for an invalid to attempt, for a week at least. Just a little saunter in the grounds will be all you're fit for this side Sunday, _with someone to support you carefully as you go_! ... You'll be apt to turn giddy if you go about alone. ... Have you gotten that nicely off by heart now, so you won't go forgetting at the wrong moments?" "Why should I forget? Surely my own feelings will be my best guide?" "Yes, 'um!" said Cornelia, demurely. She let her lids droop over her tell-tale eyes, and stood beside the couch for a long, eloquent moment, during which the flickering colour deepened on Elma's cheek; then turned aside, took down a book from a shelf, and settled herself comfortably on a wicker chair. "I guess we understand one another, and there's no more to be said. Now for one hour by the clock you've to shut your eyes and be quiet. Go to sleep if you can! I'll wake you up in time for the prinking."