She thought of Monica, who had boasted that she could never remember a day's illness in her life; Monica, strong and active, whose greatest joy was striding over her fields in all weathers; whose greatest penance was to sit still for any given time indoors; and who was now condemned by the doctor to be a cripple for life and never walk again. "Oh!" cried Sidney, raising her sweet face to the sky. "I wish it had been me. I wish I could bear it for her. I have no ties now, nothing to demand my health and strength, and I should be able to draw comfort from the One Monica does not know. I don't see how she will be able to endure. It's a terrible verdict." "Sidney, my dear, she is asking for you." Aunt Dannie broke in upon her musings, and as Sidney went upstairs in obedience to the summons, her heart was saying: "Oh, God, help me to help her. Do Thou help her Thyself." Monica lay on her bed, a wreck of her former self. She could not move without pain, but she tried to smile when she saw Sidney. "How soon shall I be about again?" she said. "The doctor looks so mysterious when I question him. Did he say anything to you this morning?" "It will be a long business, dear, we are afraid." Sidney spoke cheerfully, but her eyes could not meet Monica's. "Does he not think I am going to recover?" The words came like a pistol shot, so sharp and incisive they were. "Oh, yes—yes—you are getting on splendidly, but you have had a very severe attack, and it will take time." There was silence for a few minutes, then Monica said: "Chuckles must go to school as soon as possible. I meant him to go after Easter." "After the midsummer holidays will be time enough, dear. Jockie is teaching him and looking after him. He is very happy and good." "How long have I been ill?" "Six weeks." "And the hay. Has it all been saved?" "Not all," said Sidney evasively. "You really must not worry over anything just now, Monnie, or you will never get well." "But I can't continue to lie here," said Monica in feverish excitement. "I must be getting about to look after things." She tried to rise, but the excruciating pains in her limbs made her sink back amongst her pillows with a groan. Sidney tried to soothe and comfort her, but it was hard work. Monica made an exceedingly bad patient. And as her mind grew clearer and stronger, her irritability and impatience seemed to increase. Even Sidney felt a desire at times to go away and leave her to herself. No one had the courage to tell her of the doctor's gloomy fears. But as time went on, and she found that strength did not come to her crippled limbs, Monica began to have her dark hours of doubt. When she was well enough to be put into a wheeled chair, she was brought downstairs.