well up. "What makes you feel so bad?"

"It's only rheumatism. I mustn't mind."

"Are you in pain now?"

Winnie whispered a "Yes," and lay as if worn out. The half-hour of sitting up had tried her severely. Doris examined the pale face, and felt a wish to know more of what lay beneath that serene white brow, with its clustering hair, its sweet patience. Winnie Morris, though perhaps not much older than herself, seemed to have lived a good deal longer.

"Where is the pain, Winnie,—if I may call you so?"

"Almost everywhere. But I mustn't mind," the girl repeated. "People often have worse things to bear than rheumatism."

"I should think that was quite bad enough. How long ago did it begin?"

"Oh, some years. I seem to have been in pain—almost always."

The words struck home. Doris saw the contrast between her own health and vigour, her powers of enjoyment, her free active life,—and this restrained suffering existence. The gentle pretty face filled her with pity.

"Always in pain! Every day. No end to it. That is frightfully hard to bear. Can't anything be done? At your age—"

"I'm twenty-five. People often take me for less. Only one year younger than Jane, and two younger than Raye."

"I shouldn't have guessed you to be more than eighteen. Don't you get desperately tired of being always ill—not able to go about and amuse yourself? Don't you feel cross sometimes?" Doris recalled her own late mood of discontent, her impatience under little home-worries, her half-imaginary grievances. What did they matter, compared with what Winnie had to bear?

"I try not—" very low. "It is what—what God chooses for me—so it is all right."

"Does that really help you, Winnie?"

"Yes; often. It ought—always." Doris's gaze drew her on. "Don't you know those lines by Trench—

"And if He meant it—chose it—arranged it all—don't you see?—it must be right, because He loves me."

"The place—perhaps. But the pain—"

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