Now and then Fred would come down in the morning pale, sick, and subdued-looking; his head tightly bound with a handkerchief, and his whole countenance expressive of suffering.  A sick headache was the only thing that could tame him; and a smile of ineffable relief sat on the faces of the others as they glanced at his woe-begone visage.  He was as secure for that day as though chained hand and foot.  My quiet hours were when some fascinating book engrossed my whole attention; I drank in each word, and could neither see nor hear anything around.

But here I was, really sick and quiet, ill in bed for a whole month—­day-time and all; and oh! the nauseous doses that somehow slipped down my unwilling throat!  Sometimes I would lie and watch the others moving around and doing as they chose, and then, feeling galled by my own sense of dependence and inefficiency, the warm blood would glow quickly as before, and springing hastily up, I determined to throw off this weary feeling of lassitude.  But it was of no use; all I could do was to sink back exhausted, and “bide my time.”

When the first stage of my illness was passed, poor mamma, completely worn out, would often leave me to the care of Mammy or Jane; with numerous directions to see that I took whatever had been left for me by Doctor Irwin.  I always liked to have Jane with me, for I loved her; and the medicine never seemed to taste so bad when she gave it to me.  She had various ways of smoothing this disagreeable duty; and one night when I had been rather obstreperous, she cut a pill in two and took half, by way of keeping me company; saying as she swallowed it that “perhaps it might do her some good.”  When I became well enough to leave my bed I sat in a nice easy-chair drawn close up to the window, from whence I could see the early flowers that were now blooming in full beauty in the garden below, while some amusing book rested on my lap.  I remember that they brought me the very first strawberries that ripened; and the neighbors were so kind that many a well-relished delicacy was sent in “for Mrs. Chesbury’s sick child.”

I was just able to run about, but still looking very pale and thin, when Aunt Henshaw arrived on a visit.  “What!” exclaimed she, “can this be the madcap, Amy?  Why, you look like a ghost, child!  What in the world have you been doing to yourself—­studying too hard?”

The old lady possessed no great powers of penetration, and not being sufficiently discerning to distinguish between the love of reading and the love of study, she concluded, from seeing me often with a book in my hand, that I was quite a studious character.  Aunt Henshaw remained a week or two; and though not exactly sick, I remained thin and drooping, and seemed to get no stronger as the season advanced.  The state of my health was canvassed over and over again in the family circle; and one day, when they were all gazing upon me with anxious solicitude, and remarking upon my pale cheeks, Aunt Henshaw observed:  “She needs a change of air, poor child!  She must go home with me.”