"No, no!" said Nelly, "but come close, auntie ; come close."

Then auntie came close, and Nelly whispered in her ear:—

"Oh, auntie; is this the beginning?"

"The beginning of what?"

"Of never being strong and well?"

"Oh no, dear; no, it's only a cold; you'll soon be all right."

"Oh, auntie, shall I really? are you sure?"

"As sure as any one can be of anything, dear. You are over tired and have caught a violent cold, that is all."

"Oh!" said Nellie, shuddering, "I have had such a dreadful dream of myself always on the sofa, always feeling as I did when Eustace carried me to the cab. I am not so frightened now; but don't leave me, auntie, don't leave me."

"No, I won't leave you," said auntie, "but I must let down the blind and light my pretty lamp, which Eustace has brought up from the study in your honour."

Only one more question, auntie. Is Bobbie better ?"

Oh yes, darling; nearly all right again. Uncle John saw him this morning, and says he was strutting about as proud as a peacock, with a ban

dage round his head. Nurse and Connie and the others were very anxious to hear all about you, and say they miss you very much, so you must make haste and get well."

Only too gladly would Nelly have made haste to get well, but it was far more easily said than done. A few hours later a terrible feeling of oppression came on. She could hardly breathe; and when the doctor paid his visit the next morning, he said her cold was turning into bronchitis, which is a very painful and often a dangerous complaint. First Nelly had a terrible headache, and felt so tired that it was a trouble even to turn round in bed. Then came a cough which hurt her very much, and two days later she could not move without coughing; she could not speak, she could not eat, and her breathing came in wheezing gasps.

Ten days after the disastrous journey to the Palace, Nelly was not expected to live. She lay in bed unconscious of all that was going on about her; and Aunt Mary came to relieve Aunt Edie, who was quite worn out with watching and anxiety.

"If there is not a turn for the better to-morrow," said the doctor, "it will soon be over now. We must have another opinion. Let us telegraph at

once for Arnold, who has done such wonders at the Children's Hospital."

So Dr. Arnold, the kind and clever man who had saved the lives of so many little sufferers in London, came and stood by Nelly's bed. He felt her pulse, he listened to her struggling breath, and at last he said, "She'll pull through yet." Then he went into another room with the doctor who had sent for him, and after a long, long talk with him went back to London, leaving fresh hope and courage behind him.

And Nelly, thanks to that very care and watching which she had often found so hard to bear, did pull through. A week after Dr. Arnold's visit, she was able to sit up in bed for an hour or two at a time. Another week, and she was lying on a sofa in Aunt Edie's dressing-room; and yet another found her on a couch in the library, watching the sunset without any complaint of its being too bright.

"You will soon be quite well again now," said Aunt Mary, as she bent down to kiss Nelly before returning to her own little ones at Clapham; "and we shall all be so glad to see you home again."

"Thank you, auntie," said Nelly as the tears rose in her eyes; and then she added in a lower voice: "I won't grumble again at being kept in when the others go out."

"I am sure you won't, darling," said Aunt Edie as the door closed behind Aunt Mary. "But you must be prepared to feel weak a long time. It will be very hard, I know."

Nelly's only answer to what Aunt Edie said was a smile both sad and sweet. Her little heart was full, and she could not speak; but this is what she thought. "Oh, I will try, I will try so very hard not to grumble, for how good it has been of God to let me get better; and how kind, how very kind everybody has been to me."

CHAPTER III.

A TERRIBLE INTRUDER.

NELLY was a very long time getting strong again. She went back to Aunt Mary's in the early spring, resolved to do her best to take a hearty, cheerful share in all that went on amongst her cousins, and for the first week nothing went wrong. Connie was all kindness and consideration; and the boys, knowing how ill Nelly had been, refrained from the usual teasing. It was when the novelty of her return wore off that her difficulties began. The old headaches returned, the old languor, the old indifference. Nurse said the spring weather was trying; but when the spring was gone and the summer came, the heat turned out to be equally distressing. Matters reached their climax, that is to say they were at the worst, one hot day in July, when everything seemed to go wrong.

It was a holiday, and Connie, Nelly's faithful champion in all her woes real or imaginary, had gone for a long drive with grandmamma and Aunt Mary; and the boys were in a state of eager