Mrs. Randall was much interested in Cathy's story, and promised, if she succeeded in her present undertaking, to give her all the work she could do.
"I have a beautiful new pattern for a shawl, Miss Ethel," said she. "You spoke some time ago about making a large one, like Miss Fleming's, you know."
"Yes, I know," said Ethel. "I did mean to make one for myself, but I have spent the money in another way, so I can't afford it just now."
Mrs. Randall smiled significantly. She was herself a Sunday-school teacher, and she guessed where the money had gone.
"Mission schools and sewing-schools are expensive luxuries," said she. "I know that from my own experience. And, by-the-by, I must give you some needles and thread for your school. So you think you will not make the shawl?"
"I really and truly cannot afford it now, Mrs. Randall, I am sorry to say. Thank you, just as much for the offer of the pattern."
"Ethel, did you really spend the money you had meant for your shawl on your sewing class?" asked Miss Atwood, after they had left the shop.
"Yes, aunt; I did not need it so very much, you see. I wished to make it because I like such work, and the shawls are pretty and becoming; but then I could do without it well enough."
"How do you manage your charities?" asked Miss Atwood. "Do you lay by a certain sum for them?"
"No, aunt; I never thought of doing that. I take them just as they come."
"And don't you sometimes find yourself out of money for such objects when you want it the most?"
"I certainly do," answered Ethel, considering. "Last Saturday I wanted half a dollar for the Home Mission collection, and I had not a cent."
"Shall I tell you what I think is a better way of managing?"
"If you please, aunt."
"The way I do is to lay by always a certain proportion of my income,—say, for illustration, ten per cent.," said Miss Atwood. "When my money comes in, I take out that much, whatever the proportion may be, and lay it aside. I say to myself, 'Now that is mine no longer; it belongs to charity,' and I never touch it on any account. Thus you see I can make a pretty exact calculation of my resources,—so much for missions, so much for the Sunday-school, and so always leaving a margin for unforeseen calls."
"I see," said Ethel; "I think it is an excellent way, and I mean to try it. But, aunt, I am sure you spend a great deal more than ten per cent. of your income on charity!"
"Maybe I do. That is none of your business, Miss," returned Miss Atwood, good-humoredly. "I should say ten per cent. was as much as you ought to lay by, at least to begin with, so long as you have to dress yourself out of your allowance. When you are richer, you can lay by a larger percentage, if you like."
"But the proportion would be the same, whether I had much or little, wouldn't it?" asked Ethel, doubtfully.
"In figures, but not in reality. Twenty dollars bears the same proportion to two hundred that two hundred does to two thousand; but suppose a man earns two hundred dollars, and gives away twenty, how much does he have left?"
"One hundred and eighty."
"But suppose he gives away two hundred out of two thousand, how much does he have left?"
"Eighteen hundred," replied Ethel. "I understand now what you mean. It would be a greater gift for Cathy to give away forty cents out of the four dollars she will earn by her crochet-work than it would be for me to give twenty dollars, because she would have so much less left. Thank you very much, Aunt Dorinda."
The next afternoon Ethel carried the bundle of wool up to Cathy, who was as much delighted as was to be expected. Mary Anne, who was at home, was equally pleased.
"It's more to her a great deal than if any one had given her the money," said she to Ethel, outside the door. "Even if she earns ever so little, it will be a comfort to her, besides the pleasure of the work. The only thing she ever frets about is that I have to work so hard, and she can't do anything. I tell her she does as much for me as I do for her, but she can't always feel so. I don't know what I shall do without her to come home to!" continued Mary Anne, looking straight before her. "At first I thought I couldn't have it so, no way; but the doctor made me see 't was best for her, so of course I gave in. Sometimes I think I must quit house keeping and go to service somewhere while she is in the hospital; but then there are the things. They ain't many nor worth much, to be sure, but they are all that's left of our old home, and I should hate to part with them."
"Of course," said Ethel; "but the things might be stored somewhere."
"Well, I'll think it over," said Mary Anne, and then added earnestly, "Miss Dalton, you'll never know in this world how much good you've done me. That Sunday when you came in first, I was ready to give up in despair. I couldn't see no comfort nowhere. I was tired to death with my work, and the folks below were making such a noise; Cathy was kind of low and discouraged, too, which is very uncommon with her; and I did feel so bad. It seemed just as if the Lord had forgot me, somehow, 'like a broken vessel,' as the Psalm says; and there wasn't and never would be anything but noise, and confusion, and hard work, forever. Then you came in, looking so nice and pretty and sweet, with your flowers,—I declare for 't I never thought what folks were made handsome for before, and you sat down and talked so kind of quiet and cheerful, and the flowers you brought were so sweet.
"I ain't good at expressing my feelings, as Cathy is, but somehow I seemed to realize that God was in the world, after all, and hadn't left it to run on by itself, as some folks say. It was just as though he had sent you to me with a message."
Ethel had not many words wherewith to answer, but she kissed Mary Anne's hard, tanned cheek with real sisterly affection; and went home feeling happier, and more humbled in her own eyes, than she had ever done before. Nothing makes a child of God more lowly, or gives him such a deep, and, at the same time, comforting sense of his own unworthiness and littleness, than the conviction that the Master has employed him to do His own work.
When Ethel went into her own room, she found a large bundle lying on her bed, and a note in Aunt Dorinda's manly handwriting. Much surprised, she opened the note, and read as follows:
"DEAR ETHEL:—I think I was wrong, and did you injustice. I 'was'
prejudiced, as you said. Show me that you forgive me by accepting a
little present from me, and making yourself a shawl like the one you
gave up for the sake of your mission class. I think if you and I could
learn to put up with each other's ways, we might do each other good;
and I will try, if you will."
Ethel carried her note and her bundle of wool to Emily, who was both touched and amused.
"Do you think I ought to take such an expensive present from her, Emily, when she has done so much for the school already?"
"Of course, my dear. You must not hurt her feelings by refusing, especially after she has made such a concession. It is the very first time I ever knew her confess herself mistaken. Perhaps we have been prejudiced, too, and have allowed ourselves to be blinded by her odd ways to the good there really is in her. She would be a very useful woman if she could only be a little more like other folks."
"She was lovely at Cathy's, yesterday," said Ethel; "and all the way home. And, oh, Cathy was so pleased with her work, and Mary Anne, too!"
"What work?" asked Emily.
"Some crochet-work which Aunt Dorinda sent Cathy. Well, I will begin my shawl directly, so as to show how much I value it. Do you think I had better answer her note?"
"I think I would," said Emily.
So Ethel wrote:
"DEAR AUNT DORINDA:—I have just found your pretty present, and thank
you for it ever so much. I feel as if you had done me a deal of good
already; and I am sorry I ever was ungracious to you. Please remember
me, and pray for me."
"Well, I never thought I could feel sorry to see the last of Miss Atwood," remarked Mrs. Jones, the next day, to Ethel. "If she would always be as she has been this last week, I would always be glad to see her. She is a good woman, and no mistake; but she is dreadful disagreeable sometimes, with her meddling, domineering ways; and somehow, the disagreeableness of good folks is harder to bear than any other. You feel as though they hadn't any right to it."
CHAPTER XVIII.
MORE BURGLARS.
"ETHEL, do you know of a good woman who wants a place as seamstress and so on?" asked Anne Burgers, as they met in the school-room, where Ethel still went for her Italian lessons.
They were both very early, and had the ante-room quite to themselves. Ethel answered the question by another.
"Why, what has become of your Mary?"
"Oh, she has gone to work with a dressmaker. You know she has not had a single fit since her accident, and is growing quite strong and well. And so, because we have kept her when nobody else would have her, and taken care of her all through her illness, she is going to leave us the first minute she is good for something. That is not the least like the grateful and devoted servants in the little books; but I am afraid it is something which happens rather often in real life."
"'The man who benefits his fellow-creatures in the expectation of being rewarded by their gratitude, will be often condemned to suffer the pangs of disappointment.' I read that in a book," said Ethel.
"I thought you didn't make it up yourself. But do you know of anybody? For a seamstress we must have, and one who knows how to run the sewing-machine."
"There is Mary Anne Lee, Cathy's sister, you know!" said Ethel. "She understands all sorts of work; and she told me that she had partly made up her mind to go to a place, if Cathy went to the hospital. You might see her. I wish she would go to your mother's; it would be a great deal better for her than, living there alone."
"She seems a nice woman, too," said Anna, reflectively; "and then she could help us about our Sunday-school work."
Ethel laughed. "I heard an editor say once that one trouble of being connected with a paper was that a man came to look upon everything in heaven and earth only as material for articles. I think you and I are in the same danger. We make the universe revolve round that Iron Hill Mission."
"Well, it might just as well revolve round that as anything else, for aught I know. By the way, do you know that Millar girl?"
And hereupon the two girls plunged into a whole ocean of that sort of Sunday-school talk which may be heard whenever two earnest teachers of the same school come together.
"But about Mary Anne: do you think she would come?"
"It would be easy to find out. The chief obstacle in the way seemed to be the want of some place to stow her things."
"She might put them in our garret. They would be safe there, and not at all in any one's way. Well, I will tell mother about her."
"Here are the two missionaries in earnest consultation, as usual!" said Margaret Fleming, as she came in with her cousin, Milly Davis. "What is the great point of interest now? Has Jane Stubbs got the measles, or Johnny Brown torn his new jacket and trowsers?"
"Laugh as much as you like," said Anna, good-humoredly. "If you once got engaged in the school, you would understand the feeling better. Come, Maggy, come and take a class! We want another teacher or two ever so much!"
"I have been thinking of it,—that is, if you want me," said Margaret. "Our school is full enough both of teachers and scholars."
"Oh, do!" exclaimed Ethel. "My infants are running over their room, and I could give you a nice little class directly. I am sure my brother would be ever so much pleased. Won't you come, Milly?"
"No, thank you," returned Milly. "I don't fancy being mixed up with all sorts of children. If one could ever find such poor people as one reads about in books,—English books especially,—there would be some pleasure in it; but one never sees such poor people here!"
"Nor anywhere else, I suspect," said Ethel. "One does not set about any sort of missionary work for pleasure; and just think, Nelly, what the missionaries have to go through. When they go out in the villages round the mission, the ladies very often sleep in the huts with the whole family, goats and buffaloes and all; and sometimes the buffaloes get loose and fight with one another. Fancy being in a room with two fighting buffaloes!"
"That would be a poor place for you, Ethel," said Margaret, laughing.
"Oh, I am not half as much afraid of cows as I used to be," replied Ethel, laughing in her turn. "I can pass a cow in the street with considerable confidence. But, Nelly, what is to become of all the poor people, and all the heathen, if no one is to go near them for fear of entomological specimens?"
"You used to be as much afraid of them as anybody," retorted Nelly. "I remember how you screamed out in Sunday-school because you saw a spider on your dress."
"I don't think I am quite as great a fool as I used to be," said Ethel, candidly. "But if I had been ever so silly, that does not answer my question, Nelly."
"And, besides, Ethel don't scream at insects any more," said Anna. "Do you know, she played through a long hymn and never missed a note, though she had a great June-bug kicking and scratching her neck, under her dress, all the time."
"I did, really," said Ethel.
"But why didn't you take it out?"
"I couldn't get at it," said Ethel. "I assure you, I never played such a long piece of music in my life,—not even our duet at examination last year."
"Well, I don't believe I could have done as much as that," said Nelly, in honest admiration. "But tell me truly, Ethel, do you really like going among those Iron Hill people?"
"I do, honestly," replied Ethel. "I didn't at first. I was afraid of the people, and I did not know how to get on with them. I had an idea that one must adopt some peculiar way of talking,—like something in a book; and that the people ought to be humble, and grateful, and all that. But I soon found out my mistake, by Henry's help; and now I get on pretty well. Of course, one meets with disagreeable things, sometimes; and you have to go when you don't feel like it, and would rather stay at home; but then you know, Nelly, we are not sent into the world just to please ourselves, and to do nothing but what we like."
"What 'are' we sent for," asked Nelly, abruptly. "I am sure 'I' don't know."
"I will tell you what I think about it, if you won't think I am preaching," said Ethel, blushing.
"Preach away," returned Nelly. "I would as soon hear you as any other."
"I think, then, that we are God's servants, and are sent here to do his work," said Ethel. "Not so much his servants, either, as his children. He lays out our work for us, and we are to do it. Sometimes it is easy,—sometimes it is very hard; but hard or easy, he expects us to do it the best we can, with all the helps He gives us; and it is no excuse for us to say that the work is disagreeable, and we don't like it, and so on. We may neglect our work and go pleasure-seeking, but we shall gain nothing by that. We only have to work so much harder, and our work, comes to nothing. It is all thrown away."
"And suppose we fail?" said Nelly.
"That is the beauty of working for Him,—we can't fail," replied Ethel, with animation. "We may fail in accomplishing the very particular thing which we undertake to do,—we may make ever so many mistakes; but if our work is done for him, he accepts the intention, and will bring good out of our very mistakes. But if we go on cautiously, and heedfully, and are willing to be directed by those who have experience, we need not make any such dreadful mistakes. I don't know whether I make you understand, Nelly."
"Oh yes, I understand. Thank you for your sermon, Ethel. It has, at least, the merit of being short and plain."
"If you would only try and act on it, Nelly dear!" said Anna.
"What, you too? That is more than I bargained for," said Nelly, but without any of her usual irritation. "Well, I will think about it."
"I will tell you one very nice thing you might do," said Ethel. "You know we are getting ready a box to send to Miss Beecher's school at O—. Now, if you would paint some of your pretty pictures,—you and Margaret make such lovely little landscapes and flowers,—they would go into the box nicely, and be very acceptable as presents to the girls, and the teachers too."
"Well, I will," said Nelly. "I say, why wouldn't a lot of photographs be nice?—Pictures of public buildings and scenery and so on? My brother would give me no end of them."
"They would be the very thing," replied Ethel.
"And by the way, I can give you ever so many calico pieces for your sewing-school, if you want them. Aunt Nancy gave me a great bagful, which she has been collecting for ever so long. But don't you care about patchwork?"
"Indeed we do!" exclaimed Anna. "We never can have enough. You will be a darling, Nelly, if you can give us some pretty new pieces of calico; and if you could find time to baste some of them—"
"I shall be better yet! Well, I will see what I can do," said Nelly, as she turned away.
"Won't it be a triumph, if we get Nelly Davis at work for the sewing-school?"
"We must be very careful," said Ethel. "If she gets the least notion that we are trying to manage her, she will fly off directly."
"Well, girls, you ought to make great allowance for Nelly," said Margaret Fleming. "She is sometimes a trial,—nobody knows that better than I do,—but she has had a great deal to contend with. Of course, I can't tell family secrets, but she did have a dreadful home before she came to grandmother's. Her father and mother always quarrelled, and whenever one petted her, the other always spited her. It is no wonder her temper was spoiled. It will be a grand thing for her if you can get her engaged in anything, so as to make her forget her own feelings, and leave off watching people to see whether they don't mean to affront her in some way. Well, I will come up next Sunday; but how shall I find the place?"
"I will call for you," said Anna; and so the affair was settled.
Before the end of the week Cathy Lee was safely established in the hospital, and Mary Anne had gone to work at Mrs. Burger's.
"I sha'n't earn so much money," she said to one of her shop acquaintances who wondered at her for "going out;" "but then I shall have a home. I get two dollars a week instead of five, but then I shall have no expenses but my dress, which doesn't cost much, and what I do for Cathy."
"But then, when you work in the shop, you are independent," said the other. "I think a great deal of that. I come and go as I please, out of shop-hours, and am accountable to nobody."
"Independence is not always a good thing," said Mary Anne, severely. "There is another reason why I am willing to live out, and that is that I may have some time to be with Cathy. Mrs. Burgers will let me have two afternoons in the week to spend with her."
It is not to be supposed that Ethel and Anna met with no vexations and disappointments in their efforts upon Iron Hill. They had their full share of naughty children and dull children and unreasonable mothers who whipped and scolded their offspring without mercy, but were furiously angry at their receiving the most gentle reproof from anybody else. But as my object has been to give a history of Ethel herself, and not of her school, I have not thought it best to use up space and time in narrating too many particulars.
There was no doubt whatever that the school had done Ethel a great deal of good. She had lost that excessive timidity which used to make her appear haughty and cold, when she was only shy and awkward. She had learned to talk fearlessly to all sorts of people, and without thinking in the least of her own dignity. She had learned to forget herself. She had learned to face cows, and dogs, and horse-cars, and all the other dreadful dangers which used to make her miserable; and at the end of her day's work she was only too glad to be carried home in the doctor's chaise behind his most spirited horse.
She went up to the hospital to see Cathy Lee, and carried newspapers and fruit to the men in the soldiers' wards, without the slightest hesitation. She had sat up all night with one of her little scholars, the child of a widow on the hill; and when the child died, toward morning, she went bravely the length of two vacant lots to call up Mrs. Trim, and helped her to lay out the poor little corpse. Was this the Ethel who, six months before, had been afraid to go into the garden because Richard Trim, now her faithful ally and devoted servant, was leaning over the rails? Yes, the very same,—with this difference, that she had learned to live to her Master, instead of to herself,—with this difference, that she had some object in life besides living on easily and pleasantly from day to day, avoiding everything irksome or disagreeable, and excusing all her shortcomings and faults by the one apology, "It is natural to me, and I can't help it."
For Ethel all the time kept her great object steadily in view. She had made up her mind to be a missionary; and had put herself on a six months' probation, to see whether it would be a possible thing that she should fit herself for the place. It was for this end that she courted every opportunity of making herself useful at home and abroad, that she strove to learn every sort of domestic work, that she went to market, and learned to bake, and did up her own muslins,—and would have done her own washing, if Mrs. Jones could have been brought to allow it, and resolutely disciplined herself to overcome her fears of insects and other crawling creatures. It was for this that she studied her Bible so diligently, with all the helps she could find, and stored her memory with illustrations of Scripture. Her probation was almost at an end, when her labours at the Hill met with a disagreeable interruption. She sprained her ankle, and the manner of it was this:
Ethel had not quite forgotten her fears of burglars, and she was apt to start at any unusual noise at night. She was doing her best to discipline herself out of these fancies, as she called them, and, as often happens in such cases, she was rather inclined to go to the opposite extreme. Thus it happened, one night, that she absolutely refused for some time to believe, or, indeed, to listen to the report of her own ears, which, about one o'clock, assured her that somebody was walking about under her windows.
"It is just one of your fancies," she said to herself; severely. "You are always imagining some terrible bugbear or other."
But the ears insisting on the correctness of their report, and adding the further information that somebody or something was trying the blinds. Ethel first sat up in bed and listened, and then crept to the window, which, as usual, was open at the top, and did the same; and the more she listened, the more certain she became that there was something very suspicious going on below. She pushed up the sash very softly. The noise stopped for a moment or two, as though the intruders were listening, and then went on again.
Ethel ventured to peep out, and could see distinctly that there were two men at least near the corner of the house, and that they were working at the shutters of the kitchen window. Ethel's heart sprang up into her throat. What was to be done now? She sat down to steady herself a moment and to think. She remembered that the doctor had once said the best thing for any one to do under such circumstances was to make as much noise as possible; and she was just going to give her bell a violent pull, when she thought of Emily. A sudden alarm would be very bad for her: Ethel was cool enough to think of that.
Emily slept up in the third story still,—her room below obstinately insisting on smelling of paint and varnish whenever it was shut up a little while; and the doctor had caused his night-bell to be so altered that it rang in Jones's room. Then Jones would go to the door, and finding out the state of the case, either called Dr. Ray, or else sent the ringer away to a young physician, a friend and protégé of the doctor's, who was only willing to be called up at night. In an instant, Ethel had reflected that if she went down and pulled the office-bell, Jones would come to the door as usual, and she would tell him the story, and send him to call his master, without alarming Emily, or leading her to think that anything unusual was the matter. If Mr. Dalton had been at home, Ethel's natural course would have been to call him; but he was away in New York.
Could she do it? The office was quite on the other side of the house, and there was always a light kept there and in the hall. Suppose the robbers should see her,—suppose they were already in the house? Ethel's heart grew sick with fear,—not for herself, but for Emily, if she should be waked suddenly by the appearance of a burglar in her room (for the doctor never would lock his door).
"It must be done, that's all!" said Ethel desperately, to herself.
She slipped on her dressing-gown, put her feet into her slippers without stopping for her stockings, succeeded in opening her door without noise, and, getting down to the office door, she carefully and softly unlocked it, and gave the bell a sharp and sudden pull. As she did so, she inadvertently stepped off the doorsill. Her slipper turned to one side, and she felt a sudden sharp, sickening pain in her ankle; but she gave the bell another pull, shut the door, and, too sick and faint to stand another moment, dropped on a chair.
She knew the bell had rung, for she had heard the distant tinkle; but it seemed half an hour before Jones, coming down-stairs, opened his mouth for an exclamation, which was nipped in the bud by Ethel's sharp, imperative whisper.
"Hush! Don't make a noise, and alarm Mrs. Ray. There are burglars trying to get into the kitchen. I saw them. Go call Dr. Ray, as quietly as you can."
"Are you sure, Miss?" asked Jones, incredulously. "Wasn't it just a notion of yours?"
"I tell you I saw them, and they are there now," returned Ethel, in the same sharp whisper. "I peeped out through the blinds."
"I'll go and listen," said Jones, evidently still thinking the burglars all a creation of Ethel's fancy. He went back to the kitchen, taking a match from the safe as he passed.
"There's somebody at the pantry, sure enough," said he, returning, after a minute's listening. "Three men, at least, I should say. They are doing nothing now, but listening. I had best call the doctor."
The doctor was called, as if to an ordinary case, and came down yawning, to be astonished by Jones's story, and the sight of Ethel in her dressing-gown. He heard the story, and seemed, at first, disposed to treat the whole as one of Ethel's terrors, until Jones confirmed its truth.
"They will be gone now with all this bustle, no doubt," said he. "Let us go and explore. Dear, are you afraid to stay here?"
"No," said Ethel. "Only go quick."
Then Ethel heard the splutter of a match, and saw the gas lighted in the kitchen; and the next moment somebody ran along the gravel path, and Ethel heard him jump over the fence.
"They are gone now, anyhow," said the doctor, coming back. "You had better go up-stairs to bed, and Jones and I will explore. But what's the matter?" As Ethel tried to rise, and sank back in the chair.
"I have hurt my foot, somehow," said Ethel. "I sprained it, I think, by slipping off the step as I was ringing the bell."
"Whew!" whistled the doctor. "Let me look. I should think you had sprained it! You poor little dear, you have hurt yourself badly. You must let me carry you up-stairs."
And before Ethel had time to object, she was taken up in the doctor's strong arms, and safely deposited in her own bed. The ankle was examined and bandaged, and Ethel made as comfortable as circumstances would admit. Mrs. Jones came to sit with her for the rest of the night.
"You have not been gone long," said Emily, sleepily, as the doctor came back. "What was it?"
"Nothing very serious, I hope," replied Dr. Ray, with an inward thanksgiving that his wife had not been alarmed.
"Only a slight accident. I did all that was necessary without leaving the house."
"I thought I heard you moving about."
"Yes; I went into the kitchen and pantry. Go to sleep now, there's a jewel."
In the morning Emily heard the story, and very much surprised she was.
"We have much reason to be thankful to Ethel," said the doctor. "It was a great exercise of courage and presence of mind for any one, and especially for Ethel. The worst of it is that in going about in the dark, she has sprained her ankle, and I am afraid she will be laid up for a while."
"Poor little dear, what a pity!" said Emily. "Only to think of her going down to the door and ringing the bell herself, to save me. I always told you she had the elements of a fine woman in her. But who would have believed her capable of such an exploit, six months ago?"
"Henry's coming has been the making of her, and I fear it will be the means of losing her as well," remarked the doctor. "I am much mistaken if she is not training herself to go out with him when he returns to the East."
"I have thought of the same thing a good many times lately," answered Emily, sighing. "I know it has always been a favourite plan of Henry's. It would be a great sacrifice to let her go, but I don't know that we ought to discourage her."
"By no means. Let her train herself as much as she likes. It gives her a grand object in life, which is just what she wants. There are three years to spare before she needs to decide, and a great many things may happen in that time. Ethel is a wonderfully pretty girl, and she grows more attractive every day."
"I know what you mean," said Emily; "but, Matthew, if she should at last decide to go, what will you say?"
"Then it will all depend on her health," replied the doctor. "If she is as well and strong as she promises to be, I should not feel justified in holding her back. Do you notice how much better she is than she used to be? We don't hear any more about the heart disease since the sewing-school began."
CHAPTER XIX.
AND LAST.
FOR two or three days Ethel bore her confinement to the sofa very well; but as Saturday drew near, she began to fret. What was to become of the sewing-school and the infant-class, and the music, and all the rest of it? She was sure she could ride up to the Hill if the doctor would only let her, and made an attempt to demonstrate the fact by walking across the room. Unfortunately for the success of the experiment, she dropped down half-way, and nearly fainted with the pain in her ankle.
Dr. Ray was very much displeased. "Ethel," said he, "do you want to be lame for life? Do you think your own interests or those of any one else will be promoted by your becoming a helpless cripple?"
"Of course not," replied Ethel, rather alarmed. "Do you think there is any danger of that?"
"There is imminent danger of it, if you go on trying to walk at present. If you keep quiet, and do as you are bid, I think you may be about again in six weeks at farthest. If you don't, you are likely to be laid up for life. And what is more, Ethel, unless you will follow my directions exactly, I will have nothing to do with your ankle. You will have to find some other surgeon, for I will have no patient who will not obey directions."
Dr. Ray was by no means one of those wonderful heroes whose "irresistible wills" make such a figure in the minds of some (usually single) ladies. He had no ambition to "sway all who came under his influence," or to "make everything bend to his indomitable resolution." Nevertheless, when he set his foot down, he meant to be obeyed, and he had a way with him at such times which did not invite discussion.
Ethel gave up the point, sullenly enough it must be confessed; but she did give it up, and tried no more experiments.
She was lying still, without any pretence of employment and feeling very forlorn and rebellious indeed, when Dr. Ray came back and sat down beside her. Ethel roused herself and tried to speak, if not pleasantly at least indifferently.
"You sitting down at this time of day?" said she. "That is a wonderful sight."
"Yes, a rare one, at any rate; but I am likely to have a spare half-hour for once, owing to the stupidity of the blacksmith, who has put on my horse's shoes so that they hurt him. These rests which, so to speak, come of themselves, or, at least, without our seeking, are very grateful sometimes."
"Yes, if one does not feel all the time that one ought to be up and doing," replied Ethel, with a sigh. "In that case they are anything but grateful."
"My dear," said the doctor, "shall I impart to your youthful mind a piece of wisdom learned by experience, which has been a great comfort to me?"
"If you please," said Ethel.
"It does not sound like anything so very remarkable," continued the doctor; "in fact, at first sight, it may sound like a truism. Nevertheless, I was thirty years in learning it. My comforting truth is simply this: 'It never is or can be our duty to do what it is absolutely impossible that we should accomplish.' In other words, the work which we cannot possibly do is not our work, and therefore we are to feel no responsibility about it."
"I understand your truth and its application," said Ethel, after a moment's consideration. "You mean that as I cannot possibly go to Iron Hill, it is not my duty to go."
"Exactly."
"But, brother, one may feel anxiety and grief, if not responsibility," remarked Ethel. "My conscience may not reproach me for staying away when I am not able to go to the sewing-school; but I cannot help feeling uneasy lest things should go wrong, and grief at not meeting my scholars."
"I grant that," replied Dr. Ray; "but, my dear, you should know by this time where to lay all such burdens as that. Don't you think the Master whom you are trying to serve at Iron Hill can get the work done without you? And don't you believe he will hear you if you ask him in faith to supply your place? And ought you to repine if he sees fit for a time to give your work to somebody else?"
Ethel was silent for a little space; then she said, in a low voice, "I believe the truth is I don't want him to let any one else do my work."
"That is it! A good deal, you see, depends on whether you call it 'your' work or 'his' work. 'Your' work can only be done in certain times and places, and under certain circumstances; his work can be done at all times, and in any place where he puts you."
"I believe you are right," said Ethel; "but yet—" She did not finish the sentence.
"But yet—" said the doctor.
Then, as Ethel did not answer, he drew his chair closer to her, and went on talking in the peculiar gentle quiet tone which had soothed and comforted so many sick nerves and hearts.
"My dear, I don't want to penetrate your secrets, if you have any; but I believe I see what your mind is running on, and what makes it so peculiarly hard, as you think, that you should be laid up just now. Unless I have read you wrongly during the last few months, you have a grand purpose in view, and you have been resolutely training yourself for that end,—conquering your fears and fancies, and learning all sorts of ways of making yourself useful. You feel particularly interested in your school at Iron Hill, not only for its own sake, but because there you are all the time learning and practising what will fit you for usefulness in the great career you have marked out for yourself. Have I guessed rightly?"
"You have, indeed," replied Ethel. "But how did you guess it?"
"Oh, I am not an absolute 'non compos!'" said the doctor, smiling. "I can put two and two together, and find out the sum. And tell me, do you believe your great aim to be such as the Master can approve and bless?"
"Yes, indeed, I do," answered Ethel. "And you mean that all you do shall be done to his service?"
"I do, indeed!"
"Then, my dear, let me ask you a simple question. Which do you think best understands the training which is to fit you for this great work, the Master or yourself? Whose lessons are likely to be the best worth learning,—those which he gives you, or those which you select for yourself?"
"Those which he gives me, of course," replied Ethel, without hesitation. "I am sure of that. I see your meaning, brother. You mean that as this misfortune is sent or allowed by him, I may use it in preparing myself for his service as I have used my work at the Mission!"
"Just so; exactly. You may learn a great many different things while you are lying here on the sofa—"
"You mean patience and humility, and so on."
"Yes; all the passive virtues, and more than that. You can use your head pretty well, can't you? I have not heard of any new symptoms of 'softening of the brain,'" he added, mischievously; for brain disease used to be one of Ethel's favourite bugbears.
Ethel laughed. "I have come to the conclusion of old Father William in 'Little Alice,'" said she. "I am so perfectly sure I have none, that I do it again and again. I believe my brain was made so soft originally that it admits of no more softening. How I used to torment myself with such fancies when I had nothing to do but to notice every little disagreeable feeling."
"Well, then, to keep the fancies from coming back, suppose you go to work at some study. How would you like reading a little Italian with me?"
Ethel thought it would be charming; but the next day, when the doctor came in to see her, she had something new to talk about.
"Brother, don't you think that, if I am to teach or have the charge of girls, I ought to know something of physiology?"
"Certainly, my dear. Every one ought to know something about the structure and functions of the human body."
"I was going to say that I should like to have you give me some lessons on the subject, if you thought it would be a good plan," said Ethel. "We might read our Italian all the same. There is time enough," she added, sighing.
"I think that a very good plan," said Dr. Ray, very much pleased. "But, dear, I thought you used to detest all such studies."
"Well, I do think they are horrid," replied Ethel, candidly. "The pictures are so perfectly ghastly. But, then, if one ought to know it, that does not matter."
"Perhaps you will not think it so very horrid, when you learn something about the science," said the doctor. "But come, let us have some Dante. Don't begin at the beginning. Turn over to the twenty-eighth canto of the Purgatorio."
Ethel did as she was bid, and, as they read on, she was surprised at not only the poetical feeling but the learning displayed by her brother-in-law.
"You must have studied a great deal at some time or other," said she. "Now 'please' don't quote that horrid proverb about the toad. But why did you never tell me you knew Italian, brother? You might have helped Anna and me so much."
"Why, to give you an Italian proverb this time, do you know why the toads have no tails?"
"I am sure I don't."
"Because they never asked for any," replied the doctor, smiling. "You never asked me to help you about that or anything else."
"I was very unjust to you in a great many ways," said Ethel, blushing as she remembered her fancies about her brother-in-law. "I used to think you had no feeling and no sympathy for me."
"I know. I understood it exactly. I thought you would find me out in time."
With all the patience that Ethel could muster, and all that her friends could do to help her, she found her confinement very tedious. She missed the interests which had lately occupied her, and she found it rather hard to keep herself in a proper frame of mind,—hard not to be a little jealous when Anna told her how well Mary Rose managed the infant room, and how useful Margaret Fleming and Nelly Davis were in the sewing-school; for Nelly had really been "drawn into the vortex," as she declared, and her friends were much amused to see how enthusiastic she became. Ethel began to feel a little as if her place were filled—as if she were likely to be no longer wanted or cared for in the school, and the feeling cost her a few tears and a pretty sharp struggle with herself.
But she forgot all about her jealousy the first time she was allowed to ride up to Iron Hill, on a Saturday afternoon, and saw how heartily glad both children and teachers were to see her again. Her scholars almost quarrelled as to who should take her hat and cloak, and who should sit next her in the class. The Sunday-school had enlarged greatly in her absence, and now contained almost every child on the Hill.
The evening congregations had also increased, and there was serious talk of a subscription for building a chapel and organizing a church. The partners in the foundry promised a good large subscription to begin with, and Mr. Melsence offered the gift of an eligible lot of land for building purposes.
There had also been some opposition to contend with. Mr. Millar lost no opportunity of ridiculing the whole affair and imputing the worst of motives to those engaged in it, and his wife tried her best to make the mothers of the children jealous of their teachers' influence. She had taken Jenny out of the school; but Jenny, being used to have her own way, had soon come back again, and attended with great regularity. The proprietor of the lager-beer saloon had also done his best to break up the services, even setting some of his customers to make a disturbance under the chapel windows; but the second time this was done, two policemen were on hand, and the disturbers were promptly taken into custody.
The Roman Catholic priest was also very bitter against the Sunday-schools especially, and for a while, several of the German children were withdrawn. But they presently came dropping back one by one, and at last one family became regular attendants at the chapel. The Iron Hill Mission was evidently a success, and Mr. Dalton did not hesitate to say that this success was more owing to his young lady assistants than to his own labours.
"Ethel has a special aptitude for teaching," said he, one day, talking over the matter with Emily. "She knows how to keep the attention of the children awake and to keep them interested, not by amusing them all the time, but by making them do their work well and thoroughly. Moreover, she has the art or knack, or whatever it is, of government. She knows how to 'prevent' disturbances and to keep up discipline without making a fuss about it."
"In short," said Emily, smiling and sighing at the same time, "she is exactly made for a missionary."
"Exactly."
"I think you ought to be careful how you influence her, Henry," said Emily, gravely. "You know how she looks up to you, and how much weight she attaches to your opinion."
"I mean she shall decide the matter wholly for herself," replied Mr. Dalton. "It has always been a favourite project of mine, I may say ever since she was born, to have Ethel educated for the missionary work; but I have never but once mentioned the matter to her. She knows what my wishes are, of course; but I have said not one word to persuade her, and I do not intend to do so; but if Ethel herself makes up her mind that she wishes to go out with me when I return, I shall certainly do all in my power to advance her purpose and assist her preparations."
"I shall not say a word against it," said Emily, sighing. "Nobody knows how much I shall miss her; but, after all, my sister is no more to me, I suppose, than other people's sisters and daughters are to them. I believe in my heart that Ethel is unusually fitted for the work of a missionary, and that if her father and mother were here to speak, they would approve of her devoting herself to this work. When do you mean to talk to her again?"
"Whenever she comes to me desiring me to do so. She particularly wished that nothing should be said to her till after Christmas. That was when we began our work together at Iron Hill. I think she then put herself upon a certain probation to convince herself as to her own qualifications. I imagine she will open the subject after holidays, and of course she will have no secrets from you."
The Christmas holidays were a success at Iron Hill. There was a chapel trimming, of course, to which Richard Trim contributed some beautiful nasturtiums and geraniums, carefully raised for the purpose. There was a missionary lecture with the magic-lantern, and finally a Christmas-tree for the Sunday-and sewing-schools, with plenty of pretty presents, and good things to eat, for which latter the executive committee were largely indebted to good Mrs. Fowler's generosity. Everything went off delightfully, and the next Sunday Mr. Dalton gave notice of a meeting of the men to take measures for building a permanent chapel and school-room. Yes, the Iron Hill mission was certainly a success.
"I have come to ask a favour, brother Henry," said Ethel, entering her brother's room on the last day of the old year.
"Well," said Mr. Dalton, "I am pretty safe, I suppose, in saying 'Yes' beforehand, since your requests are not commonly unreasonable. Do you want me to hold your worsted while you wind it?"
"You may, if you please, though that is not what I was going to ask."
Mr. Dalton held out his hands, and Ethel invested them with the wool, which she proceeded to wind into a "haycock," after the approved fashion of skilful crochet-workers.
"Well, now tell me what is your great favour?" asked Mr. Dalton, when the haycock was well under way. "You have me at advantage, for I cannot get away from you."
"I want you to teach me Syriac, or Turkish, or whatever it is you speak out there," said Ethel, trying to speak lightly, though her hands trembled.
"Syriac!" said Mr. Dalton. "And why does the little sister want to learn Syriac?"
"I shall have to speak it, I suppose, when I go out there with you," replied Ethel. "And if I learn it beforehand, it will be so much clear gain, will it not?"
"It certainly will," replied Mr. Dalton. And then, after a little pause, "So you have decided?"
"I have decided to try, if you think I have any chance of success," replied Ethel. "You can begin to judge by this time, I should think, whether I am likely to be a help or a hindrance to you."
"I see no reason why you should not be a great help, not only to me, but to every one around us," said Mr. Dalton. "I was remarking to Emily the other day that you seemed to have a special aptitude for teaching and governing children. But, little sister, have you counted the cost?"
"I have counted it so far, I suppose, as any one can count it beforehand," said Ethel. "I have considered the grief of parting from friends, the dangers and inconveniences of the journey, and the many annoyances to which I must necessarily be exposed. I have read over and over all Miss Beecher's letters, and everything else which I can find to read on the subject. Yes, I think I have counted the cost, as far as it is possible beforehand, and still I desire to go. I have promised Matthew one thing—that I will be governed by his judgment as to the matter of health; and if he says I am not well enough, I will give up the undertaking: but I am not very much alarmed about that."
"Then you have talked to the doctor?"
"He talked to me," replied Ethel. "He found out my secret, as did Mrs. Jones; and we have had several conversations on the subject. He says he wishes he could go himself."
"I wish, with all my heart, he would!" exclaimed Mr. Dalton. "Such a medical man as he would be worth everything."
"Of course, that is out of the question," said Ethel; "but Matthew says he means to talk to Dr. Denman,—that unfortunate young man to whom Jones sends the people who come on stormy nights. But, Henry, you have not answered my question. Will you teach me Syriac?"
"I will, indeed, my dear little sister," said Mr. Dalton, kissing her; "and more gladly and thankfully than I can tell you. You could not ask me to do anything which would give me so much pleasure. When shall we begin?"
"To-morrow, if you like. I should like to begin on New Year's day."
"But what about the roaches and the spiders, and so on?" asked Mr. Dalton, smiling.
"I am going to make a collection of them to send to Aunt Dorinda!" replied Ethel, smiling in her turn. "I wonder what she will say to me?"
"She will say it is just what she expected, and that she always foresaw it; and, what is more, she will really think so," replied Mr. Dalton. "I am thankful that she does not turn her own attention that way. What a fine kettle of hot water she would have worked up for us in about a month's time."
"Oh, you do not do Aunt Dorinda justice!" said Ethel. "As she would say, you cannot forgive her for lecturing you about your sermon. There is a great deal of good in Aunt Dorinda, after all."
"I have never thought of denying it," replied her brother. "The more is the pity that she neutralizes it by her disagreeable manners."
"She told me, after Cathy Lee asked her to come and see her, that Cathy was the very first poor person who ever invited her cordially to call again," continued Ethel. "I was always glad that Aunt Dorinda stayed that last week. I have had quite a different feeling toward her ever since. But to return to our great subject: Henry, do you think I may consider the matter settled—settled, I mean, as far as anything can be so long beforehand?"
"I think we may, my dear and may that Divine Master, to whom you have dedicated your life's work, bless that work to his service, and you in doing it, so that you may at last hear the sentence, 'Thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."
There is little more to be added to this history.
The Iron Hill Mission has ceased to be a mission, and become a healthy, self-supporting free church, well attended and growing all the time. Old Mrs. Trim has gone home; and Richard has taken to wife that very Matty McHenry whose taste in dress was moulded upon Ethel's. Cathy Lee is well, and, though one leg is a little contracted, she can walk as well as ever. The two sisters are once more living together, making money at dress-making, and already talk of buying back their old home, and living once more in the country among old friends. Anna Burgers is married, but still lives at home, and finds time for many good works among the poor and ignorant.
The doctor's house is more full of children's voices. Aunt Dorinda is a frequent visitor, rather to the detriment of family government, it must be confessed, for she thinks the children ought to have everything they want, and fears that Emily will spoil them by over-strictness. But, as Emily herself says, she does no great harm, and it is worth some trouble to see the old lady so happy.
Ethel's third year of probation is rapidly drawing to a close, and it is no secret now that she is to go to Persia with her brother in the spring. Of course a great many different opinions are expressed about the matter; but Ethel herself has never wavered for a moment since that New Year's eve when she made her final resolution. She has all the time been preparing herself for the work she has in view; and she is quite ready to take it up in humility indeed, but without fear, resting in Him who has promised to them that lay down their lives for Him a thousand-fold more in this life, and in the world to come life everlasting.
Which of my readers, on finishing this book, will lay it down, and honestly, in the fear of the Lord, ask herself, "Have 'I' any responsibility in this matter? Is there any one better able to go out on this work than I am?" Lift up your eyes, dear girls, and see the fields white to the harvest, and the good grain being wasted and stolen, and trodden under foot, because there is no one to gather it, and then ask yourselves, "Is there no place for me to work in all this wide field?"
THE END.