[Ill.u.s.tration: "PACKING TIMES."]

I was disappointed,--I wanted to talk with him; but I took the book and went over to the window.

It was a capital story, and I soon got interested in it. I don't know how long I'd read--I was enjoying the story so much--when I heard a queer, smothered sound, and it came from the direction of Felix.

In a minute I was by his side, exclaiming, "Why, what's the matter, Fee?"

He had slipped down in the bed, and while his poor helpless legs still lay stretched straight out, he'd twisted the upper part of his body so that he was now lying a little on his side, hugging one of the pillows, and with his face buried in it. His shoulders were shaking, and when he raised his head to answer me, I saw the tears were streaming down his cheeks.

"Shut the door--_quick_!" he cried, gasping between the words. "Lock it--pile the furniture against it--don't let a creature in--oh, _don't_ let them see me!"

I flew to the door and locked it; and by the time I got back to the bed, Fee seemed to have lost all control over himself. He twisted and twitched, rolling his head restlessly from side to side,--one minute throwing his arms out wildly as far as they could reach, the next s.n.a.t.c.hing at the pillows or the bed-clothes, and trying to stuff them into his mouth. And all the time he kept making that horrible sharp gasping noise,--as if he were almost losing his breath.

I was _dreadfully_ scared at first,--that _Felix_, of all people, should act this way! I got goose-flesh all over, and just stood there staring at Fee, and that seemed only to make him worse.

"Don't stare at me like that. Oh, don't, don't, _don't_!" he cried out.

"I can't help this--really--I can't, I _can't_! Oh, if I could only _scream_ without the others hearing me!" He threw his head back and beat the pillows with his outstretched arms.

Then, somehow, I began to understand: a great lump came in my throat, and taking hold of one of Fee's cold, clammy hands, I commenced stroking and patting it without a word.

His fingers were twitching so I could hardly hold them, and he talked very fast,--almost as if he couldn't stop himself.

"Don't tell them of this, Jack," he begged, in that sharp gasping voice, "_don't_ tell them! they wouldn't understand--they'd worry--and poor Phil would be wretched. I know what this is to him,--poor old fellow! I see the misery in his face from day to day, and I've tried--so hard--to keep everything in--and be cheerful--so he shouldn't guess--until I thought I _should_ go _mad_! Oh, think of what this _means_ to me, Jack! College, profession, hopes, ambitions--gone _forever_--nothing left but to lie here--for the rest of my life--a useless hulk--a c.u.mberer of the ground. Only seventeen, Jack, and I may live to be eighty--like _this_! never to go about--never to walk again. Oh, if I might _die_!"--his voice got shrill,--"if G.o.d would _only_ let me die! I've always been a poor useless creature,--and now, _now_, of what good am I in the world? Nothing but a burden and a care. Oh, how shall I ever, _ever_ endure it!"

I was so nervous that I began shaking inside, and I had to speak very slowly to keep my voice from shaking too. "Don't talk so foolishly, Fee," I said,--but not unkindly, you know. "Why, I don't know what we'd all do without you,--having you to ask things of, and to tell us what to do. I know papa depends on you an awful lot; and Miss Marston said the day she went away that she wouldn't've gone if she hadn't known you would be here to look after us and keep things straight; and what _would_ Nannie do without you? Talk about being of no use,--just think what you've saved Phil from!"

"I _am_ thankful for that," broke in Felix, "most _thankful_! I don't regret what I did that night, Jack. I'd do it again if need be, even knowing that it must end like _this_,"--with a despairing motion of his hand toward his helpless legs.

Then he added eagerly, breathlessly, "Don't ever tell Phil about this morning, Jack,--that I feel so terribly about the accident. Don't tell him,--'twould break his heart. I hope he'll _never_ know. I pretended to be cheerful, I laughed and talked to cheer him up, but my heart grew heavier and heavier, and my head felt as if it were being wound up; I was afraid I'd go mad and tell the whole thing out. Oh, Jack, it's those dreary days, those endless years of uselessness that terrify me. Oh, help me to be strong! Oh, Jack, help me! _help_ me!"

His arms began to fly about again; he had thrown off his gla.s.ses, and his big hollow eyes stared at me with a wild, beseeching expression in them.

"I'm so afraid--I'll scream out--and then they'll all hear me--and know," he gasped. "Oh, give me something, _quick_--oh, do something for me before I lose entire control of myself."

I flew to the table and got him some water; I didn't know what else to do, and he wouldn't let me call anybody,--even just speaking of it made him wild. Then I fanned him, and knelt by the bed stroking one of his hands. But nothing seemed to help him. And then--G.o.d must have put the thought into my mind--I said suddenly, "Fee, dear, I'm going to sing to you;" and before he could say no, I began.

At first I could hardly keep my voice steady,--on account of that horrid, inward shaking,--but I went right on, and gradually it got better.

I sang very softly and went from one hymn to the other, just as they came to my mind: First, "O Mother dear, Jerusalem,"--I love that old hymn!--then, "And now we fight the battle, but then shall win the crown;" and then, "The Son of G.o.d goes forth to war." That's one of Fee's favourites, and he sobbed right out when I sang,--

"'Who best can drink his cup of woe, Triumphant over pain; Who patient bears his cross below,-- He follows in His train.'"

But I kept on,--really, I felt as if I couldn't stop,--and when I got to the last line of "For all the saints who from their labours rest," Fee whispered, "Sing those verses again, Jack."

I knew which he meant; so I sang:--

"'Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress, and their Might; Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well-fought fight; Thou, in the darkness drear, the one true Light.

Alleluia!

"O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true, and bold, Fight as the saints who n.o.bly fought of old, And win, with them, the victor's crown of gold.

Alleluia!

"And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, Steals on the ear the distant triumph-song, And hearts are brave again, and arms are strong.

Alleluia!'"

Fee lay quiet when I finished. He was still twitching, and tears were slipping down his cheeks from under his closed lids; but he no longer made that dreadful gasping sound, and there was a beautiful expression on his mouth,--so sweet and patient. "I've not been a soldier 'faithful, true, and bold,'" he said sadly, "but a miserable coward. Ah! how we must weary G.o.d with our grumblings and complainings, our broken resolutions and weaknesses. I prayed with all my heart and strength for Phil, that he might be saved from that crowd. And now that G.o.d has granted my prayer, I bewail His way of doing it. I was willing then to say, 'At any cost to myself,' and here I am shrinking from the share He has given me! dreading the pain and loneliness. A faithless soldier, Jack,--not worthy to be called a soldier."

"Oh! not faithless," I put in eagerly; "indeed, Fee, you're _not_ faithless. Even if you do shrink from this--this trouble--it's only just here between us; you are going to be brave over it,--you know you are. _Going_ to be! why, Fee, I think you _are_ the _bravest_ boy!

the truest, n.o.blest--" I had to stop; that lump was just swelling up in my throat.

"No," Fee said mournfully, drawing his breath in as Kathie does hers sometimes when she's been crying for a long while; "no, Jack, I'm not really brave,--not yet! I'm going to bear this only because I must--because I _can't_ escape it. Perhaps, by and by, strength may come to endure the trial more patiently; but now--I _dread_ it. I would _fly_ from it if I could; I would _die_ rather than face those awful years of helplessness! See what a poor creature your 'brave boy' is, Jack." His lips were quivering, and he folded one arm over his eyes.

Then all at once there came back to me a talk which mamma and I once had, and I thought perhaps 'twould comfort poor Felix, so I tried to tell him as well as I could. "Fee, dear," I said, holding his hand tight in mine, and snuggling my head close up to his on the pillow, so I could whisper, "once, when mamma and I were talking, she said always to remember that G.o.d knows it's awfully hard for people to bear suffering and trouble; and that He always helps them and makes allowances for them, because He's our Father, and for the sake of His own dear Son, who had to go through so much trouble here on earth.

"And _He_ knows, too, Fee,--Jesus knows _just_ how you feel about this; don't you remember how He prayed that last night in Gethsemane that--if G.o.d would--He might not have to go through the awful trial of the cross?

He meant to carry it right through, you know, all the time,--that's what He came on earth for; He meant to do every single thing that G.o.d had given Him to do, and just as _bravely_! But, all the same, He felt, too, how _awfully_ hard 'twas going to be, and just for a little while beforehand He _dreaded_ it,--just as you dread the years that'll have to pa.s.s before you can be well. See?

"And He knows your heart, Fee; He knows that you're going to be just as _brave_ and _patient_ as you can be, and He'll help you every time.

Nannie and I'll ask Him for you--and Betty--and poor old Phil--all of us. And dear mamma's up there, too; perhaps she's asking Him to comfort you and make you strong. I feel as if she must be doing it,--she loved you so!"

Fee drew his hand out of mine, and raising his arm, touched my cheek softly with his feeble fingers, and for a few minutes we neither of us said a word.

Then there came a knock at the door; I scrambled to my feet, and going over, turned the key. Somebody brushed quickly by me with the swish of a girl's dress, and there was Nannie in the middle of the room! She ran toward Felix with her arms out, her brown eyes shining with love. "Oh, my darling!" she cried out, "my _dear_!"

I heard Fee's glad, breathless exclamation, "My _twinnie_!" Then Phil's arm went over my shoulders and drew me into the hall, and Phil's voice said softly in my ear, "Come, Rosebud, let's leave them alone for a while."

XXII.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN.

TOLD BY JACK.

Miss Marston arrived that afternoon, and the next day we started, bag and baggage, for the Cottage. And here we've been for nearly three months; in a week or two more we'll be thinking of going back to the city. Dr. Gordon came up with us, and he and Phil did all they could to make the journey easier for Felix. But he was dreadfully used up by the time we got him to the house, and for days no one but Phil and Nannie were allowed in his room.

Papa came a few days after we did, looking ever so much better than when he went away, and he settled down to work at once. Betty's here, too. From what she lets out now and then, I'm pretty sure she's had a real good time; but, do you know, she _won't_ acknowledge it. Still, I notice she doesn't make such fun of Hilliard as she used to; and I will say Betty's improving. She doesn't romp and tear about so much, nor flare out at people so often, and of course that makes her much more comfortable to live with. I'm ever so glad she's here; if she hadn't been, I'm afraid I'd have had an awfully stupid time this summer. You see Betty and I are in the middle; we come between the big and the little ones in the family, and we 'most always go together on that account.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "OUT OF DOORS."]

Nannie's had her hands full, what with helping papa with the Fetich, and doing all sorts of things for her twin. Nora's looked after Phil and cheered him up when he got blue about Felix, and Phil has just devoted himself to Fee. He's with him almost the whole time, and you can't think how gentle and considerate Phil is these days.

Fee is out of doors a great deal; Phil carries him out on fine days, and lays him on his bamboo lounge under the big maples; and there you're sure to find the whole family gathered, some time or other, every day that he is there.

It seems as if we love Fee more and more dearly every day,--he's so bright and merry and sweet, and he tries _so_ hard to be patient and make the best of things. Of course he has times--what he calls his "dark days"--when his courage sinks, and he gets cranky and sarcastic; but they don't come as often as at first. And we all make allowances, for we know there isn't one of us that in his place would be as unselfish and helpful. We go to him with everything,--even papa has got in the way of sitting and talking with Fee; anyway, it seems as if papa were more with us now than he used to be, and he's ever so much nicer,--more like other people's fathers are, you know!