Part 13 (1/2)

We will hurry over this time, for it is hard to think of our bright Katy in such a sad plight. By and by the pain grew less, and the sleep quieter. Then, as the pain became easier still, Katy woke up as it were--began to take notice of what was going on about her; to put questions.

”How long have I been sick?” she asked one morning.

”It is four weeks yesterday,” said Papa.

”Four weeks!” said Katy. ”Why, I didn't know it was so long as that. Was I very sick, Papa?”

”Very, dear. But you are a great deal better now.”

”How did I hurt me when I tumbled out of the swing?” asked Katy, who was in an unusually wakeful mood.

”I don't believe I could make you understand, dear.”

”But try, Papa!”

”Well--did you know that you had a long bone down your back, called a spine?”

”I thought that was a disease,” said Katy. ”Clover said that Cousin Helen had the spine!”

”No--the spine is a bone. It is made up of a row of smaller bones--or k.n.o.bs--and in the middle of it is a sort of rope of nerves called the spinal cord. Nerves, you know, are the things we feel with. Well, this spinal cord is rolled up for safe keeping in a soft wrapping, called membrane. When you fell out of the swing, you struck against one of these k.n.o.bs, and bruised the membrane inside, and the nerve inflamed, and gave you a fever in the back. Do you see?”

”A little,” said Katy, not quite understanding, but too tired to question farther. After she had rested a while, she said: ”Is the fever well now, Papa? Can I get up again and go down stairs right away?”

”Not right away, I'm afraid,” said Dr. Carr, trying to speak cheerfully.

Katy didn't ask any more questions then. Another week pa.s.sed, and another. The pain was almost gone. It only came back now and then for a few minutes. She could sleep now, and eat, and be raised in bed without feeling giddy. But still the once active limbs hung heavy and lifeless, and she was not able to walk, or even stand alone.

”My legs feel so queer,” she said one morning, ”they are just like the Prince's legs which were turned to black marble in the Arabian Nights.

What do you suppose is the reason, Papa? Won't they feel natural soon?”

”Not soon,” answered Dr. Carr. Then he said to himself: ”Poor child! she had better know the truth.” So he went on, aloud, ”I am afraid, my darling, that you must make up your mind to stay in bed a long time.”

”How long?” said Katy, looking frightened: ”a month more?”

”I can't tell exactly how long,” answered her father. ”The doctors think, as I do, that the injury to your spine is one which you will outgrow by and by, because you are so young and strong. But it may take a good while to do it. It may be that you will have to lie here for months, or it may be more. The only cure for such a hurt is time and patience. It is hard, darling”--for Katy began to sob wildly--”but you have Hope to help you along. Think of poor Cousin Helen, bearing all these years without hope!”

”Oh, Papa!” gasped Katy, between her sobs, ”doesn't it seem dreadful, that just getting into the swing for a few minutes should do so much harm? Such a little thing as that!”

”Yes, such a little thing!” repeated Dr. Carr, sadly. ”And it was only a little thing, too, forgetting Aunt Izzie's order about the swing. Just for the want of the small 'horseshoe nail' of Obedience, Katy.”

Years afterwards, Katy told somebody that the longest six weeks of her life were those which followed this conversation with Papa. Now that she knew there was no chance of getting well at once, the days dragged dreadfully. Each seemed duller and dismaller than the day before. She lost heart about herself, and took no interest in anything. Aunt Izzie brought her books, but she didn't want to read, or to sew. Nothing amused her. Clover and Cecy would come and sit with her, but hearing them tell about their plays, and the things they had been doing, made her cry so miserably, that Aunt Izzie wouldn't let them come often. They were very sorry for Katy, but the room was so gloomy, and Katy so cross, that they didn't mind much not being allowed to see her. In those days Katy made Aunt Izzie keep the blinds shut tight, and she lay in the dark, thinking how miserable she was, and how wretched all the rest of her life was going to be. Everybody was very kind and patient with her, but she was too selfishly miserable to notice it. Aunt Izzie ran up and down stairs, and was on her feet all day, trying to get something which would please her, but Katy hardly said ”Thank you,” and never saw how tired Aunt Izzie looked. So long as she was forced to stay in bed, Katy could not be grateful for anything that was done for her.

But doleful as the days were, they were not so bad as the nights, when, after Aunt Izzie was asleep, Katy would lie wide awake, and have long, hopeless fits of crying. At these times she would think of all the plans she had made for doing beautiful things when she was grown up. ”And now I shall never do any of them,” she would say to herself, ”only just lie here. Papa says I may get well by and by, but I sha'n't, I know I sha'n't. And even if I do, I shall have wasted all these years, and the others will grow up and get ahead of me, and I sha'n't be a comfort to them or to anybody else. Oh dear! oh dear! how dreadful it is!”

The first thing which broke in upon this sad state of affairs, was a letter from Cousin Helen, which Papa brought one morning and handed to Aunt Izzie.

”Helen tells me she's going home this week,” said Aunt Izzie, from the window, where she had gone to read the letter. ”Well, I'm sorry, but I think she's quite right not to stop. It's just as she says: one invalid at a time is enough in a house. I'm sure I have my hands full with Katy.”

”Oh, Aunt Izzie!” cried Katy, ”is Cousin Helen coming this way when she goes home? Oh! do make her stop. If it's just for one day, do ask her! I want to see her so much! I can't tell you how much! Won't you? Please!

Please, dear Papa!”