But now I shall be obliged to confess one thing, which I would have gladly concealed.

Prudy was not always patient.  Some sweet little children become almost like the angels when sickness is laid upon them; but Prudy had been such a healthy, active child, that the change to perfect quiet was exceedingly tiresome.  She was young, too,—­too young to reason about the uses of suffering.  She only knew she was dreadfully afflicted, and thought everybody ought to amuse her.

“O, dear me!” said Susy, sometimes, “I just believe the more anybody does for Prudy, the more she expects.”

Now this was really the case.  When Prudy first began to lie upon the sofa, everybody pitied her, and tried to say and do funny things, in order to take up her attention.  It was not possible to keep on giving so much time to her; but Prudy expected it.  She would lie very pleasant and happy for hours at a time, counting the things in the room, talking to herself, or humming little tunes; and then, again, everything would go wrong.  Her playthings would keep falling to the floor, and, as she could not stoop at all, some one must come and pick them up that very minute, or they “didn’t pity her a bit.”

Every once in a while, she declared her knee was “broken in seven new places,” and the doctor must come and take off the splint.  She didn’t want such a hard thing “right on there;” she wanted it “right off.”

Her mother told her she must try to be patient, and be one of God’s little girls.  “But, mamma,” said Prudy, “does God love me any?  I should think, if he loved me, he’d be sorrier I was sick, and get me well.”

Then, sometimes, when she had been more fretful than usual, she would close her eyes, and her mother would hear her say, in a low voice,—­

“O, God, I didn’t mean to.  It’s my knee that’s cross!”

Upon the whole, I think Prudy was as patient as most children of her age would have been under the same trial.  Her father and mother, who had the most care of her, did not wonder in the least that her poor little nerves got tired out sometimes.

While Susy was at school, Prudy had a long time to think what she wanted her to do when she should come home.  She would lie and watch the clock, for she had learned to tell the time quite well; and when the hour drew near for Susy to come, she moved her head on the pillow, and twisted her fingers together nervously.

If Susy was in good season, Prudy put up her little mouth for a kiss, and said,—­

“O, how I do love you, Susy!  Ain’t I your dear little sister?  Well, won’t you make me a lady on the slate?”

Susy’s ladies had no necks, and their heads were driven down on their shoulders, as if they were going to be packed into their chests; but, such as they were, Prudy wanted them over and over again.

But if Susy stopped to slide, or to play by the way, she would find little Prudy in tears, and hear her say, “O, what made you?  Naughty, naughty old Susy!  I’m goin’ to die, and go to God’s house, and then you’ll be sorry you didn’t ’tend to your little sister.”