She was thankful to find a subject of interest in these long days of convalescence to keep her patient's mind from dwelling on depressing topics. Truth to tell, Sylvia was not getting well so quickly as had been expected, and besides more serious drawbacks there were minor troubles, trying enough to the girlish mind. She had to learn to walk again, like a baby, her back ached so badly that if she tried to stoop she screamed aloud with pain, and, worse than all, the plaits of hair grew small and beautifully less, until there was hardly anything left to plait. Sylvia had been proud of her hair, so she grew alarmed, and finally sent off in haste for her special barber to give advice and consolation in the difficulty. Consolation was not forthcoming, however, and the advice offered was by no means acceptable. "You can't do nothing--there's nothing will be a bit of good," the man said dolefully. "Whatever you do, it's bound to come. The wisest thing would be to be shaved at once, and give it a start." Sylvia fairly screamed with horror and consternation. "Shaved!" she cried. "I? I go about with a bald head--a horrible, bare, shiny scalp! I'd rather die! I'd rather--I'd rather--I'd rather anything in the world! It's no use talking to me, Whitey; I will--not-- be shaved!" "Very well, dear," assented Whitey easily. "Then you shan't. We will just have a few inches cut off, and get a lotion to rub in to help the growth. I daresay the old hair will keep on until the new appears, and then you need never have the horrible experience of seeing a bald head." "I never should see it in any case. I'd buy a wig and wear it night and day. Nothing would induce me to look in the glass when it was off. I should never respect myself again. And oh, Whitey, even at the best the new hair will be ages growing, and it will be impossible to do anything with it!" "Not at all. You can wear it short and curly. It would look very pretty, and suit you so well." Whitey was aggressively cheerful, but Sylvia refused to be comforted. "It would be hateful. I don't know anything more dejected-looking than to see the back of a shorn head under a pretty hat. I won't _allow_ my hair to fall out, and that's the end of it!" "Well, p'r'aps it won't, after all, miss! We must 'ope for the best," said the barber cheerfully. He and Whitey talked incessantly all the time the hair-cutting was proceeding, with the fond hope of distracting the girl's attention; but in naughty mood she refused to listen, insisted on sitting directly in front of her glass, and was rewarded for her pains by catching a glimpse of a bald spot on the crown of her head, which put the finishing touch of depression. When the doctor arrived for his morning visit, he found a most melancholy patient, and held a serious consultation with nurse on the staircase before departing.