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DISMISSED!
But Miss Mansfield had taken up her work, and was apparently stitching away too earnestly to be conscious of her appealing look.
"Good-night, ma'am," said Mary, in a broken voice.
Miss Mansfield's needle suddenly snapped in two, and she uttered an impatient exclamation, but took no notice of Mary's words. And, sorely troubled, the poor girl went slowly downstairs and out of the house.
DREARY DAYS.
IF Miss Mansfield expected that Mary would change her mind, and come to work on the following morning, she was disappointed. She managed to finish the dresses unaided, but resented no less bitterly Mary's refusal to help her.
Much to Ellen's vexation, she was told not to go to the Bible-class, as her aunt did not wish her to hold any further intercourse with Mary Nelson. It was a great disappointment, for she had come to look forward with pleasure to her Sunday afternoons, and was so attached to her kind teacher that she could not bear the thought of missing her lessons. She was sorry also to be separated from Mary, who had shown herself in many ways a kind friend. The days that followed were dismal enough.
Miss Mansfield's temper was worse than ever, and it was impossible to give her satisfaction. For several weeks, Ellen was obliged to remain away from her class, and during that time saw nothing of Mary. At last, however, she obtained her aunt's permission to go to it once more. Miss Mansfield consented, because she was anxious to hear something of Mary Nelson. She had expected that Mary would be sure to come, sooner or later, and beg to be taken into her employ again; but as the days passed on, and nothing was heard of her, Miss Mansfield grew anxious to know whether she had found work elsewhere.
Like most hasty-tempered individuals, Miss Mansfield had forgotten in what strong terms she had expressed her displeasure with her assistant, and wondered that Mary should have made no attempt to persuade her to pardon the offence given. She greatly missed Mary's skilful needle, and at that busy season, found it no easy matter to supply her place. But her pride would not suffer her to recall the girl, after having so summarily dismissed her, or she would gladly have done so.
Ellen set off for the Bible-class with the hope of meeting Mary there. She was surprised to find her absent, and still more so when at the close, Miss Graham said to her, "Can you tell me anything of Mary Nelson, Ellen? She has not been to the class for two Sundays."
"No, miss; I have seen nothing of her for the last month," was Ellen's reply.
"Does she not work for your aunt?" inquired Miss Graham, in astonishment.
"No, not now," replied Ellen, colouring as she spoke. "My aunt dismissed her."
Miss Graham seemed much surprised to hear this, but asked no questions as to the circumstances under which Mary had been dismissed.
"I have not seen you here for some weeks," she said. "I began to fear you had ceased to take an interest in the class."
"Oh, no!" Ellen assured her. "It was not that. I have been very sorry to stay away, but my aunt did not wish me to come."
"Indeed! I am sorry for that," replied her teacher. "Have you come with her permission this afternoon?"
"Yes, Miss Graham."
"Then I hope she will let you come again next Sunday. I must try to see Mary Nelson this week, for her absence makes me anxious. I trust she is not ill, but she is usually so regular in her attendance that I am sure she would not stay away for any trivial cause."
Ellen felt anxious also, as she remembered how white and ill Mary had looked on the Saturday evening when she had gone away in such distress.
"Did you see Mary Nelson at the class?" Miss Mansfield inquired, in her most abrupt manner, of her niece when she returned.
"No; she was not there," replied Ellen.
Miss Mansfield looked surprised.
"Indeed! I thought she was always to be found there, and wouldn't be absent on any account. But I daresay she is not such a saint after all as she used to make herself out to be."
"Miss Graham said she thought Mary must be ill," observed Ellen, "because she had not been to the class for two Sundays, and she scarcely ever stays away."
Miss Mansfield felt uncomfortable.
She was conscious that she had been too hard upon Mary, who deserved better treatment at her hands, after having worked so faithfully for her during several years.
She knew what delicate health the girl had always had, and feared that she was ill. She almost resolved that she would try to see Mary on the following day, and assist her, if she were ill. And if she found her out of work, offer to take her again into her employ.
But with the fresh demands on her time and attention which Monday morning brought, much to her after regret, this half-formed resolution was forgotten.
A LONELY SUFFERER.
MISS GRAHAM did not forget her intention of visiting Mary and discovering the reason of her absence from the Bible-class.
Early in the week, she directed her steps to the narrow street in an obscure quarter of the town where Mary occupied a small room over a greengrocer's shop.
"Is Mary Nelson within?" Miss Graham inquired of an untidy-looking woman, with a face expressive of indolent good-humour, who stood behind the counter of the close little shop, redolent of many odours, that of onions being the most perceptible.
"Yes, miss, she's within certainly, for she can't leave her bed: she's very bad indeed."
"Oh! I am grieved to hear that," exclaimed Miss Graham. "I feared she must be ill. May I go up to her room?"
"Yes, if you please, miss. I'm sure she'll be very thankful to see you, for she's in great trouble, poor girl."
Anxious as the woman's words rendered Miss Graham, she was little prepared to find Mary so ill as she was. Of delicate constitution, and highly susceptible of cold, Mary had been unable to throw off a chill taken on a wet day which had been passed in going about from one place to another in search of employment, and severe inflammation of the lungs was the result. That she was most seriously ill, Miss Graham could not doubt as she looked upon her white, strangely-altered countenance, and met the excited gaze of those usually calm eyes.
"Oh! Miss Graham, is it you?" exclaimed the girl, in a hoarse whisper. "How kind of you to come! I am so glad to see you!"
"My dear girl, I am grieved to find you so ill," said her teacher, with difficulty concealing the alarm Mary's appearance caused her. "How long have you been thus?"
"I have been in bed nearly a week," replied Mary. "I tried to keep up as long as I could, and I was obliged to go out to see about getting work; but I gave in at last. The pain at my side has been dreadful."
"It is a pity that you did not give in sooner, I think," said Miss Graham. "But now, let me see what I can do for you. Being a doctor's daughter, I ought to have some notion how to treat sick folk. Have you had no advice?"
"Mrs. Jones got me some cough mixture at the chemist's, and some stuff to rub on my chest," replied Mary; "but they don't seem to have done me any good."
"When I go home, Mary, I will ask my father to come and look at you," said Miss Graham, as she gently raised the pillow and placed the sick girl in a more easy position. "He will be able to give you something to relieve you, I trust."
"You are very kind," murmured poor Mary, as she held her teacher's hand tightly in her own wasted one, and looked up into her face with eyes full of love. "You are very kind, Miss Graham, but I don't think it will be of any use for him to come."
"Why, have you such a poor opinion of his skill?" said her friend, trying to speak lightly, though her heart was heavy enough.
"No, you know I do not mean that," said Mary, speaking with difficulty. "But I feel so Ill, and I do not think that I shall ever be any better. Something seems to tell me that I shall not be here long. And I am not sorry that it should be so, for I feel weary of life."
"It is not strange that you should feel so," replied Miss Graham. "We are all apt to get sad and depressed when we are ill. But I hope you will soon be better, and live to see many and happy days, if it be God's will. But whatever may be the issue of this illness, I trust you know Him who is our best Friend, in life or death. Can you feel that the arms of His love are about you?"
A faint smile passed over Mary's face as she answered, "Yes, I have long trusted and loved Him. I often have wished to tell you so, but I did not like. I have been a poor Christian, so faithless and cowardly; but I don't know what I should have done all these years without Jesus. You don't know what a dreary life it is to sit sewing all day long, till one's side aches, and one feels ill all over. I used to think sometimes that if the ladies who wore the pretty dresses knew what it cost us poor girls to make them, they wouldn't care about them so much. Well, I don't think I shall ever make any more. You know Miss Mansfield would not let me work for her any longer, because I could not consent to work on Sunday. It has been such a trouble to me, for no one else would take me on, and my money is almost gone. Indeed, I could not pay Mrs. Jones my rent last week, but she was kind enough to say it did not matter till I was well again."
"Do not trouble about that, dear Mary," said Miss Graham gently. "It shall be made right."
"Thank you; you are so good to me. Before you came I was feeling so lonely and miserable, I thought it seemed as if God had forgotten me. But He hadn't, you see, for He sent you to comfort me."
"God never forgets His children, nor forsakes them in trouble," observed her teacher, adding, as she noticed the girl's excited appearance, "Now, I cannot let you talk any longer; you must keep quiet, or I shall be obliged to leave you."
"Oh, do not say that!" pleaded Mary, "For I have so much to tell you. I want to thank you for all your kindness to me at the Bible-class. You can't think what a comfort and help your lessons have been to me. If I am never at the class again, will you say good-bye to all the girls for me? And will you give my love to Ellen Mansfield and Julia Coleman, with whom I used to work, and say how much I hope they will both have Jesus for their Friend? You might give Julia my Bible; I don't think she has one of her own. I often longed to speak to them of the Saviour, yet I was afraid. But I feel so happy in His love now, that I could speak to any one of Him."
"Dear Mary, I hope yet to see you restored to health," said Miss Graham. "But should it please God to take you to Himself, I will carry out your wishes. Now do not exhaust yourself by speaking more."
But in vain, she tried to enforce silence.
Mary's usual timidity was gone. And although she drew every breath with difficulty, and could scarcely raise her voice above a whisper, she spoke with an eager rapidity, which was symptomatic of the fever which consumed her.
Fearing that her presence would prove too exciting if she stayed longer, Miss Graham thought it best to take her leave, promising to return in a short time, accompanied, if possible, by her father.
AN ALARMING INCIDENT.
IN the evening of the same day, Ellen and Julia were alone in the work-room, Miss Mansfield having gone out to take an order. She had not neglected to leave the girls plenty to do in her absence; but Julia, being in an idle mood, soon dropped her work, and began to amuse herself by inspecting the various articles of attire, some almost finished, others but just commenced, with which the apartment was littered.
Ellen was trying hard to get her task finished by Miss Mansfield's return, although she could not help having her attention somewhat distracted by her companion's proceedings, especially when she began to deck herself in one of the garments, an action which would have provoked Miss Mansfield's severest displeasure had she known of it. After a time, however, Julia wearied of this diversion, and bethought her of another.
"Did you see the muslins that were sent for that wedding order, Ellen?" she asked.
"I did not look at them," Ellen replied. "Aunt unpacked them herself, and placed them in the show-room. The ladies are coming to see them to-morrow, I believe."
"I say, Ellen, I vote you and I have a look at them now," exclaimed Julia.
"Oh, no, we must not do that," returned Ellen. "And indeed we cannot, for aunt always locks up the show-room before she goes out."
"Of course she does," said Julia, "but she does not take the key with her."
"How do you know that?" asked Ellen, in surprise.
"Because I happened to see her put it in here," replied Julia, opening a drawer as she spoke, and displaying the key to Ellen's astonished eyes. "Now, come along, Ellen; let's make a voyage of discovery."
"Oh, Julia! We had better not go downstairs," remonstrated Ellen. "Aunt may return at any moment, and she would be so angry if she found us there."
"Nonsense! She won't be here for another hour, I'm quite certain," answered Julia. "I want to see those dresses, if you don't, Ellen; so I shall go down."
So saying, Julia proceeded to light a candle which stood at hand.
"Oh, what would aunt say if she could see you?" exclaimed Ellen. "You know she never lets any one but herself go into that room with a candle."
"Well, she won't see me," observed Julia, coolly, "and I can carry a candle as well as she can. Really, Ellen, you are looking quite frightened. What simple things you country girls are!"
There was nothing annoyed Ellen so much as to be thus taunted with being a country girl. It was foolish of her to mind it, but she did. She coloured as Julia spoke, and exclaimed pettishly, "I am sure I am not at all frightened, so you are mistaken for once in your opinion of country girls."
"Then you should not act as if you were," retorted Julia. "Come along with me, and look at those muslins, if you are not afraid."
Ellen hesitated, and felt unwilling to go, but the fear of Julia's ridicule overcame her better judgment, and she followed her downstairs.
The girls entered the front room, which was reserved for the reception of customers, and where were displayed sundry patterns, trimmings, and dress materials. On the chintz-covered sofa lay several pieces of delicate muslin, whose beauty called forth strong expressions of admiration from Julia as she bent down to examine them, holding the candle so dangerously close as to excite Ellen's fears.
"Do be careful how you hold that candle, Julia!" she exclaimed.
But Julia seemed desirous to frighten Ellen as much as possible, for the only effect of her remonstrance was that the candle was held more carelessly than before. Julia was holding it thus, when they were suddenly startled by Miss Mansfield's loud knock at the door. Both jumped at the sound, and in her fright, the candle fell from Julia's hand on to the heap of muslins. Instantly the gauzy material took fire, and the flame rapidly mounting caught Ellen's apron, and in a moment, she was in flames.
"Oh, Julia! Help me! Help me!" she screamed, in her terror.
But, much alarmed, Julia lost all presence of mind, and rushed out of the room, shrieking, "Fire! Fire!"
She ran to the front door, at which Miss Mansfield was loudly knocking.
The current of air which entered the house as she opened the door fanned the flames which enveloped Ellen, and but for her aunt's prompt succour, she might have been burned to death.
With admirable coolness, deciding in a moment what was to be done, Miss Mansfield pulled off the thick woollen shawl which she wore, and wrapped it tightly round her niece, thus smothering the flames. With the help of some water hastily fetched from the kitchen adjoining, the fire was soon extinguished. Meanwhile, Julia remained at the door wringing her hands, and telling every one who passed that the house was on fire. The consequence was, an alarm was raised, and a crowd of persons, increasing at every moment, gathered in front of the house. A fire engine would have been summoned by some of the more enterprising, had not Miss Mansfield suddenly appeared at the door, and shortly and sharply assured them that there was no need, since the fire was quite out.
"If some one would fetch a doctor, it would be more to the purpose," she added.
Scarcely had she spoken, when the sound of wheels was heard, and most providentially, as it proved, Dr. Graham's carriage bowled into the street. In a moment, its progress was arrested, and the services of the doctor enlisted on behalf of the sufferer.
With cheerful alacrity, Dr. Graham alighted from his carriage and entered Miss Mansfield's house. He found her bending over her niece's unconscious form, endeavouring, as gently as she could, though her hands were little accustomed to such offices, to remove her scorched garments and discover the extent to which she was injured. He came to her aid with his more skilful hands, and, after a careful examination, pronounced that the poor girl, though badly burnt, was in no danger.
Still, he foresaw that she would suffer great pain when restored to consciousness. Her burns must be carefully dressed, and would require constant attention for some time. He therefore advised Miss Mansfield to have her niece at once removed to a neighbouring hospital, where everything would be at hand that her state rendered necessary, and she would have better nursing than she could possibly have in her aunt's house.
Dr. Graham kindly offered to convey her thither in his carriage without any delay, and himself make arrangements for her benefit and superintend the dressing of her burns.
Miss Mansfield hesitated a little before she agreed to his kind proposal.
"I should not like to have it said that I turned my niece away from my house to the hospital when she was so bad," she remarked.
"None but the ignorant and foolish would misunderstand your motives and blame you for so doing," replied Dr. Graham. "In the hospital, your niece will have the best advice and most skilful treatment. It would be difficult for you, occupied as you are, to provide for her wants and give her the attention she will require here."
Miss Mansfield was sensible enough to see the wisdom of the doctor's advice. She therefore made no further objection to his plan, but busied herself in carrying out his directions, and assisted to carry Ellen to the carriage. Still in a state of insensibility, she was lifted into the brougham and borne to the hospital. Here the good doctor was indefatigable in his efforts on her behalf, and did not leave till he saw her restored to consciousness, with her wounds comfortably dressed.
Her aunt remained with her to as late an hour as the rules of the hospital would permit, and then, not without many tears from Ellen, took her departure.
A CONVERSATION.
WHILST her father was thus attending to Ellen, Miss Graham was anxiously awaiting his return home. He had left her at Mary's bedside, whither he had accompanied her. She had waited to see the patient fall into a deep sleep under the influence of the draught her father had prescribed before she left her. She quite expected to find him within when she re-entered her home, and was surprised at his absence, and still more so when an hour passed and yet he did not come.
"I cannot think what can be keeping papa," she remarked to her cousin, who was visiting her.
"Oh, he has probably been called to see some new patient," replied her companion, a pretty young lady, very fashionably dressed. "There's no accounting for a doctor's movements. Nor for a dressmaker's either, I'm thinking; they hardly ever keep their word. Mrs. Brown promised me my dress to-day, but she has not yet sent it. It is so tiresome, for I wanted particularly to wear it to-morrow."
"Why, you only ordered it on Friday," remarked Miss Graham. "I should not think she could possibly make it in so short a time."
"No, I did not give her very long, certainly," replied the young lady. "But I told her I must have it to-day, and she promised me I should. What is the matter, Theresa? Why do you look so grave? Are you meditating giving me a lecture on my extravagance?"
"It would not be of much use, I fear," returned her cousin, with a smile. "Your words made me think of the young girl to whom I took my father this evening. She used to work for a dressmaker, but lost her situation because she would not consent to work on Sunday. It was a great trouble to her, poor girl. She could not get any one else to employ her, and going about from place to place, in all sorts of weather, she caught a severe cold, which terminated in this illness: from which I much fear she will never recover."
"Poor girl! How very sad!" observed her companion. "But why should my words remind you of her? You don't suppose, I hope, that I should wish to make any one work on Sunday?"
"I don't think any lady would be so selfish as to wish it, if the question were put to her," replied Miss Graham. "But when so many insist upon having their orders executed with all speed, the dressmaker feels forced to make time somehow, and is tempted to encroach upon the only day of rest that her apprentices can ever enjoy."
"But what is one to do? One must be properly dressed," returned the young lady, glancing complacently at her elegant attire. "Excuse me, Cousin Theresa, but you can't expect every one to be so indifferent to dress as yourself, or to adopt your Quaker-like simplicity."
"Nay, you need not apologise," replied her cousin, with perfect good temper. "I feel flattered by your remark, for, excepting the poke bonnet, I rather admire the style adopted by Quaker ladies. But surely one can be properly dressed without requiring a new dress for every occasion, especially if it can only be obtained at the cost of suffering to others. In such a case we ought, I think, for the sake of our poorer sisters, to deny ourselves the gratification of appearing in the latest fashion."
"But surely we help them by giving them plenty of employment. A liberal expenditure in dress must be good for trade."
"Not necessarily," replied Miss Graham. "It has been proved often enough that the extravagance of the rich can only exert a baneful influence upon the condition of the poor. The habits of the upper classes are imitated by those beneath them, and inexpressible sin and misery are often the result. If ladies were more considerate towards those they employ, and more anxious to influence them aright, young workwomen would not be exposed to the terrible temptations by which many are overcome."
Miss Graham would have said more, for the subject was one on which she had thought and felt much, and she was moreover well acquainted with the circumstances of the class for which she pleaded, but she was here interrupted by the entrance of her father.
"Oh, papa, what has detained you so long?" she inquired.
In a few words, he described to her what had occurred at Miss Mansfield's, and the aid he had rendered the sufferer.
Miss Graham's sympathy was warmly excited on Ellen's behalf, and whilst rapidly questioning her father with regard to the particulars of the occurrence, she forgot for a while the sad condition of her other scholar. But presently, remembering her, she inquired anxiously, "What did you think of Mary Nelson, papa?"
Dr. Graham shook his head, and grew grave.
"She is very ill, Theresa," he replied.
"But she may recover? You do not give up hope?" asked his daughter, alarmed at his manner.
"Whilst there is life, there is always hope, my dear," was her father's reply.
Miss Graham asked no further for she knew but too well what those words meant.
IN THE HOSPITAL.
LEFT to herself in a strange place, with none but strangers near, and suffering such pain as she had never known before, Ellen felt very unhappy. The long ward, with its double row of small white beds, seemed dreary to her, and she longed to be in her own dear home, tended by her mother's hands, and cheered by her father's loving words.
The nurse who waited upon her was most kind, and did her best to comfort the poor girl. But she could not understand the thoughts which troubled the sufferer's mind, and made her situation so unendurable. The knowledge that this suffering was the result of her own wilfulness and folly added to her pain. If only she had had the courage to resist Julia's persuasions, and act rightly, this trouble would not have befallen her.
How it would distress her mother to receive a letter from Aunt Matilda telling her of what had occurred! And Jerry! How sorry Jerry would be! Ellen could picture the dismay the news would cause in her home. And the thought that all this might have been prevented if she had but acted wisely, was not reassuring.
Night approached, and stillness and repose pervaded the ward. Most of its occupants slept through the night, but there were a few whose maladies deprived them of rest. Ellen was one of these. Her burns smarted so sorely that sleep was out of the question, and as the night wore on her agitation of mind increased.
She began to fear that she might not recover. She had heard of persons dying from the effect of burns—what if she should die?
Oh, how the thought of death alarmed her! What a terrible sense of her sinfulness and unworthiness it awakened! How different her past conduct, which had been so easily excused, looked in the light cast upon it by that thought! She remembered how of late she had neglected reading her Bible, and had been glad to banish from her mind the serious thoughts that had been aroused by Miss Graham's earnest teaching. How she had suffered herself to be persuaded by Julia into doing much that she knew to be wrong, and had even uttered words which were not true. Oh, how the recollection now troubled her!
The pangs of conscience were sharper than her bodily pains.
The fear of dying all unprepared as she was, threw her into an agony. She longed for the presence of some friend to whom she might confide all that troubled her, and who could give her comfort. If only Miss Graham were there!
Ellen raised herself on her elbow, and from her bed in the corner looked down the long, dimly-lighted ward. Was there any one there so wicked and miserable as herself? she wondered.
The night nurse was seated at some distance from Ellen's bed, but she heard her move, and came at once to her.
"Can't you sleep, my dear?" she asked, kindly. "Is the pain very bad?"
"Yes, very, and my head aches, and I am so thirsty," complained Ellen.
The nurse held a glass of toast-water to her lips; then shook up the pillow, and placed her in a more easy position.
"There, now you will sleep, I think," she said, as she left her side.
But no, there was no rest for that weary, conscience-stricken spirit. The same thoughts revolved in her mind, the same fears distressed her. The King of Terrors, like a grim enemy, confronted her, and she saw not the Prince of Life, who has despoiled him of his power.
But in the midst of her distress, there floated across her mind words heard some time before and forgotten. What recalled them she knew not. Doubtless the Holy Spirit prompted their recollection.
"'As many as touched Him were made whole.'"
Long had the words slumbered in her memory; now they awoke, and gave their message to the heart that so sorely needed it.
She recalled the occasion when she had first heard them. The scene in Farmer Holroyd's barn presented itself to her mental vision. Again she saw the earnest young preacher, and the eagerly-listening people. She remembered the nature of the discourse then uttered; the graphic description of the leprosy of sin, and the misery and death to which it would lead. Ah, she understood it all now, as she did not then. The leprosy was cleaving to her flesh; she felt its contamination, but no remedy could she command. Yet what did the words say—those words which she recollected the preacher had bidden her remember?
"'As many as touched Him were made whole.'"
She had heard Christ proclaimed as the Great Physician, she had spoken of Him as such to her brother, but had all the while been unconscious of her own need of His healing touch. But now, how precious was the truth that Christ could make her whole! But would He? Was there any doubt of His willingness to pardon and cleanse?
No! All who touched Him had been made whole. They had but to come and be healed. Not one had been rejected as unworthy of the blessing who sought it at His hands. And He was the same Saviour now as then, "the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever."
Blessed words! What comfort they brought to Ellen's troubled heart! Trembling, yet believing, she approached in spirit the Saviour, and laid her fingers on the hem of His garment, when, lo! Her faith was rewarded, and she felt in herself that she was whole of her infirmity. To grief and terror succeeded peace and quietness, and a happy sense of forgiveness.
Tranquility of mind produces a corresponding state of body. Ellen became less sensible of pain, and, as the light of morning broke, she lost all consciousness of it, in refreshing slumber.
On the following afternoon, much to Ellen's delight, Miss Graham entered the ward.
The faces of all the patients brightened at her entrance, for the doctor's daughter was a frequent visitor there, and no one was more welcome. She passed between the rows of beds, having a smile and kind word for the occupant of each as she passed, and made her way to the corner where Ellen lay.
"I was so sorry to hear of your accident yesterday," she said, as she seated herself by Ellen's side. "See, I have brought a few flowers to cheer you."
As she spoke she placed in the girl's hands a lovely little bunch of violets and snowdrops. Ellen knew not how to thank her. The sight of the delicate white blossoms and sweet-scented violets brought tears to her eyes, for they were like a breath of the old home-life, from which she seemed now so far removed. They recalled the early spring days, when, with her little brothers and sisters, she had wandered in the fields and lanes which lay around her home, looking for the first snowdrop or searching for the hidden violet, whose presence was betrayed by its perfume.
"Oh, thank you, thank you! How beautiful they are!" she said, as soon as she could speak. "It is almost as good as being at home, to see these flowers."
But the sigh in which Ellen's remark ended, showed that the almost signified a vast difference after all.
"I dare say your thoughts often travel homewards, now that you are lying here?" said Miss Graham, sympathisingly.
"Ah, yes, indeed they do," replied Ellen. "I would give anything now to see father and mother and all of them."
Feeling sure that it would be a relief to Ellen to talk about her home, Miss Graham began to ask her questions about her brothers and sisters, to which Ellen readily responded. Her friend, was much interested in hearing about little Jerry, and the affliction which had been laid upon him.
"Does Jesus make people well now, do you think, Miss Graham?" Ellen asked, after she had told how firmly Jerry believed that the Lord would some day make him whole.
"His power is the same now as in the days of old, dear, though it is manifested under different conditions. Your little brother is quite right in believing that Jesus can restore him to health if it be His will, and is obeying the teaching of Scripture in praying as he does, for you know we are told 'in everything by prayer and supplication to make our requests known unto God.'"
"Oh, how I wish his prayer might be answered," said Ellen. "I pray every day that he may be made well."
"Then be assured, dear Ellen, that your prayer and his are not unheard, although the answer be delayed, and may not, perhaps, come exactly in the way you desire. Our Heavenly Father, in His infinite wisdom and love, sometimes sees fit to deny our requests; but I trust it will not be so in this case."
Ellen's face brightened.
"Mother says he is stronger than he was, and suffers less pain," she remarked. "Oh, I do hope he may get quite well in time."
"Have you seen anything of Mary Nelson, Miss Graham?" she asked, after a pause. "Do you know how it was she did not come to the class?"
Her teacher looked sad as she answered, "Yes, Ellen; I went to see Mary yesterday, and I am grieved to say I found her very, very ill."
"Oh, I am so sorry to hear that," said Ellen. "I do hope she will soon be better, for I am very fond of Mary. I felt so vexed with aunt for turning her away as she did. I suppose she told you all about it?"
"Yes, she told me about it," replied Miss Graham, quietly. "It was a trial to her, but it troubles her no longer."
Something in the young lady's manner struck Ellen as strange.
"Mary is very ill, you said, Miss Graham; but you think she will get better, do you not?" she asked, looking anxiously at her teacher as she spoke.
Miss Graham did not immediately reply. She was making an effort to repress the emotion which the question called forth. At length she answered, in a low tone, "She is better, Ellen. She is released from all pain and sorrow, and at rest now."
"Oh, Miss Graham, you do not mean that she is dead!" Ellen exclaimed, in a voice that expressed at once grief and awe.
"We must not grieve for her, Ellen," said her friend. "She was lonely and sad on earth; now she is sheltered in the Father's home above."
Yet Ellen could not but grieve. The news was so unexpected, and to her seemed so sad that she was greatly moved as she listened to the particulars of her friend's illness and death, which Miss Graham proceeded to give her.
"Directly I saw her, I felt sure that Mary was most seriously ill," she said. "And my father, who visited her with me later in the day, confirmed my worst fears, and could hold out no hope of her recovery. Yet I little thought when I left her peacefully sleeping last evening, that I should not see her again in life, for it seemed probable that she might linger a few days. But early in the morning, when Mary awoke, the woman who watched beside her observed a great change in her appearance, and knew that it betokened the approach of death. Death had for Mary no terror; calm and happy in spirit, she passed joyfully from earth to the presence of her Saviour."
Ellen's tears fell fast as she listened to these words, and she was much touched by learning how kindly Mary had thought of her, and the message she had sent her.
The news of Mary's death, following the thoughts which had alarmed her on the previous night, produced a solemn impression. Had she been suddenly called to face death, she could not, like Mary, have met it calmly and joyfully. But now, through faith in Him who has conquered the "last enemy," for her also, death had lost its sting, and she could look forward without fear to whatever the future might bring.
Encouraged by her teacher's kind manner, Ellen told her of the distress of mind she had experienced, and how the sacred words recalled by memory had pointed her to the Saviour. Miss Graham's heart rejoiced as she listened, and the sympathy and encouragement she expressed in the conversation which ensued, strengthened the young believer's faith and joy. Ellen felt very thankful when she was assured that her life was in no danger from the injuries she had received, but that in a week or two she would be in all probability quite well again, and looked forward with hope to a life of usefulness and happiness in the service of Christ.
SORROWFUL TIDINGS.
IN the morning following Ellen's first day in the hospital, the sun was shining brightly on her home, although the fields about it lay bare and hard, sparkling with hoar-frost. A bright fire was burning on the kitchen hearth, and Mrs. Mansfield, with her sleeves turned up to her elbows, and wearing a holland apron, was engaged in kneading the dough for the week's batch of bread.
Lucy's voice was heard in the room above, singing blithely as she went about her domestic tasks; the baby was crawling on the rug which lay in front of the fire, taking evident pride in his sturdy limbs, as he sprawled about and crowed with delight.
And in a large arm-chair beside the glowing hearth sat Jerry, no longer confined to his room, but able to join the family circle, though still weak and ailing. As he sat patiently teaching his little brothers, Johnny and Willy, to read from the sacred volume which lay open on his knee, his face wore a more hopeful look than when we last saw him, and seemed to promise the return of health.
"Oh, here comes the postman!" exclaimed their mother, looking up as she heard the gate swing on its hinges. "He's bringing us a letter from Ellen, no doubt. Run, Johnny, and take it from him."
Johnny needed no second bidding, but hastened to the door, and quickly returned with a letter for his mother.
"Why, it's from your Aunt Matilda!" said she, as she glanced at it. "It isn't often she writes. Dear me! I hope there's nothing the matter with Ellen. Read it to me, please, Jerry, for I can't take my hands out of the bread, or it will be spoiled."
Jerry took the letter Johnny handed him and opened it, his mother anxiously waiting to hear the contents.
The letter was worded in the abrupt style peculiar to Miss Mansfield's speech, and was as brief as the nature of the communication permitted.
"My dear sister," she wrote, "I am sorry to send you bad news, but you must be thankful it's no worse, as it might well have been. Yesterday evening, in my absence from home, Ellen and her fellow-apprentice disobeyed my express command, and carried a candle into the show-room, and in their carelessness managed to set fire to some expensive muslins which had been placed there. Ellen was well punished for her disobedience, and might have been burnt to death, if I had not come in just in time to help her. However, she was badly burnt, though not dangerously, and by the doctor's advice, I had her at once removed to the hospital, where everything has been done for her that could be, and she seems fairly comfortable, and in a way to recover soon. Hoping you will not let this distress you greatly, and assuring you that I will do all that I can for Ellen."I remain, yours affectionately,"MATILDA MANSFIELD."
As Jerry, in faltering tones, read this letter, his mother was much dismayed.
Forgetful of her dough, she almost took the letter from his hand before he had finished, so anxious was she to ascertain its exact contents.
Her sister-in-law's injunction that she should not distress herself was of little use.
Ellen almost burned to death, and lying in a hospital—the idea suggested a picture of suffering far worse than the reality!
The mother's heart felt keenly the pain her child was enduring, and the loneliness of her position.
"Oh, my poor child!" she wailed. "Badly burnt, and away from her mother in a hospital! I cannot bear to think of it. But I must go to her. I cannot let her suffer so alone, with no one to care for her, for I know her aunt has little tenderness to give any one, though I dare say she means well. I must manage to go somehow. Willy and Johnny, run off as fast as you can and look for father, and ask him to come to me at once."
As the little boys ran away to do her bidding, Mrs. Mansfield sank on to the nearest chair and burst into tears.
"Oh, Jerry, this is a dreadful thing!" she sobbed. "I have no doubt your sister is in a most serious state. 'Badly burnt,' you see, your aunt says, and very likely would not tell me the worst. I dare say the poor dear has received injuries that may last for life."
"Oh, no, mother; I don't think she is so bad as that," replied Jerry, striving to comfort her, though tears were shining in his eyes as he spoke. "Aunt says she is in a way to recover soon. She would not say so, if there was any fear of her being always ill—like me."
"I don't know that," returned his mother, shaking her head despondingly. "She would not tell me all the truth at once, for fear of alarming me too much. I misdoubt there's more behind her words than you think."
Jerry's heart had already been lifted up in silent prayer to the Saviour on Ellen's behalf. He now ventured to say timidly,—
"Mother, don't you cry so. Jesus will take care of Ellen. I have asked Him to make her well; won't you ask Him too?"
"Oh, Jerry, I can't," she sighed; "I don't feel like praying now."
"If you were to pray, you would feel better able to bear it, mother," said the little invalid, wise beyond his years.
"I wish I had your faith, my boy," said his mother, as she knelt down beside him, and fondly kissed his cheek. "You pray, Jerry; I can't."
There was a moment's hesitation, and then the boy, folding his thin hands, simply but solemnly uttered the following prayer:
"O Lord Jesus, we know that Thou art the Great Physician, and can make people well, and art willing to help us in all troubles. Look upon dear Nelly, O Lord, we pray, and make her soon well again, and bless and comfort us, and give us more faith in Thee. Amen."
"Amen," murmured his mother, "amen."
And she rose up stronger in heart, and set about making preparations for her speedy departure. In these, her husband soon aided her, for he was as anxious as his wife that the "poor lass" should not be left alone in suffering any longer than could be helped. They had but vague notions of the arrangements of a hospital, and thought of it as an undesirable abode. Had they known the comforts and advantages which Ellen enjoyed, they might not have bewailed her situation as they did.
It was no easy matter for Mrs. Mansfield to leave her baby and little children, even to go to her eldest child, the thought of whose sufferings so excited her motherly love and pity. But she had full confidence in the elder ones, Tom and Lucy, to whose care she entrusted their young brothers and sisters. With many careful injunctions, and not without tears, she at length said good-bye to them all, and started to catch the train for Charmouth. The remembrance of Jerry's prayer went with her, and more than once on her journey thither, did her heart repeat its simple petitions.
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
MISS MANSFIELD had assured her sister that she would do all she could for Ellen, and she kept her promise, for although her letter had expressed no pity for her niece, her heart felt for the girl, and she regretted her sufferings none the less that her sense of justice pronounced them deserved.
On the morning following the accident, she had called at the hospital to inquire for Ellen, but had not been allowed to see her, as she was then asleep. The next day she again came to visit her, bringing some oranges as a token of good-will. Ellen had rather dreaded seeing her aunt, fearing she would reproach her for her disobedience. But her aunt's manner was kinder and more gentle than she had yet known it. The words in which she attempted to express her sympathy were abrupt and somewhat peculiar, it is true, but they expressed genuine feeling, and she refrained from making any allusion to the origin of the disaster.
When Ellen, overcoming with an effort her reluctance, sorrowfully confessed her fault, and begged her aunt to forgive her, Miss Mansfield answered dryly,—
"There's no need of many words about that. I reckon you've had a lesson you won't forget in a hurry, and what's done can't be undone, so there's an end to it."
The difference which Ellen observed in her aunt's manner was to be accounted for by the fact that she had that morning, to her grief and bitter regret, learned of Mary's death. Conscience told her plainly that she was to blame for what had happened. Had she not so hastily and unjustly dismissed her from her employ, Mary, in all probability, would never have contracted the illness which proved fatal. Miss Mansfield's self-reproach was keen, and she felt as though she could never forgive herself for having acted as she had. Long did the memory of Mary cause her pain, till at length, it led her to seek, at the foot of the cross, the pardon and peace which the Saviour alone can give to the sin-laden soul. She never forgot the lesson which this sad experience taught her, and for the future, treated her apprentices with more consideration and kindness than she had previously shown.
Ellen felt cheered by her aunt's unexpected kindness, but still she longed for her mother's presence, and wished she were not so far from those whom she loved.
Thinking about her home, and recalling happy days that were past, she fell asleep, and in her sleep, still saw the dear old homestead, and the faces of her parents and brothers and sisters.
She did not lose the consciousness of weakness and pain, but she dreamed that she was no longer in the hospital, surrounded by fellow-sufferers, and tended by a strange though kind nurse, but lying in her little bed at home, with her brothers and sisters smiling upon her, and her mother at hand to attend to her wants. By her side sat Jerry, with such a happy face, as he talked to her about the Great Physician, and heard her tell how Jesus had made her whole. Then she saw her mother bending over her, and heard her say, "My poor Nelly!" and even felt her kiss upon her lips. With that, she awoke and opened her eyes. But so bewildered was she at the sight which met her gaze, that she thought she must still be dreaming.
For as she lifted her eyes, they rested upon her mother's face—her own mother bending over her, just as she had seen her in her dream. For a moment, she looked in amazement, till it dawned on her mind that this was no dream, but a joyous reality, and, forgetful of her burns, she sprang up with a cry of delight.
"Oh, mother! How did you get here?"
"My dear child," said her mother, as she folded her in a warm embrace. "Do you think I could stay away from you when you were laid up thus?"
Ellen cried for very joy. The sound of her mother's voice, the sense of her presence, were unspeakably precious.
There is no one like a mother to a sick child. Ellen had often behaved undutifully to her mother, and had manifested little gratitude for her devotion; yet she had loved her all the while, and in pain and sorrow, her heart had yearned for her. All past grievances were forgotten, as she gazed on her parent's face, for was she not her own mother, who loved her and cared for her as none other could?
"However did you manage to get away, mother?" she asked, when she had recovered a little from her pleasant surprise. "What will poor baby do without you?"
"Oh! Baby is getting quite a big child now, and will soon run alone. I can trust him in Lucy's care; she is wonderfully thoughtful and managing for her age. And father will have to be both mother and father to them all for a few days," replied her mother.
"And Jerry? How is Jerry?" asked Ellen, eagerly.
"Oh! Jerry really seems to be getting stronger, I am thankful to say, dear, and he has great hopes that he will be quite well in time," answered Mrs. Mansfield. "His father carries him downstairs now, and he sits in the chimney-corner. He's as good as ever, bless him! Sometimes I tremble when I listen to his words, for I fear he's almost too good to live."
"Too good to live!" repeated Ellen. "Oh, no, mother, do not say so. Surely one had need be good to live, as well as to die."
Many were the questions Ellen asked her mother, and much had they to say to each other.
Whilst they were talking, Dr. Graham entered the ward, and approached to ascertain how Ellen was progressing.
"You are her mother?" said he, as he looked at Mrs. Mansfield, for the resemblance of child to parent proclaimed the tie.
"Yes, sir; I've come a long way to see her, but I couldn't rest till I saw for myself exactly how she was."
"She is doing nicely," the doctor pronounced, when he had made some inquiries of the nurse. "She does not mean to be in the hospital long, I can see; we shall soon have to dismiss her as convalescent."
"Oh, I am thankful to hear you say that," exclaimed Mrs. Mansfield. "It is a great relief to me. I shall be able to leave her with an easy heart."
"Oh, mother! Don't talk of leaving me, when you have only just come," said Ellen, in a reproachful tone.
"My dear, there are the others to be thought of, you know," replied her mother. "But you may be sure I will remain with you as long as ever I can."
"How many children have you?" asked the doctor, kindly.
"Nine younger than this one, sir, and one of them a constant invalid."
"Ah, yes, I remember; my daughter was telling me this morning about your little boy," replied Dr. Graham, who had been much interested in the account of Jerry he had heard. "How does he suffer? Tell me all about him."
Mrs. Mansfield readily began to give particulars of the accident which had befallen Jerry, and his consequent sufferings.
The doctor interrupted her with many a question as she proceeded.
"And you have had no opinion on his case, save that of the country doctor who attended him after the accident?" he said, when she had told all.
"We have had no chance of getting any other, sir, living as we do in the country, many miles from any town, with such a large family to bring up, and little money to spend on them."
"True, true, I understand," said the doctor, nodding his head. "But now, do you think you could bring the boy here, that we might see what we can do for him? Of course, I can give no opinion till I have examined him; but it is not improbable that his case may be more hopeful than you suppose."
Oh! how the faces of Ellen and her mother brightened at those words.
"Indeed, sir, I should be glad to do so, if you think the journey would not harm him," replied Mrs. Mansfield.
"Well, from what you tell me, I should think he might without risk, attempt the journey," said Dr. Graham. "But I would not urge you to take the step without due consideration. I need hardly tell you that if, by God's blessing, he recovers, his cure will, in all probability, be slow. You must be prepared to part with him for some time if you bring him to this hospital."
Mrs. Mansfield's countenance fell. The thought of a long separation from Jerry gave her heart a pang. But the hope held out, the possibility of her boy's restoration to health, was worth any amount of personal sorrow and anxiety.
"If my husband were willing, sir, I would let the lad come, for the sake of the good he might get," she said, after a minute's silence.
"Well, when you go home, you must talk it over with your husband, and hear what he has to say on the matter," replied Dr. Graham. "And if you think you'd like the little fellow to come here, just let me know, and I'll secure his admission, and look after him. There, there, you need not thank me till we see the result. I think we might perhaps do something for him, but I cannot speak with certainty."
He then began to explain to Mrs. Mansfield, what precautions to observe in order to shield Jerry as much as possible from fatigue, in case the journey were undertaken. Ellen listened eagerly to his words, and so sanguine were her expectations that Jerry's oft-repeated prayer seemed to her to be already answered.
For three days, Mrs. Mansfield stayed at her sister-in-law's house, spending as much of each day as possible at her daughter's bedside. Then, as Ellen seemed getting better, and was evidently comfortable and well cared for at the hospital, the claims of the other children pressed upon her mother's heart, and she felt obliged to return home. Ellen bade her good-bye with less regret than she would otherwise have felt, because she looked forward to Jerry's coming, which Mrs. Mansfield hoped to bring about.
Great was the surprise of the little sufferer when the proposed journey was named to him. They had feared that in his weakness, he would shrink from the fatigue involved in such an undertaking. But, on the contrary, he was delighted with the plan, and believed that it was designed by the Lord in answer to his prayer, and would issue in his recovery.
"God grant you may be right, my boy," his mother would say, as she listened to his hopeful words.
Yet it was not without fear that the parents made arrangements for their child's removal to the hospital. They trembled lest their efforts to promote his restoration to health should but do him harm. But the boy felt no fear, and his brave, hopeful spirit served to support him under the inevitable fatigue. His mother herself accompanied him on his journey, for she could entrust the care of him to no one.
The day fixed for their going proved fine and mild for the time of year, which wanted only a fortnight to Christmas. The children were all much excited by their brother's departure, and hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. For were there not tears in their mother's eyes as she wrapped her warmest shawl around Jerry's fragile form, although she smiled the while, and talked hopefully of the future day when he would come back to them strong and well?
Resting on a mattress in a covered wagon slowly driven by his father, the little invalid reached the station without experiencing any discomfort, and the rest of the journey was accomplished equally well. That night, Jerry slept in the hospital. Lulled to rest by happy thoughts, he passed a very different night from the first his sister had spent within those walls.
JERRY'S FAITH HAS ITS REWARD.
SOME months later, on a bright June morning, Ellen and Jerry Mansfield were waiting on the Charmouth platform for the train which was to take them home. The face of each was radiant with delight, for they had been counting on this day for weeks, and the flight of time had been far too slow for their eager anticipations. His six months' absence from the home which he had never before quitted even for a day, had been a trial to Jerry's loving heart, and he longed intensely to be with his parents and brothers and sisters once more.
But he was not going home as he had left it. No; his faith had received its reward. The Saviour had not turned a deaf ear to his oft-recurring cry, and he was no longer a helpless boy, with weak and crippled limbs; the bent frame was straightened now, and the little face bore the hue of returning health, though there were still traces of delicacy to proclaim the need for caution.
His recovery had been slow and painful, and his patience had been tried by the restrictions the doctors found it necessary to place upon his movements. For many weeks, he had been obliged to lie perfectly still upon a flat couch, but the boy had borne the restraint without murmuring.
His winning ways won the affection of all about him, and he became a favourite alike with doctors, nurses, and fellow-patients. Miss Graham, who frequently passed an hour by his bedside, was especially fond of him, and her kindness awakened in Jerry's heart the warmest love and gratitude. She fully sympathised in his joy as he felt his limbs regaining power and began to walk, at first only a few steps at a time, but with daily increasing strength.
The doctors were not a little proud of the cure they had effected, and Dr. Graham, much interested in the little lad, took pains to procure him an appliance recently invented for the relief of sufferers from spinal affections, which proved of great assistance to Jerry's feeble frame.
And now he was able to walk quite easily, and was going home to show them all what a change had taken place in him! How shall we describe the gladness that filled his young heart?
He and his sister were not alone. Their Aunt Matilda had contrived to spare half an hour from her work in order to see them off. It was not easy for her to do without her niece's assistance during the fortnight's holiday she had promised her, but she was learning to deny herself for the sake of others, and she did not regret the inconvenience thus occasioned as she noted the happy faces of brother and sister.
Presently, as they waited, they were joined by Miss Graham, who wished to see the last of her little friend, and to provide for his comfort on the journey.
"Oh, Miss Graham, how kind of you to come!" he cried, as he saw her. "I did want to say good-bye to you again."
"You are very glad to leave us, Jerry," she said, as she looked at his smiling face.
"Not glad to leave you, Miss Graham," he answered, "but very glad to go home."
"Your mother will be overjoyed to see you looking so well," said the lady; "you are not like the same boy you were when you came."
"Mother'll hardly know me, I think," said Jerry joyously. "Ellen says I have grown two or three inches since I left home."
"I dare say you have," replied Miss Graham; "and you are certainly stouter than you were, so that you are improved in all respects."
Jerry was silent for a few moments. He was thinking how best he could thank Miss Graham for her kindness to him since he had been in the hospital. But in vain, he tried to find suitable words. All he could say was,—
"Miss Graham, you have been very good to me since I have been here, and so has Dr. Graham. I shall never forget you."
"Thank you, Jerry," said the young lady, with a smile. "I am sure we shall always remember you. And if ever we can help you in any way, you may be sure of our willingness to do so. I shall hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again at Charmouth at some future time."
Jerry shook his head.
"I don't think I shall ever leave home again, if I can help it," he said decidedly. Then, as if fearing his remark might appear ungrateful, he added, "But I should very much like to see you again, though."
"Then I hope you may," replied Miss Graham. "Perhaps when you are older, you will come to Charmouth to learn a trade, or fit yourself for some calling, for I do not suppose you will be a farmer, Jerry?"
"No, I don't think I shall," returned Jerry, looking at his thin, white hands. "I know what I should like to do."
"What is that?" asked Miss Graham.
The boy's face flushed, as in a low tone, he answered, "I should like to tell others about Jesus, and how good He is to those who trust Him."
"Well, Jerry, perhaps that is the work the Lord means you to do," said his friend; "and it is work which you may begin at once. You remember how Jesus said to one whom He healed, 'Return to thine own house, and show how great things God hath done unto thee.' He says the same to you now."
"Yes, He has done great things for me," said Jerry gravely; "for it is Jesus who has really made me well. The doctors did all they could, but their doctoring would have been of no use without Him."
"And the bodily health He has given you is, after all, but a small blessing when compared with the spiritual health which He is willing to bestow upon all who seek it at His hands," said Miss Graham.
But here the arrival of the train interrupted the talk, and there was little time for further words. Ellen and Jerry were soon placed in a carriage, and as the train bore them away, joyously waving farewells to the friends they left behind, Miss Graham thought she had never seen such happy faces as theirs.
What a pleasant journey that was! It was now nearly a year since Ellen had quitted her home, and many a pang of home-sickness had she experienced in the interval. Absence had taught her to value her parents' love, and to long for the presence of the little ones, whom in past days she had often found tiresome. But she had learned higher lessons since her departure—lessons in the school of the Great Master, which she could never forget, and which made her, in many respects, a different being from the Ellen Mansfield of a year ago.
As the train sped on its way, bearing them from the smoky town, with its gloomy streets and crowded wharves, to the peaceful beauty of country scenes, Jerry felt inclined to sing for joy, and snatches of hymns he had heard in the hospital broke every now and then from his lips. The train moved too slowly for him. At each station they gained, he eagerly inquired of his sister how long it would be before they reached the one at which their father would meet them, and it seemed to his impatience as if they would never get there.
But at length, Ellen was able to say, "The next station will be ours, Jerry."
And soon, he felt the train slackening speed, and caught sight of his father standing on the platform, looking out for them. It was well his sister was there to take care of him, or he would certainly have sprung out before the train stopped, or have run some such risk of undoing all that the doctors had been able to do for him.
"My little man, how well you look!" exclaimed his father, as he helped him from the carriage. "And how bravely you walk!" he added, as Jerry, eager to show himself off to the best advantage, stepped out at his quickest pace.
The father's heart was more glad than words could express, and with the back of his hard, brown hand, he hastily dashed a tear from his eye, ere he helped his boy and girl into the cart which stood outside the station. They did not talk much as they drove home through the winding lanes on that bright summer afternoon. Somehow the hearts of all three seemed too full for many words, but the exclamations which burst from Ellen and Jerry at the sight of each familiar object they passed, were sufficiently eloquent.
At last, the farmhouse came into view, with a group of children standing at the gate, one head rising above another, as they watched for the first sign of the expected one's approach. A shout of joy was raised as they caught sight of the vehicle, and the noise brought their mother to the door.
Oh, how thankful she felt, as she lifted her boy from the cart, and held him in a warm embrace! Then she turned to receive her other child, whose radiant looks testified that she had quite recovered from the misadventure which had caused her mother such grief and alarm. Then the children pressed around their brother and sister, and kisses and hugs were exchanged, and questions and answers followed each other so rapidly that the talk seemed like a game of "cross questions and crooked answers."
"Come, come, children, you don't want to stay in the yard all the evening, do you?" asked their father. "Our travellers are hungry, I guess."
So saying, he pushed them before him into the large kitchen, which wore its brightest aspect in honour of the happy occasion. A snowy cloth was spread on the deal table, and the tea-things placed ready thereon, and, by way of ornament, a jug containing a bunch of dog-roses and other wild flowers of the month. An appetising odour pervaded the apartment, for the mother had been frying pancakes for the children, who she knew would relish them.