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Title: As many as touched Him
Author: Eglanton Thorne
Release date: December 1, 2023 [eBook #72273]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1882
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AS MANY AS TOUCHED HIM ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: THE OLD POSTMAN.]
AS MANY AS TOUCHED HIM
BY
EGLANTON THORNE
Author of "It's All Real True," "The Old Worcester Jug,"
"The Two Crowns," etc.
London
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56, PATERNOSTER ROW, AND 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. LOOKING FOR A LETTER
II. JERRY'S TRIAL
III. THE GREAT PHYSICIAN
IV. LEAVING HOME
V. IN THE WORK-ROOM
VI. SUFFERING FOR CONSCIENCE SAKE
VII. DREARY DAYS
VIII. A LONELY SUFFERER
IX. AN ALARMING INCIDENT
X. A CONVERSATION
XI. IN THE HOSPITAL
XII. SORROWFUL TIDINGS
XIII. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
XIV. JERRY'S FAITH HAS ITS REWARD
XV. TEN YEARS LATER
[Illustration]
AS MANY AS TOUCHED HIM
CHAPTER I.
LOOKING FOR A LETTER.
"OH dear! I do wish the postman would make haste and come," said Ellen
Mansfield to herself, as she stood at the farmyard gate, looking
eagerly up the narrow lane into which it opened.
It was a bright July morning, and the sun was pouring its warm rays on
her fair hair and rosy cheeks, as she waited bareheaded in the open
air, having no fear of the effects of such exposure to its influence.
She was so absorbed in her watch for the country letter-carrier, who
was never very punctual to his time, as to give heed to naught besides.
Wolf, the old sheep-dog, crept close to her side, and put his nose into
her hand, but his mute expression of affection met with no response.
The chickens gathered round her, and chirped in vain, with the hope of
attracting her attention, and being rewarded with some bread-crumbs or
grains of corn, such as she often bestowed on them.
Ellen's thoughts were all of the letter which she hoped would arrive
that morning. But presently, she was roused by the sound of her
mother's voice calling to her from within the house—
"Ellen, Ellen, where are you? I want you directly!"
Ellen looked annoyed, and her lip pouted.
"How tiresome!" she muttered to herself.
And instead of hastening to obey the summons, she went a few steps down
the lane, so that the thick hedge might hide her from her mother's
view, in case she came to the door to look for her.
Ellen was a tall, well-grown girl, about sixteen years of age, with a
bright, intelligent face, having the fresh complexion and clear blue
eyes which only country girls can boast. She was strong and active, and
her mother naturally expected much help from this daughter, the eldest
child of a family of ten. But Ellen hated house-work, and thought it a
hardship that she should be expected to undertake such tasks, and was
always glad when, as now, she managed to elude her mother's vigilance
and enjoy some minutes of idleness.
The minutes were many this morning, for the postman did not come any
the quicker because she was waiting for him. And her conscience told
her more than once that she ought to return to the house, yet still she
lingered. At last, she caught sight of the old man coming slowly down
the lane, sorting some letters in his hand as he came.
"Oh dear! Why can't he walk a little faster?" thought Ellen,
impatiently. "He moves like a snail. I am sure one of those letters
must be from Aunt Matilda."
There was a house on the other side of the lane for which the postman
was bound before he came to Ellen's home. Ellen watched him go in at
the gate, and waited anxiously for his reappearance. But when he came
out again, there were no letters in his hand.
"He must have one for us," said Ellen to herself; and she hurried
forward to meet him.
"No letter for you this morning," he said, in reply to her questioning
glance.
"No letter?" repeated Ellen, in dismay. "Are you quite sure? Have you
not made a mistake?"
"No, indeed; I don't make mistakes so easily," he replied, smiling at
the notion. "Bring you one to-morrow, perhaps."
So saying, he passed on his way, leaving Ellen overwhelmed with
disappointment. She had counted so on the arrival of this letter, and
had felt so sure that it would come, that she scarcely knew how to bear
the delay.
The idea of waiting another whole day, only perhaps to be again
disappointed, was disheartening. She stood still where she was, for
she felt little inclination now to set about the domestic tasks which
should have been commenced earlier.
As she stood idly leaning against the hedge, her face wearing a most
discontented expression, the sound of approaching steps fell on her
ear. A young man was walking quickly down the lane, looking about him
with the air of one unacquainted with the locality, and in search of
some particular place. Ellen observed him with curiosity, for he was
to her a stranger, and the appearance of a stranger in that rural
neighbourhood was a rare event. His demeanour was different from that
of any of the country folk thereabout. He was dressed in a black suit,
which showed a spotless shirt-front set off by a little black tie,
and wore a "wide-awake" hat. His was a pleasant, honest face, with a
kindliness of expression which conquered Ellen's usual shyness, as, to
her surprise, he stopped short on seeing her, and addressed to her a
question:
"Will you kindly tell me if this is the way to Farmer Holroyd's?"
"Yes, sir," replied Ellen. "But you must turn to the left when you get
to the bottom of the lane, and take the path across the fields, which
you will see. That will take you direct to the house."
"Thank you, thank you," said the stranger, standing still, however, and
looking about him with an observant eye. "Do you live in that house?"
"Yes, sir," answered Ellen.
"Will you tell your parents, for perhaps they may not have heard of
it, that there will be preaching this evening in Farmer Holroyd's barn
at seven o'clock, and that I shall be very happy to see them there, if
they are able to be present—and you also, if you can accompany them,"
he added, kindly.
"Thank you, sir," said Ellen, with some hesitation. "I'll tell them.
But father and mother are mostly too busy to go anywhere."
"Are they? I'm sorry for that. But you are not too busy, I suppose?"
Ellen coloured, for she knew she must appear to him an idler. She felt
no desire to attend the meeting in Farmer Holroyd's barn, yet was at a
loss for an excuse for not doing so.
"No," she said, in answer to his remark. "But I do not know that I
shall be able to come."
Her manner plainly said, "I do not care to come"; and so he understood
it.
"I shall be glad to see you there, if you can manage it," he said,
gently. "I should be sorry to think that your heart is indifferent to
Him who is your best friend. Do not, I pray you, make the great mistake
of finding time and inclination for everything save the 'one thing
needful.'"
With these words he turned away, and Ellen, feeling rather
disconcerted, and ashamed at having wasted so much of her morning,
hastened back to the house.
"Where have you been all this time, Ellen?" asked her mother, who was
engaged in hushing the baby to sleep. "I have been calling you for
the last quarter of an hour. It is too bad of you to get out of the
way when you know there is so much to be done. Here it is past nine
o'clock, and the beds are not made nor the breakfast things washed.
What have you been about?"
Mrs. Mansfield, a pale, anxious-looking woman, spoke in low, querulous
accents, as though she did not expect her remonstrances to have much
effect.
"I have been watching for the postman, mother," replied Ellen. "But he
brought no letter. I can't think why Aunt Matilda does not write."
"She would need to think awhile before she answered my letter,"
returned her mother. "She is not one to do things in a hurry. I could
have told you there would be no letter this morning. You'd much better
have been about your work than loitering at the gate."
Ellen gave her head an impatient toss at this rebuke, and began, with
much unnecessary bustle and clatter, to wash the cups and saucers which
had been used for the morning meal.
"Where is Lucy?" she asked, presently.
"Upstairs, giving Jerry his breakfast," her mother answered; adding
with a sigh, "The poor lad has had a bad night, and is sadly this
morning."
Ellen said nothing, but her mother's words awakened within her some
self-reproach, for in her eagerness to get the letter she had forgotten
the wants of her favourite brother, to whom she generally attended.
She worked busily for some time, in the vain hope of making up for lost
time, and the breakfast things were soon washed and replaced on the
dresser. She did not forget to tell her mother of the stranger she had
seen, and of the meeting to be held that evening in Farmer Holroyd's
barn.
"Ah!" remarked Mrs. Mansfield. "It's all very well for those who have
nothing else to do to go to those meetings, but it wouldn't do for me
to think of it."
Yet she sighed as she spoke, for she remembered that in her young days
she had attended such services with delight. And the recollection
induced her to add, "You can go if you like, Ellen."
But Ellen was not sure that she would like to go.
CHAPTER II.
JERRY'S TRIAL.
WHEN Ellen went upstairs to make the beds, she went first of all to
a little room at the head of the stairs, known as Jerry's room. She
lifted the latch with a careful hand, and entered with a light step.
The young sufferer she feared to disturb was not asleep, however, but
greeted her with the words:
"Oh, Ellen! at last! I began to think you were not coming to see me
this morning."
"Oh, Jerry, you know I should not fail to come," replied Ellen, as she
kissed her little brother, all the dearer on account of the affliction
which made him a helpless invalid.
It was sad to look upon Jerry's tiny, wasted face, almost as white as
the pillow upon which it rested, and wearing such a pathetic expression
of suffering. The blue veins so plainly visible on his temples, the
dark circles beneath the sad eyes, the tremulous movement of the mouth,
all bore witness to the pain he had so frequently to endure. Yet the
smile with which he welcomed his sister was very sweet, and his tones
more cheerful than one could have expected.
He lay on a low couch drawn close to the open window, through which
he could gaze at the green meadows and orchards which surrounded the
house, and watch the cows going to and fro at milking-time, or the
haymakers at their work, and catch many of the pleasant sights and
sounds which a farm affords. It was a relief to him to be able thus to
look upon the outer world, for he was seldom well enough to leave his
couch, and there was little hope that he would ever move about like
other children.
All had been done that could be done to alleviate the sadness of his
life, and, in spite of its rough, uneven floor and sloping ceilings,
his little room was a pleasant place. Any pictures that found their way
to the house were nailed upon the walls to gladden Jerry's eyes. The
rose-tree which grew luxuriantly outside was carefully trained about
the window, that Jerry might enjoy the perfume of its blossoms. And a
jar of flowers invariably stood beside his bed whenever there were any
to be had.
Such books as the home could boast were always to be found in Jerry's
room, for he was a great reader. And ever since the day, more than
three years ago, when, in his seventh year, a sudden fall from the
hay-loft had wrought terrible mischief to his spine, books had been his
loved companions.
Not so dear, however, as his brothers and sisters, Ellen, Tom, and
Lucy, older than himself, and the little ones that followed, who ever
received a warm welcome from him, if he were well enough to see them.
Sometimes, however, on his bad days, when the paroxysms of pain were
agonising, he could endure the presence of no one save his mother,
whose sympathy was so true and tried.
Books were not the only means of diversion which Jerry possessed.
When his head ached with reading, he could amuse himself with
straw-plaiting. In the part of England in which the Mansfields lived,
poor people used to devote their leisure to this employment, and found
it remunerative. But of late years, for sundry reasons, this trade has
declined, and although Jerry plaited many a yard of straw, he earned
very little by it. That little, however, was acceptable, and supplied
him with many comforts which he must otherwise have lacked. For Joseph
Mansfield's family was longer than his purse, and he could not afford
to keep any of his children in idleness.
He paid a heavy rent for the few acres of land which he farmed, and was
frequently in arrears with it. When a bad season came, or any of the
cattle died, his face grew long, and he talked about ruin, whilst his
wife looked more pale and worried than ever.
The elder children knew that their parents expected them to work for
themselves as soon as they were old enough to do so, and Ellen was
especially anxious to be earning her own living. There was no need
for her to leave home in search of employment, had she been willing
to perform the work that lay to hand, for the management of the house
and dairy, and the care of so many little ones, with all the washing
and mending their clothes required, was more than Mrs. Mansfield could
accomplish unaided.
But, as we have said, Ellen disliked these household tasks, and always
gave her assistance grudgingly. Being handy with her needle, she had
set her heart on becoming a dressmaker. And, after trying long to
dissuade her from this purpose, her mother had, in compliance with her
wishes, written to her aunt, who was a dressmaker at Charmouth, a large
seaport about thirty miles distant from Ellen's home, to ask her to
take her niece as an apprentice. It was the answer to this letter that
Ellen was so eagerly expecting.
"What has kept you so long this morning, Nell?" her little brother
inquired as she seated herself by his side.
"Nothing particular, Jerry. I wasted my time in watching for the
postman. All in vain, however, for he brought no letter from Aunt
Matilda."
Jerry's face clouded at these words.
"I can't bear to think of your going away from home, Nelly," he said.
"I shall be sorry to leave you all, but very glad for other reasons to
go," replied Ellen.
"I can't think what mother will do without you," said Jerry. "She will
miss you dreadfully. She is busy enough as it is, but she will have to
work harder than ever when you are gone."
Ellen coloured, and bit her lip in momentary annoyance. She did not
like to be reminded of such considerations as Jerry's words suggested.
"There is Lucy to help mother," she said.
"Oh yes. Lucy can do a good deal, I know," returned Jerry. "But not all
that you can, I should think."
"I hope I shall get a holiday sometimes, and come home to see you all,"
remarked Ellen, anxious to change the conversation. "And when I've
learnt my trade, Jerry, I'll settle somewhere near here, and you shall
come and live with me. I'll take such good care of you, and buy you
lots of books."
Jerry smiled rather sadly, and shook his head. "I'm afraid that will
never be, Nelly. Sometimes I think I shall have to lie in this room the
whole of my life; and, oh, I do begin to feel so tired of it!"
"I daresay you do," said his sister, tenderly, "and you feel worse than
usual this morning after your bad night. But you'll be better in an
hour or two's time, dear."
Jerry sighed deeply, and, hoping to divert his thoughts, Ellen began to
tell him about the stranger who was to preach that evening in Farmer
Holroyd's barn.
"Oh dear! How I wish I could go and hear him," he exclaimed.
"I wish you could," said Ellen, thinking with sorrow how impossible it
was for him to do so.
"Shall you go, Nelly?" he asked.
"I don't know," answered Ellen.
"Oh, Ellen! I wish you would go," he said, "for then you would be able
to tell me what he said. You can't think how I long to know about some
things."
"What things, Jerry?" asked Ellen, in surprise.
"The things that I read of in the Bible, Nelly, about the Lord Jesus,
and how He healed poor sick people. I often wonder if there was any one
in the crowds that came to Him as helpless as I."
"There was the man with the palsy," suggested Ellen.
"Yes, he could not move any better than I can," the boy replied. "His
friends carried him on his bed to Jesus. Oh, Nelly! how I wish Jesus
were on the earth now, for then perhaps He would make me whole. Though
I might not be able to get to Him, after all."
"We would carry you to Him, if we possibly could, Jerry," said his
sister.
"Yes, I know you would," he replied, with a smile; "but it's of no use
thinking of it. Yet when I feel so weary of lying here, I do wish I
might be made whole as those people were. I suppose God could make me
well now if He liked—couldn't He, Nelly? Do you think, if I prayed very
hard to Him, He would?"
"I don't know," replied Ellen doubtfully; "but I think I should try if
I were you, Jerry."
The boy lay silent for a while, his contracted brow showing that he was
engaged in earnest thought.
Presently, he roused himself and said, "You will go to-night, Nelly?"
"Yes, Jerry," Ellen replied.
"And you will tell me all about it when you come back?"
"Yes, I'll be sure to, Jerry."
CHAPTER III.
THE GREAT PHYSICIAN.
ELLEN was as good as her word. In spite of her disinclination to go to
the meeting, she left home a little before seven, and slowly made her
way to Farmer Holroyd's barn. She was exceedingly fond of her little
brother Jerry, and would have done anything even more disagreeable to
her feelings to procure him gratification.
The air was so fresh and sweet on this July evening, and the way
through the fields so pleasant, that Ellen did not feel disposed
to hurry herself. She climbed to the top of a hedge to gather some
dog-roses that grew there, then spying some wild strawberries on the
other side, clambered down to refresh herself with them. She lost so
much time thus, that when she reached the barn, she found that the
service had already commenced, and every seat was taken except those
in close proximity to the little table at which the preacher was
stationed, a position which she would gladly have avoided.
There was no help for it, however, and she had to push her way to the
vacant place through the midst of the little congregation, who were
heartily singing the hymn with which the service opened.
Such meetings as this were welcomed by not a few in that country
district, which lay several miles from any church, and whose scattered
inhabitants depended entirely for religious instruction on the
occasional visit of an evangelist such as the one about to address
them. At a brief notice, many persons would gather together in a barn
or cottage to hear the Word, some cheerfully coming a considerable
distance for the purpose.
Ellen felt the preacher's eye rest upon her with a glance of
recognition as she seated herself but a few feet in front of him. She
had seldom been to such a meeting before, for Mrs. Mansfield, although
brought up in a Christian home, had suffered the cares of this life to
render her indifferent to all that concerned the eternal life beyond,
and had allowed her family to grow up almost in ignorance of that
Saviour who is peculiarly the friend of the poor and heavy laden.
Sundays passed much as other days in their home, and the Bible would
have been unread had it not been for Jerry, who, having exhausted the
contents of all the other books, took to reading it. And found so much
therein to interest and soothe him, and at the same time so much to
excite wonder, that he never tired of it, and was continually proposing
to his mother questions concerning its truths which she found hard to
answer.
In the hope of being able to understand his thoughts, and sympathise
with them, she had lately begun to read the Scriptures again herself,
and the sacred words awoke the echoes of a Christian father's voice,
long since silenced by death, and stirred within her contrition and
shame. She inwardly longed to accompany Ellen, and listen once more to
the word of truth; but if she did so, who would attend to the dairy, or
look after the baby, or soothe Jerry, if he had one of his bad attacks
of pain? No, the busy mother's place was at home, and He who had laid
these burdens upon her would not suffer them to hinder her approach
unto Himself, but would draw nigh to her and help her to bear them, if
she would only let Him.
Ellen thought of Jerry when the preacher announced his text, for it was
Mark's graphic statement concerning the Saviour:
"As many as touched Him were made whole."
She prepared herself to listen attentively, and soon became so
interested in the speaker's words, that she could not help doing so.
She felt sorry when he ceased, and would gladly have listened to him
longer. She was pleased to see that he had with him a number of little
books and tracts, which he began to distribute to the people at the
close of the service, for she knew how glad Jerry would be to have one.
As she went forward to take a book from his hand, the preacher smiled
kindly upon Ellen, and said, "I am glad you were able to come after
all. Remember, 'As many as touched Him were made whole.'"
He was not able to say more, for the people were gathering about him to
receive tracts, but the words made a lasting impression on Ellen's mind.
Half an hour later, she was seated beside her little brother's bed,
doing her best to give him an account of the address to which she had
listened. It was surprising how difficult she found it to remember the
preacher's words, although they had interested her so much. When she
had repeated the text she was silent for a while, trying to put into
shape the vague notions which were all her mind had retained.
"'As many as touched Him were made whole,'" repeated Jerry. "Tell me
all he said about it, Ellen."
"I will tell you all I can remember," replied his sister. "I forget
exactly how he began, but I know he said how eagerly those who had
sick friends brought them to Jesus, for then I thought of you, Jerry.
They brought them and laid them in the streets, that they might touch
the hem of His garment; and those who touched merely the border of the
long, flowing robe He wore were made whole."
"Yes, I know that," returned Jerry, who had got hold of his mother's
Bible and found the passage; "it says so here. What else did he say?
Did he say whether Christ will make people whole now?"
"Yes; he said Jesus is the same now as He was in the days when He lived
on the earth. He called Him the Great Physician, and that means a
doctor, you know, Jerry. But I am not sure that He heals people in the
way you mean," she hastened to add, as she caught the eager glance her
brother cast upon her.
"I scarcely know how to explain it to you, but the preacher said it was
sin that caused all the sickness and sorrow that there is in the world.
Before Adam and Eve sinned, pain was not known. He said sin was worse
than any bodily disease—far more terrible even than the leprosy, which
is described in the Bible, and of which he spoke a good deal. Oh dear,
I wish I could remember better. He said we were all infected with it,
and were not able to cure ourselves, but Christ could heal us, and if
we only touched Him by faith, He would make us whole. He spoke as if we
were all dreadful sinners, and I fancied he looked at me in particular;
yet I am sure I am no worse than other girls. I don't steal, or tell
lies, or use bad words, so I really don't see that I am so very wicked."
"But didn't he say anything about Jesus curing people's bodies?" asked
poor Jerry, anxiously.
"No, dear; it was all about the soul, and how we were to be saved from
sin. He said we must go in faith to Jesus, just as the poor woman did
who touched Him in the crowd, or the blind man who cried to Him as He
came out of Jericho. What we all wanted, he said, was to have our sins
forgiven; and only Jesus can forgive sins."
"Yes," observed Jerry, who was well acquainted with the gospel
narrative, "Jesus used to forgive the sins of those whom He cured. Do
you think I am very wicked, Nelly?"
Tears were in the boy's eyes, and his sister stooped down and kissed
him fondly as she answered, "No, that I am sure you are not, Jerry."
"And yet I must be," returned Jerry, "if it is sin that causes
suffering, as you say the preacher said."
Ellen looked perplexed. "I am afraid I have not told it you rightly,
Jerry, for I know he said we ought not to say of any one that because
he was greatly afflicted, therefore he was a great sinner. If we did
so, we should be like the Pharisees, who considered the man who was
born blind a sinner. Don't you trouble yourself about that, dear. I am
sure you are not very sinful."
Jerry sighed. "Is there nothing else you can tell me, Nelly?" he asked,
after a pause.
Ellen tried to think of something that might comfort him. "I remember
the preacher said that, whatever might be our sins and sorrows, they
could not be beyond Christ's power to heal. Just as He could cure all
manner of diseases when on earth, so now He can relieve all our wants,
and help us in all our distresses."
"Did he say that?" asked Jerry eagerly.
"Yes, I think I have repeated his words correctly," replied his sister.
The boy's face took a more hopeful expression as he continued to turn
over the leaves of the Bible which he held in his hand. After a while,
however, he ceased to do so, and Ellen, bending over him, saw that he
had fallen asleep with his finger resting on the passage which tells
how as many as touched the Saviour were made whole.
CHAPTER IV.
LEAVING HOME.
THE next morning brought the longed-for letter, which was entirely to
Ellen's satisfaction.
Her aunt was willing to teach her dressmaking, and, being in immediate
need of another assistant, would be glad for Ellen to come to her with
as little delay as possible.
Ellen busied herself with her preparations, and amid the bustle and
excitement of the few days that intervened before her departure, the
serious thoughts awakened in her mind by the preaching to which she
had listened were driven away. Her time was so fully occupied, that
her visits to Jerry's room were necessarily brief and hurried, and the
conversation narrated in the preceding chapter was not renewed.
Yet Jerry had not forgotten it. His thoughts constantly dwelt on Him
who made whole all who touched Him, and he read with deeper interest
than before, the records of His blessed life. Many a prayer breathed
from that couch of suffering reached the ear of the Great Physician,
who sent an answer of peace to the heart of the sick child.
Not for physical health alone did Jerry make petition. The words
repeated to him by his sister had revealed a deeper, more deadly malady
than that which deprived his limbs of strength and caused him such
pain. Jerry no longer doubted his sinfulness. Searching his heart by
the light of God's Word, he discovered its hidden evil, and with the
knowledge of sin came a longing for deliverance, which caused him to
pray as earnestly for health of soul as for health of body. He knew
that Jesus could forgive sins and he doubted not His willingness; so,
touching by faith the Almighty Saviour, he received the blessing, and
experienced a joyful assurance that his sins had been forgiven him for
His name's sake.
"Jesus has forgiven my sins, Nelly," he whispered to his sister, on
the morning of her departure, when she came to bid him good-bye. "And
I believe that He will make me well yet, if I wait patiently. You know
how long He kept that woman waiting who cried out to Him to heal her
daughter. And yet, He healed her after all. So I hope He will make me
whole, if I keep on asking Him. He has said to me, 'Be of good cheer,
thy sins are forgiven thee'; soon, perhaps, I shall hear Him say,
'Arise and walk.'"
"I am sure I hope so, dear Jerry," said Ellen, wondering at her little
brother's faith.
"I don't seem to mind lying here now," said Jerry. "I feel so much
happier than I did, and everything seems bright about me. Not but what
I am very sorry you are going to leave us, Ellen," he hastened to add,
throwing his arms affectionately about his sister's neck.
"Dear Jerry, I cannot bear to say good-bye to you," exclaimed Ellen,
with emotion. "But I will write to you as often as ever I can, and tell
you all that I think you will like to hear. And you'll be sure to write
to me, won't you, when you feel well enough?"
"Yes, I'll try to write, Nelly; but you know I'm not much of a hand at
that sort of thing."
"Never mind what a scribble it is; I'll make it out somehow, never
fear. I shall be only too glad to see your writing, whatever it looks
like."
They would have said much more to each other, but Mrs. Mansfield's
voice was now heard from below, bidding Ellen make haste, or she would
not get to the distant station in time for the train. The brother and
sister fondly but silently embraced, for both felt a choking sensation
that made words almost impossible. And then Ellen tore herself away and
ran downstairs. The light cart stood at the door with her small trunk
already placed in it, and her father was waiting to drive her to the
station.
Now that the moment of departure had come, Ellen found that it was more
trying to leave her home than she had anticipated. She fairly broke
down and cried heartily as she kissed her little brothers and sisters,
and received her mother's last anxious injunctions with respect to her
health and conduct. Willy had gathered a huge bunch of flowers for his
sister as a parting gift, and little Johnny a few strawberries, and all
had so much to say that Ellen would certainly have missed her train had
she stayed to listen to them. Her father was obliged hastily to cut
short the farewells, place her in the cart, and drive off without any
more ado.
Ellen felt sad as she drove away, waving her hand to her brothers and
sisters clustered at the gate, and her mother, who stood at the door
with the baby in her arms. But she soon ceased to cry, and began to
take a cheerful view of the separation. Her mind was busy with thoughts
of the pleasant future which she imagined lay before her as they drove
through the country lanes, between fields of ripening corn, or meadows
still covered with sweet-scented hay.
"Good-bye, my lass," said her father, kissing her affectionately, as
she sat in a third-class carriage, with her ticket for Charmouth in her
hand. "Be a good girl, and try to please your aunt. Your father will be
right glad to see you whenever you can come home."
The whistle sounded, and Ellen waved a last good-bye to her father as
the train glided out of the station. She was off at last, as she had so
often longed to be, going away from the irksome duties and restraints
of a home which was after all, dearer to her than she had hitherto
imagined, to new scenes and fresh employment, which she believed would
prove less distasteful.
She was nearly two hours getting to Charmouth, although it was no
great distance, for the train jogged along in a leisurely sort of way,
stopping at all the little country stations, whose officials never
seem to hurry themselves to secure its speedy departure. And, besides,
she had to wait half an hour at a junction on the way. The morning
had been bright and sunshiny when she started, but as she went along,
she observed dark clouds gathering in the sky, and when she reached
Charmouth it was raining heavily.
She had expected that her aunt would either come herself or send some
one to meet her; but, to her dismay, when she alighted from the train,
she found there was no one there. She stood alone on the platform
amidst the bustle and confusion created by the arrival of the train,
and which was so bewildering to one accustomed to the quietude of
country life, and wondered what she had better do. She watched her
fellow-travellers as they hurriedly collected their luggage, and, some
in conveyances, some on foot, took their departure from the station.
Then, she timidly made inquiries of an old porter, whose honest
countenance inspired her with trust, and who told her that the street
in which her aunt lived, was not very far off, and if she could wait
till after the arrival of the express, he would undertake to show her
the way, and carry her trunk thither.
To this proposal, Ellen was glad to agree. And after waiting till
the express had come snorting into the station and deposited its
passengers, and they had all satisfactorily obtained their luggage and
departed, the old man shouldered Ellen's trunk, and led the way along
wet, sloppy streets, which had a cheerless look to a stranger's eye.
The rain fell fast, and Ellen's print gown was wet through, and she
felt chilled both outwardly and inwardly before she reached her aunt's
house.
"Number 13, this is the place," said the porter. And Ellen was further
assured of the fact by seeing in the window, which prominently
displayed an open fashion-book, backed by some mantles and children's
dresses, a card, on which was printed in ornamental letters,—
"Miss Mansfield, dress and mantle maker."
The man gave a loud rap at the door, which was opened by a girl about
Ellen's age, smartly yet untidily dressed, who stared rudely at her as
she invited her to enter.
"If that's Ellen, tell her not to give the porter more than sixpence,"
cried a shrill voice from the top of the stairs.
But Ellen had already ungrudgingly given the man the shilling he asked.
"Tell Ellen to take off her boots before she comes upstairs," cried the
shrill voice again.
An injunction which Ellen was glad to obey, for her feet were damp.
"My! You are wet," remarked the girl who had admitted her, smiling as
she spoke, as though she found the fact amusing.
When Ellen had removed her muddy boots, she followed the other girl
upstairs to the work-room, in which her aunt was seated, engaged in
putting the finishing touches to a silk mantle, and at the same time
vigorously scolding her companion, a young girl, with pale, thin face,
and large dark eyes. It was many years since Ellen had seen her aunt,
for, although she did not live so very far from her brother's home,
Miss Mansfield was generally too busy to be able to pay him a visit.
Ellen looked at her timidly and anxiously as she entered the work-room.
Miss Mansfield was a tall, thin woman, with sallow complexion, sharp
features, a quick, observant glance, which nothing escaped, and an
equally active tongue. In the work-room, her tones were high, and
her manner marked by considerable asperity. But when addressing
her employers, her voice was soft and insinuating, and her bearing
graciousness itself. A tyrant to those about her, she could be
obsequious without measure to any one whose favour she was anxious to
win.
"So you've got here at last, then," she exclaimed as Ellen entered,
speaking quickly, in spite of the pins which she held between her thin
lips, and on account of which it doubtless was, that she gave Ellen no
kiss of welcome such as a niece had a right to expect. "I suppose you
did not think to be met, did you? I thought you were old enough to find
your way here alone, and I am too busy to afford to waste any time, I
can tell you. I hope you did not give that porter more than sixpence?"
"I had given him the shilling before you spoke, ma'am," replied Ellen.
"Then, my dear, you should not have done so. You should never give that
sort of people what they ask. They'll be sure to cheat you, if they
can. When you've lived in town a while, you'll know better, I trust,
than to let yourself be imposed on so easily. This is the first time
you've been from home, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied Ellen timidly, with difficulty keeping back the
tears which were ready to fall.
"Why, what a tall girl you are, to be sure!" continued her aunt, taking
a pin from the front of her dress, which was so studded with needles
and pins as to give her the appearance of an animated pincushion.
"Goodness me! How wet your dress is! It looks like a soaked rag, and
it was clean on this morning, I daresay—wasn't it? I thought so," she
continued, as Ellen answered in the affirmative. "I hope you have
not brought many such dresses, for they'll be of no use to you here.
Anything so light as that, is not fit for town wear. You want something
that will not require washing every week, and that won't spoil with a
drop of rain. Well, you'd better go and take it off now, and then, I
daresay you'll like a cup of tea. Julia, show Ellen where she is to
sleep, and don't stop there chattering, but come back to your work
directly. By the bye, I hope you left them all well at home?"
"Yes, thank you; all are well except Jerry," Ellen replied, in a faint
voice, as she quitted the room, and followed her guide to a little
room at the top of the house, very barely furnished, and having, to
her eyes, accustomed to the purity of country surroundings, a dingy
appearance.
Left to herself here, Ellen sank down on the little bed, and gave vent
to the feelings of disappointment and discomfort produced by her aunt's
cold, brusque reception in a flood of tears.
CHAPTER V.
IN THE WORK-ROOM.
ELLEN found her new life very different in reality from what it had
appeared in anticipation.
Dressmaking did not prove so agreeable an occupation as she had
expected to find it, and before she had been more than a week at
Charmouth, she was painfully conscious of home-sickness.
Her aunt's quick, sharp ways frightened her, and the fear of offending
rendered her so timid and nervous, that she made more mistakes than
she would otherwise have done. She wondered how her companions in the
work-room could take their mistress's frequent scoldings so coolly
as they appeared to do. But they had grown accustomed to her voluble
expressions of displeasure, and knew that she often appeared more angry
than she really was.
Exceedingly quick-tempered, Miss Mansfield had a kind heart, in spite
of her sharp speech and abrupt manner. She meant to treat her niece
well, for she was pleased with her appearance and liked her needlework,
although she often found fault with it. She would have been astonished
could she have known with what dread and dislike her bearing had from
the first inspired Ellen. From force of habit, it had become a part of
her nature to scold, and she had no idea how disagreeable this practice
was to those about her.
Ellen found the long hours of sewing, with her aunt's keen eyes
constantly on the watch to detect the least diminution of energy,
quite as tedious as the hours spent in assisting her mother at home.
Occasionally she was sent out on errands; but, unaccustomed to town
life, she made so many blunders, that she was not often thus employed.
Once she got into sore disgrace by telling a lady to whom she carried
an expensive mantle, which had been ordered, and who consulted her on
the subject, that it did not suit her.
The consequence was, the mantle was returned to be re-made, greatly to
Miss Mansfield's annoyance, who vented her displeasure most severely
upon the well-meaning cause of it.
Ellen's fellow-workers differed much in character and demeanour. Julia
Coleman was a shrewd, talkative girl, who could work well if she liked,
but tried Miss Mansfield's patience greatly by her lazy, careless ways.
She was quick in excusing her own shortcomings, however, and by deceit
and untruth would try to shield herself from blame. Ellen was inclined
to like her, for she was bright and lively, and anxious to make friends
with the new-comer.
Mary Nelson was several years older than the other girls, having
already served her apprenticeship, and being retained in Miss
Mansfield's employ because her assistance was of such value. She was a
very quiet girl, and seldom spoke unless addressed. She would stitch
away as diligently when Miss Mansfield was out of the room as in her
presence. Her health was delicate, and sometimes she became faint
from bending over her work too long. Ellen felt sorry for her at such
times, and was profuse in her expressions of sympathy and offers of
assistance. Mary was grateful for her kindness, and tried to show
that she was so. A friendly feeling sprang up between the two girls,
although they said little to each other.
Miss Mansfield did not like much talking to go on in the work-room,
and when she was present, her voice was generally the only one heard.
Certainly that more than compensated for the silence of the others.
As Julia and Mary did not live in the house, and were always glad to
hurry home as soon as they could get permission to do so, Ellen had
little opportunity for unrestrained intercourse with them, except when
anything occurred to take her aunt from home.
She was obliged to go out on business one evening, and left the
girls some work to finish before they went home. They worked pretty
diligently, for they were anxious to get their task finished, but as
they worked Julia chatted freely.
"What do you do with yourself on Sundays, Ellen?" she asked. "Don't you
find it very dull here?"
"Yes, rather," Ellen admitted. "But I don't get up till late in the
morning, for aunt is never in a hurry on Sundays. Then I generally
write a long letter home, and in the evening, I go to church with aunt;
so the time passes quickly. I like it better than sewing all the day."
"I daresay you do," returned Julia. "But, for all that, it is hard that
you should not have some pleasure on the only holiday you get. I wish
you could come with me for a walk next Sunday afternoon. I would take
you about, and show you more of the town than you have yet seen."
"Thank you," replied Ellen. "I should like to take a walk with you, if
aunt would let me, but I know it is of no use to ask her. For the other
Sunday I asked her if I might take a little stroll by myself, and she
answered me so crossly, and said it was 'not seemly for young girls to
be gadding about the streets alone.'"
"Well, I must say I don't envy you, Ellen, being shut up the whole of
the day with that old cross-patch," Julia said, with a laugh.
"No, I don't like it at all," rejoined Ellen discontentedly. "I get
dreadfully tired of being always indoors. At home, I never used to stay
in the house for more than an hour at a time, but here I can scarcely
ever get out."
"I wonder if you would like to go with me to my Bible-class?" said Mary
Nelson, looking up from her work. "I should think your aunt would have
no objection to that."
"What is a Bible-class like?" asked Ellen. "I have never been to one."
"And if you take my advice you never will!" exclaimed Julia. "You will
find it a great deal slower than staying at home, I can tell you."
"I don't find it so," said Mary. "I would not miss going on any
account. Our teacher is such a pleasant young lady, and so kind and
good to us all, that we love her dearly. She makes the lessons most
interesting."
Julia smiled scornfully, and gave her head a significant toss.
Ellen thought she would like to go with Mary to her class, yet somehow
she felt ashamed to say so before Julia. But the recollection of her
brother Jerry, and his love for the Word of God, gave her courage, and
she said firmly,—
"I should like to go with you next Sunday, Mary, if aunt will let me."
"Very well; that is agreed," answered Mary, with a smile. "I shall be
very pleased to have your company."
Julia gave expression to her contempt for this arrangement by
indulging in a low whistle, and Ellen felt that she had fallen in her
fellow-apprentice's estimation.
CHAPTER VI.
SUFFERING FOR CONSCIENCE SAKE.
MISS MANSFIELD was quite willing that Ellen should go with Mary to the
Bible-class. During the time the latter had been in her employ, she had
worked so steadily and faithfully that Miss Mansfield felt the utmost
confidence in her, and had no fear of her leading Ellen into mischief.
Accordingly, the next Sunday afternoon, Mary called for Ellen, and the
two set off together for the school at which the class was held. It
took them about twenty minutes to reach it, and as the afternoon was
bright, Ellen thoroughly enjoyed the walk thither. She felt rather shy
and awkward as she entered the class-room, where about a dozen girls
were seated, awaiting the arrival of their teacher. But they greeted
the new-comer kindly, and she soon felt at ease with them.
Presently Miss Graham, their teacher, came in, and Ellen felt drawn to
her directly she looked at her pleasant face, with its sweet smile and
soft, loving blue eyes. She gave Ellen a kind welcome to the class,
and expressed the hope that she would be willing and able to attend
regularly.
"Have you not a Bible?" Miss Graham asked, seeing that Ellen was about
to look over with Mary.
"No, ma'am, I have not one of my own," replied Ellen, colouring as she
spoke.
"Then I will give you one, so that you may not say that any longer,"
said Miss Graham pleasantly, opening a drawer in the table at which she
was seated, and taking from it a neat little black Bible, in which she
proceeded to write Ellen's name.
Ellen was very pleased to receive this gift, and longed to show it to
Jerry, whose admiration, she knew, it would be sure to call forth.
She was interested in the lesson that followed, and went away at the
close of the class, carrying her Bible in her hand, resolved to read
it frequently, that she might become able to answer Miss Graham's
questions as readily as Mary and some other of the girls had done.
Every Sunday for the next few weeks, she went with Mary to the class,
although Julia laughed at her for doing so. She used to write Jerry
many a letter containing an account of the lessons Miss Graham had
given at the class.
These letters were eagerly read by the poor sick lad, and the passages
of Scripture to which reference was made, examined. He was somewhat
better than he had been when Ellen left home. The attacks of pain were
less frequent, and his spirits bright and hopeful. His faith in the
Lord Jesus, though simple and childlike, was strong, and he often spoke
confidently of the time, which he believed would soon come, when the
Lord would make him whole.
His letters to his sister—curious documents, written in a large,
sprawling hand—contained many allusions to this hope. And from the
cheering accounts of his improved health, which she received, not from
himself alone, but also from her mother, Ellen was encouraged to hope
that it might not prove deceptive.
One of the truths impressed upon her mind by Miss Graham's instruction,
was the value and importance of prayer. And every day she prayed
fervently that her little brother might be restored to health.
She had yet to learn her own need of spiritual health, and the
preciousness of Christ as a Saviour from sin.
As winter approached, Miss Mansfield was overwhelmed with work, and
stitch as fast as they might, she and her assistants were scarcely
able to get it all done. It would have been well, if Miss Mansfield
had had the good sense to refrain from undertaking more than it was in
her power to accomplish. But she never liked to refuse work, and would
frequently promise to execute an order by a given time when she knew it
was quite impossible for her to do so.
She did not spare herself, but worked the hardest of all. Her needle
was seldom laid aside till after midnight, yet she was often plying it
again before daylight. She suffered from such excessive application,
and became so impatient and irritable, that Ellen was quite afraid to
address her. The least mistake was sure to be most severely censured.
"It's of no use making a fuss about it," exclaimed Miss Mansfield, one
Saturday evening, when the girls were bending over their work with
pale, weary faces, for it was past their usual hour of dismissal.
"These dresses must be got out of hand. You will have to come for a
couple of hours to-morrow, Mary, and help me finish them off."
Mary looked up in astonishment, not unmixed with fear. She grew red for
a moment, but the colour quickly faded from her face, leaving it paler
than before.
"Come to-morrow, Miss Mansfield?" she repeated questioningly, as if she
doubted the hearing of her ears.
"Yes, to-morrow; do I not speak plainly enough?" replied Miss
Mansfield, with impatience.
"I cannot come on Sunday, Miss Mansfield," said Mary firmly, though her
voice betrayed agitation.
"And why not, pray?" asked her employer, sharply.
"Because I think it would be wrong to do such work on the Lord's day,"
answered Mary.
"Do you think I should ask you to do it, if it were wrong?" returned
the dressmaker, angrily. "But I suppose I don't know what is right. You
are one of those Pharisees who set themselves up for being better than
everybody else. Of course, it is wrong to work upon Sundays as a rule,
but this is a case of necessity. And I only want you to come for two
hours in the morning. You'd be able to go to your Bible-class in the
afternoon, and to church in the evening. What harm could there be in
that, just for once?"
"I am very sorry, ma'am," replied Mary, "but I can't think it would be
right to do so."
"You'd better say you would rather not oblige me. That would be nearer
the truth, I expect," returned Miss Mansfield. "But I won't put up with
such hypocritical ways. If you don't choose to help me to-morrow, you
need not trouble yourself to come here again."
"Oh, pray do not say that!" exclaimed Mary, imploringly.
"I do say it, and I mean it too," retorted Miss Mansfield, who had
worked herself up into a passion. "So now you understand, and can act
accordingly. If you don't come to-morrow, you shan't come on Monday.
Now which will you do?"
"Indeed, ma'am, I can't come to-morrow," replied Mary, in great
distress. "I will work extra hours next week, or do anything I can to
oblige you, but I cannot sew on Sunday."
"Very well, then, that is enough," said Miss Mansfield, white with
anger. "Now you may put on your things and go home. And remember, I do
not wish to see you here again, unless you think better of your refusal
to comply with my wishes. Here is your week's wages."
Mary's tears fell fast as she prepared to obey this unkind command.
With trembling hands, she slowly put on her bonnet and shawl, and
turned to take her leave. She paused for a moment at the door, and cast
a beseeching glance of distress at her stern employer.
[Illustration: 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.
CHAPTER VII.
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.
CHAPTER VIII.
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.
CHAPTER IX.
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.
CHAPTER X.
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.
CHAPTER XI.
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.
CHAPTER XII.
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.
CHAPTER XIII.
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.
CHAPTER XIV.
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.
[Illustration: THE RETURN HOME.]
"Oh, how good it is to be home again!" said Ellen, and Jerry echoed her
words.
Merry was the children's talk, as they gathered around the table for
their evening meal. They were ready to laugh at the least thing, and
Johnny, by simply remarking that Jerry and baby had learned to walk at
the same time, provoked a burst of merriment. But beneath this innocent
mirth, there were serious thoughts, and when his mother suggested that
it was time the little ones went to bed, Jerry, looking at his father,
said, quietly but earnestly:
"Father, before we go to bed, won't you thank Jesus for having made me
well?"
The request took his father by surprise; he coloured deeply, scratched
his head, and looked appealingly at his wife.
She responded to his glance by lifting her Bible from the shelf on
which it lay, and placing it on the table before him.
"My father always used to read a chapter and pray with his children
before they went to bed," she said. "I wish we had followed his example
at the beginning of our married life. But it's not too late to turn
over a new leaf. The Lord's been very gracious to us, although we've
forgotten Him. Let us thank Him for His goodness, as the dear lad says."
Her husband opened the Bible, but turned over its leaves with an air of
embarrassment.
"What shall I read, wife?" he asked.
She found him the 103rd Psalm, and slowly, and not without difficulty,
for he was "no great scholar," as he often told his children, he read
it.
The prayer was a harder matter. Memory came to his aid, however,
recalling words familiar to his ears in boyhood, and in tremulous
accents, he repeated the Lord's Prayer. Then he ventured to add a few
words of thanksgiving for the especial blessings they, as a family,
had received, with humble confession of sin. Broken and imperfect
utterances they were, but spoken from the heart, and inspired by the
Spirit of God.
That evening, watching angels could say of Joseph Mansfield, as was
said of one of old, "Behold, he prayeth," and had cause to rejoice that
to another of earth's homes, salvation had come. There were tears in
his wife's eyes as she rose from her knees, but they were not tears of
sorrow. The habit thus commenced was never dropped. Henceforth, not a
day was allowed to close, without a portion of God's Word being read
and a brief prayer offered.
All too quickly for Ellen, the happy hours passed by, and the day came
when she must return to her work at Charmouth. It was with much regret
that she said good-bye to her home once more. Had the choice been
offered her, she would have preferred to remain at home, and help her
mother with the domestic duties she had formerly despised. But it was
too late to change her plans. Her assistance was no longer urgently
needed, for baby was now out of hand, and Lucy was able to give her
mother all the help she needed.
Ellen had made her decision, and must abide by it. Recognising this,
she put a cheerful face upon the matter, and bravely, though with a
somewhat heavy heart, went back to her tedious occupation, resolved to
serve her aunt, not with "eye-service," but as "the servant of Christ."
She gradually became more accustomed to her aunt's peculiarities, and
learned to love her in spite of them. Miss Mansfield treated her niece
with kindness, and her demeanour showed that she was actuated by a
different spirit from that which had influenced her in the past. But
she still spoke quickly and sharply on occasion, and never quite lost
her love of scolding, for the habit of a lifetime is not easily broken.
CHAPTER XV.
TEN YEARS LATER.
IT was a cold winter's night, more than ten years later, and the
streets of Charmouth presented a dreary appearance, as a drizzling
rain fell on the slushy pavements, and a chill breeze swept round the
corners. It was miserable everywhere, even in the broad thoroughfares
and ample squares, along which persons hurried, eager to get
comfortably housed as speedily as possible; but the rawness of the
night was especially felt on the quays and in the narrow gloomy streets
adjoining them. On such a night, no one cared to be abroad, and it was
little wonder that many, both young and old, should be crowding into
the gorgeously lit gin-palaces, which were so numerous in the lower
part of the town. To many of the dwellers in this neighbourhood, these
taverns offered more attractive shelter than their own dismal homes
afforded.
But in one of the narrow alleys, a warm light was streaming from a
building which had no resemblance to a gin-palace, save that all
comers, no matter how poor and miserable, were welcome to cross its
threshold and seat themselves on the comfortable benches with which the
interior was furnished. A board over the door informed the public that
this was a mission hall, and the words "God is love" bore witness that
the Father had not forgotten His children, nor the Saviour His lost
sheep.
Towards this hall two persons were hastening, whose appearance differed
considerably from that of most of the people whom they met. The
elder of the two was a tall, bright-faced young woman, who, wrapped
in a thick woollen shawl, stepped along bravely, and seemed quite
unconscious of the disagreeable character of the weather. Her companion
was a young man of slight stature and delicate appearance, with a
singularly sweet expression of countenance. He seemed scarcely strong
enough to be abroad on such a night, but he was warmly clad, and a
thick comforter shielded his throat and chest from the raw atmosphere;
and the purpose which had brought him out was one for which he would
have encountered a far greater risk.
As he passed along these dark, noisome streets, his heart was full of
pity for the wretched beings he met.
"Oh, Ellen, to think how little one can do!" he said to his sister.
"All this sin and misery; so many treading the paths of death, and so
few stretch forth a hand to their rescue! Oh, if only I could do more!"
"You do all you can, Jerry, I'm sure," replied Ellen Mansfield. "I feel
quite ashamed of myself when I see how hard you work for others. If
only I could do more! But it seems that sewing is the work God intends
me to do, for I am so fully occupied, that I get little time for
anything else."
"But sewing may be done to His glory," returned Jerry; "and you have an
opportunity of guiding and helping other workwomen. By the bye, what
has become of that Julia Coleman you used to talk to me about?"
Ellen's face grew sorrowful.
"Oh, Jerry, I have seen nothing of Julia for years," she said, "and
I am afraid when I think of her, for she was so wild and wilful, and
seemed so bent upon pleasure. Aunt bore with her heedless ways as long
as ever she could, but she was obliged to dismiss her at last. Then she
found work in a shop, but soon lost her situation through idleness. And
now I don't know what has become of her, but I fear no good. I feel
very unhappy when I think of Julia."
"Let us pray for her, Ellen," said Jerry; "let us ask the Great
Physician to bring her back to Himself, that He may heal her sins."
But now they had gained the hall, where already a good congregation
awaited the arrival of the young preacher. For Jerry's cherished wish
had been realized, and he lived to tell others of the Saviour whom in
his childhood, he had found so gracious.
He and Ellen had made a little home for themselves in Charmouth, and
spent many a happy hour together, though Ellen still passed the greater
part of each day in her aunt's work-room. Some of their brothers and
sisters had also settled in the town, so that they were not separated
from their family. And whenever they could take a holiday, they
hastened back to the dear home, to receive a warm welcome from their
parents and the children, who would soon be children no longer.
Ellen was thinking of the old home as she entered the mission hall.
She was recalling the days when Jerry lay helpless on a bed of pain,
praying to the Saviour to give him health, and she rejoiced to think
how wonderfully his prayer had been answered.
Probably Jerry had similar thoughts, for he chose to speak to the poor,
wretched-looking people who gathered about him of the Great Physician,
and took for his text his favourite words, "As many as touched Him were
made whole." He blessed God for his theme as he looked at the sad faces
turned towards him, and thought of the sickness and sin and misery
which marred the lives of these people. Who could have had the heart
to go into their midst, did he not bear them glad tidings of a mighty
Friend, who "Himself took our infirmities and bare our sicknesses"?
Jerry's words were simple and loving. He told of the Saviour's love to
sinful man; how, when He was upon the earth, He had had compassion on
all who came to Him, healing their maladies, deadly though they might
be; relieving their distress, however great; forgiving their sins,
howsoever numerous. He spoke of the woman who, too fearful to ask for
mercy, had crept behind Jesus in the crowd, and laid her fingers on
the hem of His garment. He described the case of the leper who cried,
"Lord, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make me clean," and received the
gracious answer, "I will, be thou clean." And told the story of the
sinful Magdalene, who dared but to bathe His feet with her tears, yet
was bade to go in peace with sins forgiven.
Then with joy, Jerry proclaimed that the Saviour was still "mighty to
save." His heart had not changed towards man; He still yearned over
them in love, and pitied their sorrows. He told these miserable folk
that Jesus cared for their bodies, that He knew every ache and pain
that they suffered, and could understand their weakness and want. He
encouraged them to bring every malady, physical or spiritual, to the
Great Physician; but with especial earnestness, he pleaded with them
to seek deliverance from the fatal leprosy of sin, which worketh death
both to body and soul.
However great their guilt, Christ could make them clean, for still, as
in the days of old, "as many as touched Him were made whole."
Tears were in Jerry's eyes, as he besought his hearers to come and be
healed, and his earnest words were not spoken in vain. The Holy Spirit
carried them home to many a heart, causing it to cry out for salvation,
and "the power of the Lord was present to heal them."
The hymn with which the service closed was a fit sequel to Jerry's
address, and expressed the desire of many in that assembly. The words
were these:
"Heal us, Immanuel; we are here
Waiting to feel Thy touch;
Deep-wounded souls to Thee repair,
And, Saviour, we are such.
"Our faith is feeble, we confess,
We faintly trust Thy word;
But wilt Thou pity us the less?
Be that far from Thee, Lord.
"Remember him who once applied
With trembling for relief;
'Lord, I believe,' with tears he cried,
'Oh, help my unbelief.'
"She too who touched Thee in the press,
And healing virtue stole,
Was answered, 'Daughter, go in peace;
Thy faith bath made thee whole.'
"Like her, with hopes and fears, we come,
To touch Thee if we may;
Oh! Send us not despairing home,
Send none unhealed away."
Whilst the hymn was being sung, Ellen's eyes were arrested by the
appearance of a girl who sat on the bench before her. She was an
unhappy looking girl, dressed in ragged and tawdry finery.
Ellen had noticed her when she entered, and had fancied that her
features were familiar, but after that moment's glance, she had paid no
further heed to her, till at the close of Jerry's address she saw this
girl hastily cover her face with a corner of her shawl, whilst the sobs
which shook her frame showed that she was in an agony of grief.
Ellen watched her with much concern, and seeing that she continued to
weep, she hastened to her side, when the people began to move from the
hall, and gently asked the cause of her grief.
Her words elicited no response. The girl did not raise her head, but
sobbed more violently than before.
"Do tell me what is troubling you," said Ellen kindly; "I want to help
you if I can."
This time the girl lifted her head, and looked to see who was speaking
to her. She started back with a cry as she caught sight of Ellen, and
as she did so, Ellen recognised Julia Coleman, sadly altered though she
was.
"Oh, Julia, is it you?" she exclaimed, laying her hand affectionately
on Julia's arm. "I have so wished to see you again."
"Don't, Ellen," cried Julia, hastily shaking off her hand. "Don't look
at me—don't speak to me like that! If you knew how bad I am, you would
not touch me."
As she spoke, Julia rose from her place, and turned to make her escape
from the hall. But Ellen held her by the hand, and would not let her go.
"No, no, Julia," she said, "you must not run away from me thus. I want
to be your friend, if you will let me."
"I cannot!" cried Julia. "I am not fit to be your friend. Oh, if you
only knew how bad I am!"
And, overcome with emotion, Julia sank on to the bench, and again began
to sob.
"Dear Julia, if you are a sinner, I am one also," said Ellen. "And the
Saviour who has forgiven my sins, will forgive yours, if you will only
ask Him."
"Oh, Ellen, is it true?" cried Julia, a ray of hope passing over her
countenance. "Is it all true that the preacher said—'As many as touched
Him'? Can I go to Him? Can I touch Him?"
"Yes, it is true, quite true," Ellen assured her. "The Lord Jesus will
receive you lovingly, and heal your sins. But here comes Jerry; he will
tell you better than I can. You did not know that the preacher was my
brother Jerry."
And now Jerry added his words to Ellen's, and encouraged Julia to seek
the Great Physician, who now, as in the days of His flesh, "receiveth
sinners."
It was long before she could believe that, wretched and sin-stained
though she was, Jesus would not disdain to hear her cry. But at last,
faith conquered fear; and bowed beneath the burden of her sin, yet
trusting in the Saviour's love for forgiveness, like the penitent woman
in the house of Simon, she knelt at Jesus' feet, bathing them with her
tears, and was comforted by hearing from His lips the words, "Thy sins
are forgiven thee; go in peace."
She knew that in this life she must ever bear the scar of her sins, but
their smart was healed, and in her case also was the saying true, "As
many as touched Him were made whole."
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.
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