“My dear,” said Martha, “which of us two ought to be the better nurse? You never saw your uncle ill; I've nursed him at death's door!” “Then you don't think he is angry with me, Martha?” I said, humbled before myself. “Was he ever angry with you, Orbie? What is there to be angry about? I never saw him even displeased with you!” I had not realized that my uncle was suffering--only that he was disabled; now the fact flashed upon me, and with it the perception that I had been thinking only of myself: I was fast ceasing to care for him! And then, horrible to tell! a flash of joy went through me, that he would not be home that day, and therefore I _could_ not tell him anything! The moment Martha left me I threw myself on the floor of the desert room. I was in utter misery. “Gladly would I bear every pang of his pain,” I said to myself; “yet I have not asked one question about his accident! He must be in danger, or he would not have sent for Martha instead of me!” How had the thing happened, I wondered. Had Death fallen with him--perhaps on him? He was such a horseman, I could not think he had been thrown. Besides, Death was a good horse who loved his master--dearly, I was sure, and would never have thrown him or let him fall! A great gush of the old love poured from the fountain in my heart: sympathy with the horse had unsealed it. I sprang from the floor, and ran down to entreat Martha to take me with her: if my uncle did not want me, I could return with Dick! But she was gone. Even the sound of her wheels was gone. I had lain on the floor longer than I knew. I went back to the study a little relieved. I understood now that I was not glad he was disabled; that I was anything but glad he was suffering; that I had only been glad for an instant that the crisis of my perplexity was postponed. In the meantime I should see John Day, who would help me to understand what I ought to do! Very strange were my feelings that afternoon in the lonely house. I had always felt it lonely when Martha, never when my uncle was out. Yet when my uncle was in, I was mostly with him, and seldom more than a few minutes at a time with Martha. Our feelings are odd creatures! Now that both were away, there was neither time nor space in my heart for feeling the house desolate; while the world outside was rich as a treasure-house of mighty kings. The moment I was a little more comfortable with myself, my thoughts went in a flock to the face that looked over the garden-wall, to the man that watched me while I slept, the man that wrote that lovely letter. Inside was old Penny with her broom: she took advantage of every absence to sweep or scour or dust; outside was John Day, and the roses of the wilderness! He was waiting the hour to come to me, wondering how I would receive him!