"Well," Magdalen went on, "this little girl had no brothers or sisters, and though her father and mother were very kind to her she was sometimes rather lonely. And she often wished for other children to play with her. It happened one winter that she got ill--I am not sure what the illness was--measles, or something like that, it wasn't anything very, very bad, but still she was ill enough to be several days quite in bed, and several more partly in bed, and even after that a good many more before she could get up early to breakfast as usual, and do her lessons and run about in the garden, and play like _well_ children. She didn't much mind being ill, not as much as you would, I don't think. For, you see, except just for the few days that she felt weak and giddy and really ill, staying in bed didn't seem to make very much difference to her, indeed in some ways it was rather nicer. She had lots of storybooks to read--several of her friends sent her presents of new ones--and certainly more dainty things to eat than when she was well--" "Delly?" said Hec. "Duke and me had delly when we was ill." "Yes," said Maudie, "last winter Hec and Duke had the _independent_ fever, and they had to have jelly and beef-tea and things like that to make them strong again." "Yes," said Magdalen, "that was why Lena--I forgot to tell you that that was the little girl's name--that was why they gave all those nice things to little Lena. But the worst of it was she didn't like them nearly as much as when she was well, and she often wished they would give her just common things, bread and butter and rice-pudding, you know, when she was ill, and keep all the very nice things for a treat when she was well and could enjoy them. She was getting well, of course; by the time it comes to thinking about what you have to eat, children generally are getting well; but she was rather slow about it, and even when she was up and about again as usual, she didn't _feel_ or look a bit like usual. She was thin and white, and whatever she did tired her. Something queer seemed to have come over all her dolls and toys; they had all grown stupid in some tiresome way, and when she tried to sew, which she was generally rather clever at, all her fingers seemed to have turned into thumbs." "How dedful," said Hoodie, stretching out her two chubby hands and gravely gazing at them. "All zumbs wouldn't look pretty at all. I hope mine won't never be like that if I get ill." "My dear Hoodie," said Magdalen, as soon as she could speak for laughing. "I didn't mean it that way. Not _really_. I just meant that her fingers had got clumsy, you know, with her being weak and ill. It is just a way of speaking." "Oh!" said Hoodie, rather mystified still, "I'm glad them wasn't _zeally_ all zumbs." "Only, Hoodie, I _do_ wish"--began Maudie, but Magdalen went on before she had time to finish her sentence.