For a moment or two I tried to make
myself believe it was all a bad dream; but there sat Phil on the edge of
our bed, and the sight of his wretched white face brought back the
whole thing only too plainly.
"Oh! how is Fee?" I exclaimed, sitting up in bed. "What does the doctor
say about him?"
Phil's elbow was resting on his knee, his chin in his palm. "The doctor
says," he answered, with, oh! such a look of misery in his tired eyes,
"that Felix is not in danger of death, but it looks now as if he _might
not be able to walk again_!"
[Illustration: "THERE SAT PHIL ON THE EDGE OF OUR BED."]
"Oh, Phil, _Phil_!" I cried out; then I sat and stared at him, and
wondered if I were really awake, or if this were some dreadful dream.
"His back was weak from the start," went on Phil, drearily, "and
probably would have been to the end of his life; but at least he would
have been able to get around--to go to college--to enter a profession.
Now all that is over and done with. Isn't it _awful_!"
"Oh, but that can't be true," I broke in eagerly. "Why, Phil, Fee was in
a dreadful way that last attack, I told the doctor about it,"--Phil
nodded; "he couldn't stand on his feet at all,--and yet he got better.
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