After much explanation, I was made to understand that "something was growing on my sister's neck that would spoil her beauty forever, and perhaps kill her, if it could not be got rid of." How well I remember the shudder of horror that ran through me at the vague idea of this deadly "something"! A fearful, awe-struck curiosity to see what Caroline's illness was with my own eyes troubled my inmost heart, and I begged to be allowed to go home and help to nurse her.

The request was, it is almost needless to say, refused.
Weeks passed away, and still I heard nothing, except that my sister continued to be ill.

One day I privately wrote a letter to Uncle George, asking him, in my childish way, to come and tell me about Caroline's illness.
I knew where the post-office was, and slipped out in the morning unobserved and dropped my letter in the box.

I stole home again by the garden, and climbed in at the window of a back parlor on the ground floor.

The room above was my aunt's bedchamber, and the moment I was inside the house I heard moans and loud convulsive sobs proceeding from it.