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SUNRISE.
THE early daylight was stealing into the room, when Dr. Arundel became certain that his dearly-loved one was no longer there.
He drew his hand from under the sweet cheek, which had not been wasted by long illness, and gently laid her back by little Tom.
He knelt down by her side and laid his head against her arm. "My dear, my dear," he said softly, "what shall I do without you?"
Then, afraid lest Nurse Raymond should come in, he pressed one kiss on the lifeless lips, and promising himself some quiet time with his beloved by-and-by, he went round the bed to lift little Tom from his resting-place.
Nurse Raymond entered at the moment; and as they carried Tom into the next room, his father heard him murmur:
"What is it, papa? Why are you moving me? Doesn't she want me any more?"
"No, dear," he answered gently, hoping Tom would be satisfied without further questions.
"Shall I go back to her by-and-by?" asked Tom piteously.
"No, dear," answered his father tenderly; "she is gone away for a little while."
"She? Gone away and left me?"
"God sent for her, my child."
Tom was silent; at last he said softly:
"Will she come back, papa?"
"No, my dear; we shall go to be with her, but she will never come back."
Then, overpowered by the expression in words of the dreadful certainty, he clasped his arms tighter round the frail form, and deep sobs of agony broke from him.
Tom needed no further telling, and such an anguish swept over him, that afterwards, he wondered it had not killed him.
At first he could only wail out, "Mamma, mamma!" But by-and-by, he became aware that his father's grief must be as great as his, and, used latterly to think of others, he at last checked his wild sobs, and began to quiet his quailing heart. After a few minutes, he left off crying, and put his thin little hand up to his father's face.
"Dear papa," he said soothingly, "dear papa, we shall see her again."
The strong arms pressed him, and the awful sobs stilled a little.
"She would be so grieved for you, if she could see—" murmured the little comforter.
His father roused himself. "You are right, dear; and I would not have her see. We will pray, my child."
He bent his head over his little son, but no words would come. Tom lay still, looking first at him, and then upwards; and at last Dr. Arundel spoke.
"I thank Thee, yes, I thank Thee, that Thou hast so tenderly taken my darling to be with Thee; and I say from my heart that I give her up to Thee!"
There was a long, deep silence after this, while the sun gradually rose and peeped in at the window, and stole along the floor till its bright rays touched little Tom's pale face.
"See, papa," he said softly, "the Sun of righteousness has arisen, with healing in His wings."
* * * * * *
Nellie, entering the nursery about an hour after her father had told her the sad news, found all the little ones creeping about on tiptoe, afraid of disturbing the loved mother beneath.
Mary looked up in her face, and knew all the moment their eyes met.
Nellie went straight over to the baby, and took him on her lap, and then drew Dolly to her knee.
"You've been crying," said Dolly, looking anxiously in her face.
"Yes," answered Nellie quietly; "but I want to tell you all something. Come, Netta and Isabel, darlings, come close to me."
"Is mamma worse?" asked Isabel.
"No, dear children, she is better; she is gone to be with Jesus."
"Gone?" said Dolly, with such a wail that Nellie's calmness almost gave way.
"Yes," she said, steadying her voice again; "her spirit is gone to heaven to be with God. By-and-by, you shall go in and kiss her dear face once more; but she will not know anything about it, because her spirit is away, quite happy with God."
Netta and Isabel hid their faces against Nellie's dress, and she drew them closer to her, while she went on softly:
"We must all die some day, you know, dears, unless, indeed, the Lord Jesus should come first and fetch us all away; but if not that, we must all die; and dear mamma told me to tell you that she wants you all to come to be where she is. How do you think you can get there?"
The little girls only clung closer to her dress; but she was glad to believe that they already knew the way, and were walking in it.
Dolly gazed at her with awe-struck eyes.
"Jesus is the way. If you ask Him, He will take you by-and-by to be where you will see dear mamma again."
Then she tenderly kissed the baby, and pointing upwards told him "that is where Jesus lives, and where mamma lives;" and then, telling them all to be very quiet, she left the room.
As she crossed the landing to her own chamber, some of the weight of responsibility which would rest on her young shoulders came over her.
Ada was there, lying across the foot of her bed, with her face downwards; she went up to her, and stood silently by her side. At last she put out her hand and softly smoothed her hair.
Ada took no notice whatever of her touch; and Nellie left the room to go downstairs, the heavy feeling at her heart intensified by being unable to give any consolation.
Nellie had been called into her father's study, and had received instructions, which had seemed to seal her desolation.
To arrange for dresses without consulting her mamma, brought overwhelmingly to her mind the extent of her loss. But there was no time to dwell on it. She felt the only thing to be done was to go through each duty as it came up, without thinking of anything beyond it.
Arthur hung about by her side, anxious to solace her if it might be possible, going backwards and forwards to the nursery, and ready to help her in any way. He loved to dwell on all the details of his dear mother's death; and Nellie and he, and little Tom, found comfort in recalling her loving life, and peaceful end.
After breakfast, Dr. Arundel took his children in to kiss their mother. Nellie brought the baby, and guided the little hands to place some white flowers on the bed, and then she had drawn them away, and left their father alone with his dead.
Ada did not move from her position on the bed, and as the morning wore away, Nellie began to feel anxious about her. She went in once and covered her over with a shawl, but received no word from the poor heart-broken girl. She asked their father what was to be done for her, and he said, "Let her alone, dear."
So the long morning passed slowly away.
It was nearly dinner-time when Nellie once more re-entered their room.
Ada did not seem to have moved, and Nellie busied herself with her toilet, anxiously considering what she ought to do. At last she went to her side, and said very low, "Dear Ada, you will try to come down to dinner?"
Ada moved slightly and moaned.
"It is so sad for papa," resumed Nellie.
"I can't," answered Ada.
"We ought to try to do all we can for papa," persisted Nellie.
"Oh, let me be, Nellie!" irritably exclaimed the miserable girl. "I must be let alone. I cannot bear it."
"Very well, dearest; I will not trouble you any more." She stooped and kissed the sad, hopeless face, and went downstairs.
As she passed the nursery, Isabel peeped out. "Nellie, can't you find us anything to do?" she said, whispering; "we are so miserable, and nurse doesn't like us to play."
Nellie entered, and found the nurse—whose eyes were swollen with crying—holding the baby on her lap, and rocking him backwards and forwards in the most forlorn way.
"Poor dear children," she said, speaking in a hushed voice; "we must find something to do. Supposing I bring you some work that I have ready cut-out for the missionary basket?"
Mary looked surprised. "Oh, Miss Nellie," she said, "how can they bear to?"
"Mamma would have wished them to be employed," answered Nellie, gravely and firmly; "she would have been so sorry for them, Mary."
Mary burst into tears, and hugged the baby, while Nellie went for the work.
"You can think and talk of where dear mamma is, darlings, just the same," she said when she came back. "And all the better that you are carrying out one of her wishes, to see the basket filled."
The little girls looked up comforted, and she continued, "We cannot but be sad for many a long day, but we must all try to be busy in doing what she would wish us; must we not, darlings?"
"Can I have some work?" asked Dolly, "to help mamma's basket?"
"Yes; there is some just right for you; see."
And so it was called from that time "Mamma's Basket."
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"THINE EYES SHALL SEE THE KING."
THE afternoon of that long and sorrowful day wore away slowly to Nellie.
She was sitting in the drawing room, Arthur and Tom being in the nursery, with some writing paper before her, but unable to begin the dreaded letter to her grandmamma, when, after a light tap, the door opened, and she looked up in the face of Christina.
Nellie threw herself into her arms and was strained in a close embrace, and she found it impossible longer to keep up the self-command which she had imposed upon herself all day.
Christina placed her on the sofa, and sat down by her side, only whispering, "Poor Nellie, what you must have gone through."
Nellie held her hand, and felt it a comfort to be able to cry, which Christina understood; for she made no effort to talk, but smoothed back her hair and stroked her hand in silence.
So they remained for nearly an hour, till Nellie had wept all her tears away. Then she sat up and looked round the room with a shiver.
"Where is Ada?" asked Christina.
"On her bed; she has not moved or eaten to-day."
"Oh, Nellie!"
"It is so dreadful; but papa says 'let her alone.'"
"I will go to her. Do you think I could have a cup of tea to take with me?"
"I will ring for it."
Christina turned to the somewhat disordered room, and began putting the chairs in their places, and making it look as usual. Nellie watched her in silence, feeling too miserable to do anything else.
When Simmons came in answer to the bell, Christina asked if she might have a cup of tea to take to Miss Ada.
"Oh yes, ma'am," said Simmons, "it is ready, for we have just made our kitchen tea."
She hastened away, and in a minute brought back three cups of hot tea, and some bread and butter.
"You and Miss Nellie had better take some too; the Doctor will not be in till nearly six, ma'am."
"Drink yours, Nellie," said Christina; "I shall take this to Ada first. I can stay a day or two if you like."
"Like!" answered Nellie. "It would be the greatest comfort I could have."
"Dear Nellie, I am so glad to hear you say so. I shall be so glad to help you. I told my aunt not to expect me back yet."
"How did you hear?"
"Your father telegraphed to me this morning."
She took the tea and went up into the darkened room, passing on her way that other room, so still and quiet, where she longed to enter, but must not yet.
Ada lay much in the same position as she had done in the morning, and Christina closed the door and placed her little tray on the table, in a firm audible way which somewhat aroused her. She listened, without moving; and Christina, when her preparations were completed, came to her side, and said kindly, "Here is your tea, Ada."
Ada looked up surprised. "I thought it was Nellie," she said without emotion; "but yet I knew it was not her step."
Christina began to raise her, and Ada so far helped herself as to sit upright and draw the tea towards her.
Christina busied herself in straightening this room as she had done the other, and Ada drank the tea and ate some bread and butter, watching Christina moving about as if in a dream. When it was done, her misery came over her again, and pushing away her plate almost pettishly, she turned round and threw herself over her bed once more, with a bitter cry.
Christina ceased to put the room tidy; kneeling down by the bed, she threw her arm round Ada, and whispered softly, "I know what it is to lose a mother."
"Oh, if she'd only wished me good-bye!" said Ada, sobbing.
"Ah, dear, we always wish some things had been different; but perhaps she could not."
"She did kiss me; but then she fell asleep. Oh, Christina, Christina, she can never know how I loved her, and all I meant to do to be a comfort to her!"
"She will know some day, dear child."
"I was often tiresome," said Ada, heart-brokenly, "often grieved and worried her, and I can never, never show her that I loved her all the same."
"She knew that, dear. I never heard her say one word but of love to you."
"No; oh, no! But, Christina, it is too dreadful; I could not believe it could be so."
Christina could only whisper that she had passed through the same anguish herself, and knew how it felt; and then she reminded her, too, of Him who sorrowed and wept with bereaved ones, and of what a tender heart He had.
"And think, dear Ada, of her joy now. Think of her redeemed spirit among the multitude whom no man can number. No more pain or anxiety or weariness, but with her Lord, rejoicing in serving Him with perfect service for ever."
Ada listened at last, till the soft voice and the comforting words soothed her, and ere long the eyes which had been raised, trying to follow Christina's thoughts right into heaven, gradually closed, and sleep ended to her that mournful day which had found her motherless.
Then Christina drew some bed-clothes over her, and putting her head in a more comfortable position left her, glad that for a time she would have some relief from her sorrow.
On the next landing she paused, and was just entering the chamber of death when Nellie joined her.
They went in, and stood hand-in-hand by the bed.
Nellie uncovered the sweet, peaceful face.
"She looks just the same," said Christina, very low.
"Yes, only so still. She was always doing something for others before," whispered Nellie in return.
"What a lovely smile she has. Nellie, I can't cry; I can only feel just now that she has gone in to see the King."
"It brings heaven very near," said Nellie. "I have felt as if I had gone almost to the gate."
"And dear little Tom?" asked Christina softly.
"He seems half in heaven," she answered.
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IN THE NIGHT.
"COULD you not save yourself, dear papa?" asked Nellie, looking up in Dr. Arundel's grave face as he prepared to visit his patients the next morning.
"No, my child; it would be no 'save' to me to know they were neglected or troubled. I would rather go and see them."
Nellie still looked at him; but hardly liked to say more.
"I shall do very well, dear," he added; "do not be anxious about me."
On that second day Ada was ill. She begged to be allowed to stay in bed, and her father had told her it would be the best place for her.
She lay hour after hour in hopeless grief. She wept till she seemed to have no more tears, and her aching, throbbing head warned her that she could bear no more thinking. And yet thought after thought came over her, and again and again she wept, till her heart seemed broken.
Tom had asked to be in the drawing room all day, so as to be near Nellie and Christina. He lay perfectly quiet, not crying or making any complaint, his anxiety seeming to be to comfort the others, and be as little trouble as possible.
Netta and Isabel brought their work downstairs, and sat in a corner busying themselves over it, wonderfully comforted to think they could be doing what would have pleased their mamma.
At times they would be overpowered by fits of weeping; but, as a rule, there was more a subdued sense of loss and sorrow, than any outward show of it.
Arthur only broke down once, and that was when he had first gone in to see his mother's face. After that he was silent and thoughtful, and only desirous of helping Nellie.
How sad were the details of the mourning and the funeral preparations. Nellie was thankful that Ada was out of it all. She continued very unwell, and would accept no one to wait on her but Christina, who went in and out with the greatest kindness and consideration.
One morning after she had put Ada comfortable, and made all neat, she stood by the bedside looking earnestly at her.
"What is it?" asked Ada, thinking she wished to say something.
"Ada, dear, I do not like to keep you in ignorance; but would you not like to see your dear mamma before—"
Ada started, and sat up in bed, raising her heavy eyes in surprise.
"There is no hurry, dear," answered Christina tenderly; "but I knew what I should have liked."
"Yes, yes; I have been so ill. I forgot she could not be here always."
Christina gave her her clothes, and Ada dressed, trembling in every limb.
"Can you, dear?" asked Christina, with tears in her eyes.
"Oh, yes, please. I shall come back to bed after."
"Shall I come with you, or wait here?"
"If you would help me to the door? Oh, I'm so giddy."
Christina put her strong arm round her, and they went slowly downstairs. When they came to the room, Ada kissed her, and, steadying herself with a strong effort, entered and shut the door.
Long Christina waited, but not a sound came from within. At last with beating heart she ventured to go in.
In the centre of the room was all that remained of the one they so loved, and on the floor by it lay Ada, in a death-like swoon.
Christina was glad to hear Dr. Arundel's step behind her, and together they lifted the poor child back to her bed, where she lay again hour after hour, till grief should have time to spend its bitter force.
On the morning after the funeral, Dr. Arundel told them it would be wise to take up their usual avocations.
"Let us remember your dear mother always, and speak of her to each other whenever we like; but we will also do as she would wish, and that will be to remember we have One higher than even her to please; that we must go about our Father's business."
He kissed them all gravely and lovingly, and then, taking Nellie's hand, led her into his study.
"My dear child," he said, "you must thank all in the house for their consideration and love to me this week; I cannot. And to you, my dear, I must now look to be my housekeeper, and comfort, and friend. You have always been so, my child, next to dear mamma; and now I have only you."
He was too overcome to say more; and perhaps that day in which they turned over a new leaf was the most hopelessly sad one they had passed.
In the evening, just as Nellie was coming down from their mamma's duty of saying the little ones' prayers, she heard some one being shown into the drawing room.
She waited till the door was shut, and then descending, met Simmons, who told her Mr. Elliot had called, and had asked for her.
"Is papa in?" she said.
"He went out five minutes ago."
So Nellie went in, trying to be calm.
Wilmot Elliot came forward, and took her hand, and looked in her face; and Nellie looked up in his in silence.
"I am so dreadfully sorry," he said, speaking in a hushed and altered tone from any she had ever heard from him.
She was going to answer, but her lips quivered, and she hastily turned away, and sat down with her face averted.
"I longed to come, if I might be permitted to try to comfort you or help you; but yet I feared to intrude on you, and so I stayed away, Miss Arundel."
"Oh, no!" said Nellie.
"But you will believe I have not forgotten you?"
"I am sure of that, thank you," she answered low.
"Could you bear to tell me a little about it?"
"Would you care to hear?"
"Indeed I should; I have felt so sorrowful for you all this time."
Nellie glanced up gratefully, but found it very difficult to open afresh the wounds which were so slightly healed. She could not begin yet.
"I hear that Hope is getting better," she said.
"At last; she was very ill after you left."
"I feared she was going to be, and I was so sorry I could not stay to nurse her."
"She was very sorry to lose you; but our grief at all you came home to, seemed to put poor Hope's illness quite in the background."
"What was the matter? I have never heard."
"It was almost rheumatic fever; but I am glad to say she escaped it. But she is so happy, Miss Arundel."
"I am very glad to hear that," answered Nellie.
"And so am I. If for nothing else, I shall ever thank you for that."
He sat on talking for about half-an-hour; and Nellie told him the sad story, feeling comforted by his sympathy. The time flew by quickly, and just as he was rising to go, Dr. Arundel came in.
Wilmot did not, however, remain long, as he feared to intrude on the bereaved family; and soon Nellie was free to go upstairs to see how Ada was, and find Christina.
"Why did you not come down, dear?" she asked, bending over her future sister, and giving her a kiss.
"I did not know he was here till just now, and anyhow I should not have come."
"Why not?"
"He would not know me, and I think you would get on better alone this first visit."
"Yes, it was very sad; so different from the pleasant call I thought he would make when he would come to see dear mamma."
Nellie's eyes filled with tears at the thought, and Christina stood by her with a hand on her shoulder, looking out into the twilight of the square. That night, when Nellie knew Christina and Ada were fast asleep, she tried to set her thoughts in order. How was it that things looked less unutterably sad than they had done two or three hours ago? What difference was there?
A few kind words, a little sympathy, a short friendly call.
Nellie's head was buried closer into her pillow. "He was so kind and gentle," she thought; "he seemed to understand what I feel, and to sympathize so much. It did me good, I suppose."
Then she began to review all the day, and her father's words came back to her—
"Now I have only you."
"Only me," said Nellie to herself; "and I must be all he wants, and stay with him always, and be his comfort. Dear, dear papa."
Long, long hours passed by before she slept. The streets got quieter and quieter; only an occasional carriage or cab broke the stillness, till the sound of the wheels died away in the distance, and all was again silent.
Through her open window, she could hear Big Ben send forth its thrilling sound as the hours went by, and when each one struck, it came almost as a knell to her.
"I have left the best of life behind," she thought sadly; and then once more she looked forward, not into the little life which was close to her, but beyond that, above the mists of the valley at her feet, up to the everlasting hills.
"In Thy presence is fulness of joy: at Thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore."
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"THAT WHICH WAS LOST."
ADA gradually recovered; but still seemed not to wish to get up.
Christina remained with them during this time, and they hardly knew how much her presence lightened the gloom of their fresh sorrow.
She took the little girls, Nellie, and often Arthur, for a daily walk, and sometimes would persuade them into a short omnibus ride, and a walk in the park with her. Though they felt as if they could not bear to go, they yet came back refreshed and strengthened; and Christina was well repaid for her trouble, if trouble it could be called, when she saw the little girls looking happy, and Nellie's pale face relapse into a smile.
One day she told them she was going to make a call, and asked them if they would wait for her an hour; and if she did not come back to them in that time, would they return home.
"It is some one I do not know, Nellie; but when I come back, I will tell you about it; not just now. It is to the mother of that little boy I have, little Charlie Wood."
"Are you going to see her?" asked Arthur.
"Yes; I cannot bear not to try."
So, when they arrived at Hyde Park, Christina left them to enjoy themselves while she went to pay her visit in one of the streets near.
At the end of nearly an hour she came towards them, and asking Arthur to call a cab, she put them in it, promising to be home about six o'clock.
She returned at the appointed time, very tired; but after tea as they all sat together, Dr. Arundel having gone to his study, Christina said she would begin her story.
"I rang at the bell," she said, "and was asked up by an untidy servant to a shabby drawing room. I should however say that I knew she was in town on business, from her husband, who writes to me occasionally.
"Here's a lady, 'm,' said the untidy servant, announcing me without any warning.
"A person rose to greet me who had once been very pretty, and bowing, asked if I wished to speak to her on business.
"I said that I had come to see her, if she would allow me.
"She looked extremely astonished; and when I sat down by her and took her hand, and told her I knew she was in trouble, she was rather angry.
"But I would not be put off; and I explained to her that I knew of her sad history, and felt sure she desired to lead a new and better life.
"After a while she broke down utterly, and confessed that she was the most miserable woman living.
"'I did love my husband, and I do love my children; but I can't do without what I take, and it's of no use. I have tried, and tried, and tried; but it's of no use.'
"Oh, how hopelessly she wept! And I wept with her.
"'Why do you come to me?' she asked at last, looking suspiciously at me.
"'Because I grieve for you; because I have heard of your little baby without a mother's love, and I want you to begin a new life.'
"She looked at me wonderingly. 'Heard of my baby? Where is he?'
"'Where you will never see him again if you do not give up drink.'
"She bowed her head down on the table. 'I can't give it up,' she breathed, despair written on her face.
"'Are you willing to give it up?'
"'I am to-day—now, while you are talking to me; but to-morrow, or presently, when you are gone, the thirst will come on, and I shall go to it again; yes, I know I shall.'
"'Have you ever heard of the Son of God?' I asked.
"'Of course I have.'
"'Do you suppose that the devil is stronger than the Son of God?'
"'Sometimes I think he is.'
"'Then I am sure he is not. Christ is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him. He can save you even from desiring it again, if you ask Him.'
"She looked at me earnestly, and faltered out, 'Say those words again. Able—'
"'Able to save to the uttermost.'
"Then she sank on her knees by my side, and buried her face in her hands, and sobbed out words of prayer and entreaty.
"You may be sure I prayed too; and when she grew silent, and lifted her eyes to mine, I raised her up to sit by me once more.
"'Now,' I said, 'will you go for a visit to a nice house I know of at the sea-side, where they will help you to keep your resolve?'
"'But my business?'
"'You are not of much use in your business now, are you?'
"'No,' she said humbly.
"'Then leave all that. Your husband will see to it. He will only be too glad. I will come in an hour's time, and put you into the train, and telegraph to them to meet you, and with God's blessing, in three months' time you will be a different woman.'
"'And my children?'
"'Ask God to bless them, and make you fit to come back to them.'
"'I will,' she answered.
"Then I rose to go, promising to come back in an hour.
"'May I kiss you?' she said, holding my hand and gazing at me.
"So I stooped and kissed her.
"'Oh! I am not worthy,' she said, sinking beside me and burying her head in my lap.
"And then I felt, dears, that I was not worthy.
"But as I bent over her bowed head, I remembered He had come to seek and to save that which was lost—me, as well as her; blessed Jesus."
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ADA'S STORY.
DR. ARUNDEL used to go in each morning and evening to see Ada, but the visits were not very satisfactory to either of them.
She was afraid of adding to his grief by showing her own, and generally answered his questions as briefly as possible, keeping a composed face, which was truly much more painful to him than tears would have been.
On his part, he felt obliged to keep up the same self-control. Such grief as his could only be borne by putting it in the background, and living a life apart from it.
One evening, however, before Ada had yet ventured from her room, her father tapped at the door and entered.
She was still in bed, but looking better. Just now her eyes were red with weeping, and Dr. Arundel sat down by her side, and took her hand in silence.
Ada tried to rouse herself; and quietly wiped away her tears. Her father bent down and kissed her, saying kindly, "Is anything special troubling you, my dear?"
"It is, papa, that she can never know—"
"I think she will, dear; and I have been thinking, too, of the best way of being sure she will know."
"How?" asked Ada, checking her sobs.
"By helping to bring all whom she loved to be stars in her Saviour's crown."
"Oh, papa, I feel as if I should never do anything again! Life is worth nothing without her."
Dr. Arundel paused; he seemed unable to answer, and a heavy, heavy sigh escaped him; but after a minute he said:
"Ada, I am afraid that is a very rebellious thought. Shall we receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?"
"Oh, I can't, papa," said Ada bitterly.
"You cannot make yourself, my dear; but He can make you. Ada, submit. Oh, my child, it must come sooner or later! You are His, and He sends it in love. It is so, though we cannot see it now; but I can, and do trust Him that it is so."
Ada lay silently looking in the face which seemed almost grey with sorrow. She pressed his hand earnestly, with filling eyes.
"Think of it, my dear, and ask Him to enable you to do His will, not only by submitting, but by acquiescing."
"Papa!"
"I mean it, dear. Being willing to carry out His perfect will."
Ada felt, as he wished her good-night, that this would never, never, be possible.
But before she fell asleep that night, she had taken the first and the most difficult step in the ladder of self-surrender.
She had prayed to be made willing.
The next morning, when Nellie came in to take away her breakfast tray, she was already half dressed.
"Ada!" exclaimed her sister, astonished. "Can you, dear? Are you well enough?"
"Yes, Nellie, I am getting on very well; you go about your business. When I am dressed, I shall go into the nursery. I'm afraid I've been very selfish."
"They will be so glad to have you," said Nellie, thankful that her sister was so far recovering.
They were very glad to have her, though greatly surprised to see her sitting there when they returned from their early walk.
How tall and slim she looked in her new black dress. Ada had felt at first as if she could not put it on; but when she had taken down her usual frock, she put it hastily back again, glad that Nellie's thoughtfulness had placed the other where she could get it without asking.
The little ones gathered round her, and many were the inquiries as to whether she was "better." They looked with somewhat of awe in their faces; for Ada had not been able to bear their presence in her room, and she felt quite a stranger to them.
They showed her their work, and she was ready to admire and praise, while Dolly's performance was duly inspected.
No one touched on the tender ground of their sorrow. The little girls felt instinctively that Ada would not be able to bear it, and they therefore did their best to comfort her in their own loving little way.
Ada shrank from going down to the empty rooms, and told Mary she should have meals with them till she felt stronger. Mary gladly consented, and was herself cheered with the prospect of someone to talk to.
"Where is Tom?" asked Ada.
"He is downstairs now," said Isabel, slightly grumbling; "he is always there; we do miss him so."
"Yes," said Netta; "but Nellie said she thought he would miss —;" she paused, and then remembering her father's words, she went on gently, "miss dear mamma less if he were downstairs with her, and Christina, and Arthur."
"It is quite right," said Ada; "dear little Tom."
"We don't have any school," Isabel observed rather dolefully. "Nellie has been so busy, and all; but the days do seem so long."
Ada looked up. "Perhaps to-morrow I might give you lessons, till I go back to school myself."
"We've nothing to do to-day," said Netta.
"I suppose you're not well enough to tell us a tiny story, are you, Ada?" asked Dolly, looking coaxingly up in her face.
"I will try," answered Ada, "because I've been thinking of one, and perhaps it will do you good, like it did me. Get your work, children."
Mary took out her basket, and sat down to listen; the little girls ran to the cupboard to fetch theirs, and soon they settled down to quietness.
"Come, Cecil," said Ada to the baby, patting her knee invitingly, "you must be my boy now."
She took him up on her lap, and made him lean against her. Something in her eyes must have won him, for he did not generally condescend to notice her; but to-day, whether from a certain unexplainable void in his own little heart, or because his sister looked so very lovingly at him, she could not tell, but he nestled his little head against her so confidingly, that Ada felt it very difficult to go on with her story. At last she said, looking up at them:
"But you will think I am never going to begin.
"It is a story I once read. I do not know that I can tell it you in the same words, nor do I know where I read it, but I am sure you will like it," she said.
"There was once a large vessel. She was making a long voyage, and there were a great many people on board.
"She had been driven out of her course by long stress of bad weather, and, unable to reach the port where they usually took in water, the people began to be very short of it.
"At first they were reduced to a very small quantity, but as the days passed on they had less and less, and at last every drop of fresh water was gone.
"Oh, how desolate and sad were those poor forlorn people! Oh, the terrible pangs which that thirst gave them!
"They stood on deck straining their eyes for the sight of land, or for a friendly ship which might give them a little, till they should reach the port.
"Worse and worse got that thirst, and as the sun's rays poured down upon them, they would many of them have exchanged their misery for death, if they could have chosen.
"At last a sail came in sight. They made signals of distress, and then waited in agony to see if they would be attended to.
"Yes; the steamer altered her course and came slowly—oh, so slowly it seemed!—towards them.
"The captain had signalled that they were short of water; but as the steamer came nearer, what was the dismay of the despairing crew to find that she was not intending to stop, or put down a boat!
"The captain of the distressed ship took a trumpet and shouted, 'Water! Water! We are dying. For mercy's sake give us some water!'
"And the captain of the steamer answered back through his trumpet the mocking reply, 'Dip down your buckets and drink!'
"On sped the steamer on her way, with her flag gaily flying, while the dying, thirsting people bemoaned themselves in bitter wailing.
"Yet thoughts of the captain of the steamer having taken the trouble to come miles out of his way to tell them what he did, came over them. No one would have taken so much trouble were he ever so cruel, they thought.
"'Let us try his advice,' said one.
"When they drew up the bucket of sparkling water, it was found to be fresh, and clear, and life-giving!
"Then the captain knew that they were sailing calmly in the mouth of the great river Amazon, and that while they had been almost dying for want of fresh water, it had surrounded them all the time!"
* * * * * *
"And I have been thinking, children, that this is just like Jesus.
"We, like those sailors, sorrowful, and helpless, and thirsty, are longing to get to port, that we may be satisfied and lose our misery; and there, all the while, is the life-giving water close to us, only waiting for us to let down the bucket of our faith, and drink, and find that He satisfies every need."