Family Pride

"She will not be able to join us to-morrow," was the report Bell carried home, for she saw more than mere exhaustion from fatigue and fainting in the white face lying so motionless on Helen's pillow, with the dark rings about the eyes, and the quiver of the muscles about the mouth.

The morrow found that Bell was right, for Katy could not rise, but lay like some crushed flower still on Helen's bed, moaning softly: "It is very hard, but God knows best."

"Yes, darling, God knows best," Helen answered, smoothing the bright hair, and thinking sadly of the young officer sitting by his camp-fire, and waiting so eagerly for the bride who could not go to him now. "God knows what is best, and does all for the best."

Katy said it many times that long, long week, during which she stayed an invalid in Helen's room, living from day to day upon the letters sent by Bell, who had gone on to Georgetown with her father, and who gave but little hope that Wilford would recover. Not a word did she say of Marian, and only twice did she mention Morris, so that when at last Katy was strong enough to venture on the journey, she had but little idea of what had transpired in Wilford's sickroom.

* * * * * Those were sad, weary days which Wilford first passed upon his hospital cot, and as he was not sick but crippled, he had ample time for reviewing the past, which came up before his mind as vividly as if he had been living again the scenes of bygone days. Of Katy he thought continually, blaming himself much, but so strong was his pride and selfishness, blaming her more for the trouble which had come upon them. Why need she have taken the Genevra matter so to heart, going with it to Morris and so bringing him into his present disagreeable situation. He did not mean to be unjust or unkind toward Katy, but he looked upon her as the direct cause of his being where he was. Had she never been seen in the cars with Morris, he should not have left home as he did, and might anticipate going back without a flush of shame and a dread of meeting old friends, who would think less of him than they used to do. A thousand times Wilford had repented of his rashness, but never by a word had he admitted such repentance to any living being, and when on the dark, rainy afternoon which first saw him in the hospital, he turned his face to the wall and wept, he replied to one who said to him soothingly: "Don't feel badly, my young friend. We will take as good care of you here as if you were at home."