'They've put her to bed,' he says to me, 'and the doctor's setting her arm.' I didn't recollect at first; but when I did, it was almost as bad as seeing the dreadful accident all over again.
"It was some time before any of us found out what had really happened.
The breaking of her arm, the doctor said, had saved her head; which was only cut and bruised a little, not half as bad as was feared.

Day after day, and night after night, I sat by her bedside, comforting her through her fever, and the pain of the splints on her arm, and never once suspecting--no more, I believe, than she did--the awful misfortune that had really happened.

She was always wonderful quiet and silent for a child, poor lamb, in little illnesses that she'd had before; and somehow, I didn't wonder--at least, at first--why she never said a word, and never answered me when I spoke to her.
"This went on, though, after she got better in her health; and a strange look came over her eyes.

They seemed to be always wondering and frightened, in a confused way, about something or other.

She took, too, to rolling her head about restlessly from one side of the pillow to the other; making a sort of muttering and humming now and then, but still never seeming to notice or to care for anything I said to her.