One night, while Miss Anne was undressing Lucy, to put her to bed, she thought that her voice had a peculiar sound, somewhat different from usual. It was not hoarseness, exactly, and yet it was such a sort of sound as made Miss Anne think that Lucy had taken cold. She asked her if she had not taken cold, but Lucy said no.

Lucy slept in Miss Anne’s room, in a little trundle-bed. Late in the evening, just before Miss Anne herself went to bed, she looked at Lucy, to see if she was sleeping quietly; and she found that she was.

But in the night Miss Anne was awaked by hearing Lucy coughing with a peculiar hoarse and hollow sound, and breathing very hard. She got up, and went to her trundle-bed.

“Lucy,” said she, “what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Lucy, “only I can’t breathe very well.”

Here Lucy began to cough again; and the cough sounded so hoarse and hollow, that Miss Anne began to be quite afraid that Lucy was really sick. She put on a loose robe, and carried her lamp out into the kitchen, and lighted it,—and then came back into her room again. She found that Lucy was no better, and so she went to call her mother.

She went with the lamp, and knocked at her door; and when she answered, Miss Anne told her that Lucy did not seem to be very well,—that she had a hoarse cough, and that she breathed hard.

“O, I’m afraid it is the croup,” she exclaimed; “let us get up immediately.”

“We will get right up, and come and see her,” said Lucy’s father.

So Miss Anne put the lamp down at their door, and went out into the kitchen to light another lamp for herself. She also opened the coals, and put a little wood upon the fire, and hung the tea-kettle upon the crane, and filled it up with water; for Miss Anne had observed that, in cases of sudden sickness, hot water was one of the things most sure to be wanted.

After a short time, Lucy’s father and mother came in. After they had been with her a few minutes, her mother said,

“Don’t you think it is the croup?” “No, I hope not,” said her father; “I presume it is only quinsy; but I am not sure, and perhaps I had better go for a doctor.”

After some further consultation, they concluded that it was best to call a physician. Lucy’s mother recommended that they should call up the hired man, and send him; but her father thought that it would take some time for him to get up and get ready, and that he had better go himself.

When he had gone, they brought in some hot water, and bathed Lucy’s feet. She liked this very much; but her breathing seemed to grow rather worse than better.

“What is the croup?” said Lucy to her mother, while her feet were in the water.

“It is a kind of sickness that children have sometimes suddenly in the night; but I hope you are not going to have it.”

“No, mother,” said Lucy; “I think it is only the quinsy.”

Lucy did not know at all what the quinsy was; but her sickness did not seem to her to be any thing very bad; and so she agreed with her father that it was probably only the quinsy.

When the doctor came, he felt of Lucy’s pulse, and looked at her tongue, and listened to her breathing. “Will she take ipecacuanha?” said the doctor to Lucy’s mother.

“She will take anything you prescribe, doctor,” said her father, in reply.

“Well, that’s clever,” said the doctor. “The old rule is, that the child that will take medicine is half cured already.”

So the doctor sat down at the table, and opened his saddle-bags, and took out a bottle filled with a yellowish powder, and began to take some out.

“Is it good medicine?” said Lucy, in a low voice, to her mother. She was now sitting in her mother’s lap, who was rocking her in a rocking-chair.

“Yes,” said the doctor; for he overheard Lucy’s question, and thought that he would answer it himself. “Yes, ipecacuanha is a very good medicine,—an excellent medicine.”

As he said this, he looked around, rather slyly, at Miss Anne and Lucy’s father.

“Then I shall like to take it,” said Lucy.

“He means,” said her mother, “that it is a good medicine to cure the sickness with; the taste of it is not good. It is a very disagreeable medicine to take.”

Lucy said nothing in reply to this, but she thought to herself, that she wished the doctors could find out some medicines that did not taste so bad.

Miss Anne received the medicine from the doctor, and prepared it in a spoon, with some water, for Lucy to take. Just before it was ready, the door opened, and Royal came in.

“Why, Royal,” said his mother, “how came you to get up?”

“I heard a noise, and I thought it was morning,” said Royal.

“Morning? no,” replied his mother; “it is midnight.”

“Midnight?” said Lucy. She was quite astonished. She did not recollect that she had ever been up at midnight before, in her life.

“Is Lucy sick?” said Royal.

“No, not very sick,” said Lucy.

Royal came and stood by the rocking-chair, and looked into Lucy’s face.

“I am sorry that you are sick,” said he. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”

Lucy hesitated a moment, and then her eye suddenly brightened up, and she said,

“Yes, Royal,—if you would only just be so good as to take my medicine for me.”

Royal laughed, and said, “O Lucy! I guess you are not very sick.” In fact, Lucy was breathing pretty freely then, and there was nothing to indicate, particularly, that she was sick; unless when a paroxysm of coughing came on. Miss Anne brought her medicine to her in a great spoon, and Royal said that he presumed that the doctor would not let him take the medicine, but that, if she would take it, he would make all the faces for her.

Accordingly, while she was swallowing the medicine, she turned her eyes up towards Royal, who had stood back a little way, and she began to laugh a little at the strange grimaces which he was making. The laugh was, however, interrupted and spoiled by a universal shudder which came over her, produced by the taste of the ipecacuanha.

Immediately afterwards, Lucy’s mother said,

“Come, Royal; now I want you to go right back to bed again.”

“Well, mother,—only won’t you just let me stop a minute, to look out the door, and see how midnight looks?”

“Yes,” said she, “only run along.”

So Royal went away; and pretty soon the doctor went away too. He said that Lucy would be pretty sick for about an hour, and that after that he hoped that she would be better; and he left a small white powder in a little paper, which he said she might take after that time, and it would make her sleep well the rest of the night.

It was as the doctor had predicted. Lucy was quite sick for an hour, and her father and mother, and Miss Anne, all remained, and took care of her. After that, she began to be better. She breathed much more easily, and when she coughed she did not seem to be so very hoarse. Her mother was then going to carry her into her room; but Miss Anne begged them to let her stay where she was; for she said she wanted to take care of her herself.

“The doctor said he thought she would sleep quietly,” said Miss Anne; “and if she should not be so well, I will come and call you.”

“Very well,” said her mother, “we will do so. But first you may give her the powder.”

So Miss Anne took the white powder, and put it into some jelly, in a spoon; and when she had covered the powder up carefully with the jelly, she brought it to Lucy.

“Now I’ve got some good medicine for you,” said Miss Anne.

“I am glad it is good,” said Lucy.

“That is,” continued Miss Anne, “the jelly is good, and you will not taste the powder.” Lucy took the jelly, and, after it, a little water; and then her mother put her into her trundle-bed. Her father and mother then bade her good night, and went away to their own room.

Miss Anne then set the chairs back in their places, and carried out all the things which had been used; and after she had got the room arranged and in order, she came to Lucy’s bedside to see if she was asleep. She was not asleep.

“Lucy,” said Miss Anne, “how do you feel now?”

“O, pretty well,” said Lucy; “at least, I am better.”

“Do you feel sleepy?”

“No,” said Lucy.

“Is there any thing you want?” asked Miss Anne.

“Why, no,—only,—I should like it,—only I don’t suppose you could very well,—but I should like it if you could hold me a little while,—and rock me.”

“O yes, I can,” said Miss Anne, “just as well as not.”

So Miss Anne took Lucy up from her bed, and wrapped a blanket about her, and sat down in her rocking-chair, to rock her. She rocked her a few minutes, and sang to her, until she thought she was asleep. Then she stopped singing, and she rocked slower and slower, until she gradually ceased.

A moment afterwards, Lucy said, in a mild and gentle voice,

“Miss Anne, is it midnight now?”

“It is about midnight,” said Miss Anne.

“Do you think you could just carry me to the window, and let me look out, and see how the midnight looks?—or am I too heavy?”

“No, you are not very heavy; but, then, there is nothing to see. Midnight looks just like any other part of the night.”

“Royal wanted to see it,” said Lucy, “and I should like to, too, if you would be willing to carry me.”

When a child is so patient and gentle, it is very difficult indeed to refuse them any request that they make; and Miss Anne immediately began to draw up the blanket over Lucy’s feet, preparing to go. She did not wish to have her put her feet to the floor, for fear that she might take more cold. So she carried her along to the window, although she was pretty heavy for Miss Anne to carry. Miss Anne was not very strong.

Lucy separated the two curtains with her hands, and Miss Anne carried her in between them. There was a narrow window-seat, and she rested Lucy partly upon it, so that she was less heavy to hold.

“Why, Miss Anne,” said Lucy, “isn’t it any darker than this?”

“No,” said Miss Anne; “there is a moon to-night.”

“Where?” said Lucy. “I don’t see the moon.”

“We can’t see it here; we can only see the light of it, shining on the buildings.”

“It is pretty dark in the yard,” said Lucy.

“Yes,” said Miss Anne, “the yard is in shadow.”

“What do you mean by that, Miss Anne?” asked Lucy.

“Why, the moon does not shine into the yard; the house casts a shadow all over it.”

“Then I should think,” said Lucy, “that you ought to say that the shadow is in the yard,—not the yard is in the shadow.”

Miss Anne laughed, and said,

“I did not say that the yard was in the shadow, but in shadow.”

“And is not that just the same thing?” said Lucy. “Not exactly; but look at the stars over there, beyond the field.”

“Yes,” said Lucy, “there’s one pretty bright one; but there are not a great many out. I thought there would be more at midnight.”

“No,” said Miss Anne, “there are no more stars at midnight than at any other time; and to-night there are fewer than usual, because the moon shines.”

“I don’t see why there should not be just as many stars, if the moon does shine.”

“There are just as many; only we can’t see them so well.”

“Why can’t we see them?” said Lucy.

But Miss Anne told Lucy that she was rather tired of holding her at the window, and so she would carry her back, and tell her about it while she was rocking her to sleep.

“You see,” said Miss Anne, after she had sat down again, “that there are just as many stars in the sky in the daytime, as there are in the night.”

“O Miss Anne!” exclaimed Lucy, raising up her head suddenly, as if surprised; “I have looked up in the sky a great many times, and I never saw any.”

“No, we cannot see them, because the sun shines so bright.” “Did you ever see any, Miss Anne?”

“No,” said she.

“Did any body ever see any?”

“No,” said Miss Anne, “I don’t know that any body ever did.”

“Then,” said Lucy, “how do they know that there are any?”

“Well—that is rather a hard question,” said Miss Anne. “But they do know; they have found out in some way or other, though I don’t know exactly how.”

“I don’t see how they can know that there are any stars there,” said Lucy, “unless somebody has seen them. I guess they only think there are some, Miss Anne,—they only think.”

“I believe I don’t know enough about it myself,” said Miss Anne, “to explain it to you,—and besides, you ought to go to sleep now. So shut up your eyes, and I will sing to you, and then, perhaps, you will go to sleep.”

Lucy obeyed, and shut up her eyes; and Miss Anne began to sing her a song. After a little while, Lucy opened her eyes, and said,

“I rather think, Miss Anne, I should like to get into my trundle-bed now. I am rather tired of sitting in your lap.”

“Very well,” said Miss Anne; “I think it will be better. But would not you rather have me bring the cradle in? and then you can lie down, and I can rock you all the time.”

“No,” said Lucy; “the cradle has got so short, that I can’t put my feet out straight. I had rather get into my trundle-bed.”

So Miss Anne put Lucy into the trundle-bed, and she herself took a book, and sat at her table, reading. In a short time, Lucy went to sleep; and she slept soundly until morning.