Nell of Shorne Mills

He took up one of the books and read a page or two; but the simple story

could not hold him, and he dropped the volume, and, leaning his head on

his sound arm, stared listlessly at the old-fashioned wall paper. But he

did not see the pattern; the panorama of his own life's story was

passing before him, and it was not at all a pleasing panorama. A life of

pleasure, of absolute uselessness, of unthinking selfishness. What a

dreary pilgrimage it seemed to him, as he lay in the little bedroom,

with the scent of Nell's flowers floating up to him from the garden

beneath, with the sound of the sea, flinging itself against the cliffs,

burring like a giant bumble bee in his ears. If any one had asked him

whether his life had been worth living, he would have answered with a

decided negative; and yet he was young, the gods had been exceeding good

to him in many ways, almost every way, and there was no great sorrow to

cast its shadow over him.

"Pity I didn't break my neck," he muttered. "No one would have

cared--unless it were Luce, and perhaps even she, now----"

He broke off the reverie with a short laugh that was more bitter than a

sigh, and turned his face to the wall.

Doctor Spence, when he paid his visit later in the day, found him thus,

and eyed him curiously.

"Arm's getting on all right, Mr. Vernon," he said; "but the rest of you

isn't improving. I think you'd better get up to-morrow and go

downstairs. I'd keep you here, of course; but lying in bed isn't a

bracing operation, especially when you think; and you think, don't you?"

"When I can't help it," replied Vernon, rather grimly. "I'm glad you

have given me permission to get up; though I dare say I should have got

up without it."

"I dare say," commented the old doctor. "Always have your own way, as a

rule, don't you?"

"Always," assented the patient listlessly.

"Ye-s; it's a bad thing for most men; a very bad thing for you, I should

say. By the way, if you should go downstairs, you must keep quiet----"

"Good heavens, you don't suppose I intend to dance or sing!" broke in

Vernon, with a smile, of irritation.

"No; I mean that you must sit still and avoid any exertion. You'll find

that you are not capable of much in the way of dancing or singing," he

added, with a short laugh. "Try and amuse yourself, and don't--worry."