Harty could not tell what ailed him, for he was delirious with fever.
"What shall we do?" said Mrs. Maxwell, desperately: "your father won't be home till near morning, I know, and I am afraid to give any medicine, for he always scolds about my 'dosing the children.'"
"But Harty ought to have something done for him, I am sure," said Lucy.
"Well, we'll do what we can to put him in a perspiration," said Mrs. Maxwell. "I'll go to the kitchen and make him some hot drink, and get hot water for his feet, and may be that'll be the best thing till the doctor comes home." So saying, she disappeared with the light she had brought in her hand.
Lucy put on her brother's great coat, that lay on a chair; for the storm had cooled the air, and she was quite chilly. Thus equipped, she began to act the nurse as well as she could. Her first step was to light a lamp. Harty had a nice lucifer-box on his shelf: she felt carefully for it, and managed to find it without knocking down any of his treasures.
Not a thought of fear crossed her mind, although Mrs. Maxwell had gone to the kitchen in the basement, and there was no one near to aid her, if her brother should attempt in his delirium to injure her. Love to God made her trust in His protection; love to her brother made her forgetful of danger to herself while striving to be useful to him. She bathed his burning forehead, and moistened his parched lips, and often spoke to him tenderly, hoping he might answer her naturally. Sometimes, for a moment, she fancied he knew her, but as she bent to catch his words, some unmeaning sentence would convince her she was mistaken. How welcome was the sound of her father's footstep! Unconscious of any evil, Dr. Vale entered the house, and was hurried to Harty's bedside. Lucy watched his face as he felt her brother's pulse and noticed his other symptoms, and her heart grew sadder yet as she read his deep anxiety.
Mrs. Maxwell told him how fretful and indifferent to food Harty had appeared during the day, and of his unusual nap in the evening; and as she did so, Lucy felt grateful that she had borne pleasantly with her brother's ill-humour, which had, no doubt, been caused in part by disease. How painful her feelings would have been if she had treated him with unkindness, though with ever so great provocation! Children can never know how soon the illness or death of their friends may make them bitterly lament the slightest harshness towards them.
When Dr. Vale had given Harty such medicines as he thought most sure to give him relief, he for the first time noticed Lucy, who had kept by the bedside. Even in his sadness, he almost smiled at the funny little figure wrapped in the thick coat, with only the face visible, looking out from the nightcap.
"Go to bed, child; you can do no good here, and it will make you ill to lose your sleep," he said to her, gently.
"But, father," she pleaded, "I shall not sleep if I do go to bed; I can't bear to leave poor Harty."
"Mrs. Maxwell and I can do all that is needed for him to-night, my dear," said he, kissing her sorrowful face. "To-morrow we shall want you to run about and wait on us. Go, take some rest, like a good child, that you may be able to be useful in the morning."
With this motive to console her, Lucy went to her room. When there, all the fearful reality of Harty's illness came fully upon her. He might be taken from her, she thought, and at the very idea her tears flowed fast, and her heart throbbed with distress. Lucy did not long forget the heavenly Friend to whom she had learned to go in all her trials. Now she prayed earnestly to Him to spare her brother's life, or grant him his reason, that he might be able to realize his awful situation if he indeed must die. After this prayer she felt more composed, although very, very sad. At last she fell asleep, and did not wake until the sun was several hours high.
Her first thought in waking was of her brother. She stole gently to his door. Mrs. Maxwell was sitting beside him: she motioned to Lucy to go away, and made a sign that Harty was sleeping.
The sorrow and anxiety of that day would have been harder for Lucy to bear, if she had not been so busy. Mrs. Maxwell did not leave the sick-room, and Dr. Vale was there nearly all the time; but unwilling as he was to leave his son, he was obliged to visit other patients several times during the day.
Lucy was kept almost constantly in motion. She brought for Mrs. Maxwell what was needed from the surgery or the kitchen, and carried messages in all directions. She carefully placed a little chair by the door, and there she sat silently, to be ready whenever she might be wanted.
Lucy did not ask her father any questions, but she hoped from hour to hour to hear him say that her brother was better; but no such cheering words fell from his lips.
Towards evening he hastily wrote a letter, and said to Lucy, as he handed it to her to send to the post, "I have written to Rosa to come home immediately. Tell Patty to have a room ready for Mr. Gillette; he will return with her."
These words were full of dreadful meaning to Lucy. Harty must be very ill, she knew, or Rosa would not have been sent for. Throwing aside her usual quiet manner, she clasped her father round the neck and sobbed upon his bosom. "Dear, dear father," she whispered, "do you think Harty will die?"
"God may spare him," said Dr. Vale, his strong frame shaking with emotion, and the tears in his eyes.
Lucy had never seen her father so much moved before, and she felt sure that he had very little hope that her brother would be well again.
She ceased sobbing, and a strange calmness came over her. Every impatient or unkind word that she had ever spoken to Harty came back to her; and oh how solemnly she resolved, if he should recover, to be a better sister to him than she had ever been before! She tried to remember something that Harty had said which could make her feel sure that he would be happy in heaven, if he should die. She thought of the Sunday evening when he had bid her "Good night" so kindly, and joined in saying the Catechism; of the first Sunday that he had made a prayer on entering church; and of the many times that he had listened with interest while Rosa talked of the Saviour. But these recollections did not set her mind at rest. She knew that God had said, "My son, give me thine heart;" and she felt sadly sure that Harty had never, in sincerity, given his heart to God.
Rosa reached home on Wednesday morning. Her bright smile had vanished, and her sweet eyes looked sad and tearful; yet her step was firm and her manner calm. Lucy felt sure when she met her sister, that she had found support in this great trouble from that God who bids us "cast all our care on Him, for He careth for us."
When Rosa bent over Harty, and called him by name, he looked strangely at her, and, muttering, turned away. At first this was almost too much for her to bear; but by degrees she became accustomed to it, and commanded herself sufficiently to relieve Mrs. Maxwell from her post as nurse. Poor Mrs. Maxwell was quite worn out, and was very glad to take a little rest. Lucy had darkened her room, that she might sleep the better; and as soon as the tired woman had lain down, she stationed herself by the door to keep the hall as quiet as possible. Lucy found that she had been unjust to Mrs. Maxwell. She had always thought her a stern woman with a cold heart; but when she saw how tenderly she watched by Harty's bedside, she felt that she should always love her for it, and never call her cross again, when she found fault about trifles.
Mrs. Maxwell herself was surprised to find how deeply she had become attached to Dr. Vale's children. She had met with much misfortune and unkindness in the world; and when she came to live in Dr. Vale's family, she resolved to do her duty faithfully, and did not expect to love those around her or be loved by them. Although her severe manner had softened but little, by degrees she had become so fond of the children that she was only happy when doing something for them; and now her anxiety for poor sick Harty knew no bounds.
Several sad days of care and nursing passed by. Dr. Vale, Mrs. Maxwell, and Rosa, were with Harty by turns, day and night; and Lucy patiently waited on all until evening came, when she slept soundly from pure weariness.
Mr. Gillette was a comfort to all: he seemed truly a messenger from his Master in heaven, for there were ever sweet words of consolation on his lips. He daily offered prayers in the room of the sick boy; and all who knelt with him rose up strengthened by trust in the God who "doeth all things well."
One day, when Harty had been ill a week, Rosa was sitting by him in silence, when, in a low, weak voice, he called her by name.
"My dear brother," she answered, very calmly, although she was much startled.
He took the hand she placed on his, and said, in a searching manner, "Am I very ill?"
"We hope you may get well, but you are in God's hands," was Rosa's reply.
To be in God's hands was not an idea of peace to poor Harty. He could not turn with loving trust in sickness to the God whom he had neglected in health. A pang darted through his heart, a pang of fear and remorse, more deep and painful than he had ever felt. He was to die with all the sins of his youth upon him! In his weak state this awful thought was too much for him, and his mind again wandered in delirium.
Rosa continued by his bedside in silent prayer. She did not again hear her name called, as she hoped, and she was forced to resign her place to Mrs. Maxwell, without having another sign of consciousness from her brother.
When it was again Rosa's turn to act as nurse, she found that there had been a decided change in Harty. He slept more calmly, and breathed more naturally. Dr. Vale came in when she had been sitting by the bed a few moments: a rapid examination served to show him that there was, indeed, cause for hope.
The joyful news spread through the household, and many thanksgivings went up to the God who dispenses sickness and health. Rejoiced as all were at the idea of seeing Harty once more in health, there was in every heart a deeper cause of gratitude: they might now hope that he would not be called to meet his Father in heaven while yet a disobedient, wandering child. Time might yet be given him to learn, to know, and love that Father, and walk in His holy ways.
When Harty was again conscious of what was going on around him, his father was with him. "Don't trouble yourself to think now, my dear boy," said Dr. Vale, soothingly. "I hope you will soon be much better; and I pray God that He will enable you to lead a new life. Lie still now, and you will soon fall asleep again, to wake much refreshed, I hope."
Harty's recovery was slow and tedious. He was very weak, and little inclined to talk. He seemed most contented when Rosa was singing to him some pretty hymn, and Lucy was sitting by him on the bed smoothing his hair, or fanning him gently.
His large eyes looked sunken and thoughtful, and his manner, once boisterous, was mild and gentle.
"Don't move for me again this morning, dear Lucy," he said one day; "your little feet must be very tired with running up and down stairs. When I get well I shall have to wait on you all the rest of my life to repay you for this kindness."
This was so unlike the old, exacting Harty, that it quite overcame little Lucy, and the tears were in her eyes as she answered, "I love to do anything for you, my dear brother. I want nothing from you but to get well as soon as you can, and look bright, and merry, and tease me as you used to do."
A sad smile crossed Harty's face, as he said, "I don't mean to do as I used to do in anything, Lucy. You will forget how unkind I was to you, won't you, pet? I don't think I shall be so any more."
Lucy's tears fell fast. Don't talk so, Harty," she said; "You were never unkind to me. I was a foolish little thing, and let everything worry me. Come, we won't talk any more; you look tired. Here is Rosa, she will sing,—
'Softly now the light of day,'—
while you take a nice little nap."
By degrees the colour came again to Harty's cheeks, and his limbs renewed their strength.
One calm Sunday evening, towards the end of June, he was sitting between his sisters, looking out at the evening sky.
"Let us have the Catechism once more," said Lucy; "it will seem like old times."
Rosa and Lucy began as usual together. Harty's voice was with them; and there was a deep solemnity in his manner as he pronounced the words, "Yes, verily, and by God's help so I will; and I heartily thank our Heavenly Father that He has called me to this state of salvation, through Jesus Christ our Lord; and I pray unto God to give me His grace that I may continue in the same unto my life's end."
His sisters felt that he spoke from his heart; and there was that joy in their hearts which the angels know over "one sinner that repenteth."
As the summer passed away, the cottage looked cheerful once more, as of old. The children again rambled in the woods or strolled in the orchard, and whenever their voices were heard the tones were pleasant and kindly.
True, they all had faults of character still to overcome, and were sometimes tempted to go astray; but there was in each heart an earnest wish to do right, and a spirit of love and forgiveness that kept them from all variance.
Mrs. Maxwell was still formal and particular; but she now had little cause for complaint, for Harty was so grateful for her watchful care during his illness, that he made many efforts to overcome his careless habits, and in a great measure succeeded.
"The dear boy forgot for once," she would sometimes say, as she hung his cap on the accustomed peg, or overlooked some act of heedlessness; for she felt that he was trying to please her, and she was the more ready to forgive him.
In the trying scenes by Harty's bedside Dr. Vale had been brought near in heart to his children. Now there was no subject on which he could not talk freely to them. He spoke to them of their mother, and told them anecdotes of her blameless life that were treasured up in their young hearts for loving imitation.
The blessed Saviour and the heaven He purchased for His faithful ones were often subjects for conversation in that happy family circle, and the doctor felt, as he looked into the faces of his children, that God had blessed their mother's prayers.
Uncle Gillette's letters were always welcomed with joy, and never read without cheering the young Christians in the path of duty.
Lucy had now nothing to fear: the sorrows of her timid childhood were over. Loving and cheerful, she made all happy around her. She had found a comfort for all sorrow, a Friend ever-present, a support for life and death, in Him who saith to the children of His love, "Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom."
LONDON: R. K. BURT, PRINTER, HOLBORN HILL.