Then only did her natural bent of mind appear to be justified by universal phenomena.
And now on this morning in January, when Frances Evelyn, the baby, lay good and quiet in her crib, Gabriella read over again the disturbing letter she had just received from her mother.
MY DEAR DAUGHTER: Jane wrote you that I had had a slight attack of pneumonia, so you understood why I was obliged to let so long a time go by without sending you a letter.

Though I have been out of bed now for more than a fortnight, I still feel so weak and good for nothing that I am hardly equal to the exertion of writing.

Then, too, I have had some trouble with my wrist--the right one--and this has made it really painful for me to hold a pen or even a fork.

The doctor thinks it is a nervous affection and that it will pass away as soon as I get back my strength, and I am sure I hope and pray that it will.

But sometimes I feel as if I should never get any stronger, and of course while my wrist is crippled I am unable to do any sewing.