"Ah, well, tidiness is a gift. It runs in the family like wooden legs. Some have got it, and others haven't, so they must just be resigned to their fate. I'm going to see these repp covers, though! I'll wheedle and wheedle until one cover comes off after another, and never feel that I have done credit to Old Ireland until I get down to the foundation." She rose from her chair, and held out a hand in farewell. "Nurse said I was to stay only a few minutes, as you were tired already, but I may come to tea another day if you would like to have me." "Oh, do, please! Come often! You can't think how I should love it. Will you come for a drive with me some day, when it is bright and sunny?" "I will. We could have a nice chat as we went along. I have not told you about my sisters yet. I have the dearest sisters in the world!" said Bridgie O'Shaughnessy. CHAPTER THREE. FAMILY PORTRAITS. Bright and sunny days are not common in November, but the invalid managed to go out driving in such fine blinks as came along, and in each instance "Angelina" was seated by her side. The friendship was progressing with giant strides, and doctor and nurse looked upon Bridgie O'Shaughnessy as their greatest assistant in a period of great anxiety. Sylvia was now able to sit up and work and read; head and eyes had come back to their normal condition, but the treacherous disease had left its poison in foot and ankle, and the pain on movement became more and more acute. It required all the cheer that the new friend could give to hearten the invalid when once more she was sent back to counterpane land, with a big cage over the affected part to protect it from the bedclothes, and all manner of painful and exhausting dressings to be undergone. Sylvia fumed, and grumbled, and whined; she grew sulky and refused to speak; she waxed angry and snapped at the nurse. Worst of all, she lost hope, and shed slow, bitter tears, which scalded the thin cheeks. "I shall never get better, Whitey," she sobbed miserably. "I shan't try; it's too much trouble. You might as well leave me alone to die in peace." "It's not a question of dying, my dear. It's a question of healing your foot. If I leave you in peace, you may be lame for life. How would you like that?" said Whitey bluntly. She knew her patient by this time, and understood that while the idea of fading away in her youth might appear sufficiently romantic, Miss Sylvia would find nothing attractive in the prospect of limping ungracefully through life. The dressings and bandagings were endured meekly enough after that, but the girl's heart was full of dread, and the long dark days were hard to bear.