"Hush, child; you mustn't say such awful things," she said, drawing the
girl close and stroking her hair. "Mother adores you. Think of all she
has done for you ever since you were a tiny baby. What other girl of your
acquaintance has her own car, all the pretty clothes she can wear, and as
much pin-money as she can spend?"
"But that's not what I _want_!" cried Eleanor tragically. "I want to _be_
something and to _do_ something. I feel like I am in prison here. I'm not
good and resigned like you and Aunt Isobel, and I simply refuse to go
through life standing grandmother's tyranny."
Poor Eleanor, so intolerably sensitive to contacts, so hopelessly
confused in her bearings, sitting red-eyed and miserable, kicking her
feet against the side of the bed, looked much more like a naughty child
than like the radiant Lady Bountiful who had dispensed favors and
received homage in the hospital a few hours before.
So swift was the sympathetic action of her nerves that any change in her
physical condition affected her whole nature, making her an enigma to
herself as well as to others. Even as she sat there rebellious and
defiant, her eyes fell upon the small morocco box on her pillow, and she
picked it up and opened it.
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