CHAPTER X.
NOVEL-READING.
"What makes you so tired to-day, Tessa?" said Katie, one morning when the "rules" allowed the girls to speak.
"I don't know; I always do feel so in the mornings. It's awfully hard to get up. Don't you find it so?"
"I did at first, but I am getting used to it now. By the time I am dressed I am wide-awake and fit for anything. I don't see why you should feel so; I am afraid you're sick."
"Oh, no; only stupid and sleepy; I'll wake up by-and-by," and Tessa drew from her pocket a thin, square volume which was tightly rolled up. The noon-whistles sounded just then, and Katie saw her companion curl herself up on a box in the corner and at once lose herself in her book.
She still sat there when her friend returned, rosy and refreshed after her warm dinner and two brisk walks, and, as there were still a few moments before work must be resumed, the latter walked across the room and playfully took the book from the other's hand.
"Don't! oh, please, don't!" said Tessa. "Time's most up, and I must know what became of Sir Reginald!"
"You must eat your lunch. Look, here it lies untasted beside you.
Tessa, you will certainly be sick if you go on in this way."
But Tessa did not listen; she had again firmly grasped the book, and was greedily devouring its contents quite dead to outside things, till, the bell ringing, Katie jogged her shoulder, and she walked slowly across to the table where both girls worked, her eyes still upon her book. There she set it up, still open, against a pile of packages of paper, and all the afternoon kept casting furtive glances at it, often letting her work drop and her hands hang idle, while she followed the fortunes of the fascinating Sir Reginald.
Katie was in an agony; she loved Tessa, and did not want her to get into trouble, as she would certainly do if her proceedings should be observed by the overseer. Besides, was it honest thus to use time paid for by an employer?
But she had no chance to speak to her companion, for as usual she finished her work and went home, and whether her companion received a reprimand from the overseer for not having completed her daily task she did not know. Probably she did not, for it was an understood thing that Tessa was not so strong as the other girls, and therefore so much must not be expected of her.
The next day it was the same thing. Tessa looked tired out before the day's work began, and well she might, for she had sat up nearly all night to dispose of Sir Reginald, and now "The Fair Barmaid" had taken his place. Again the girl went without the uninviting lunch she had brought from her boarding-house, and again, as before, the fascinating novel divided her attention with her work. This afternoon she was detected by the overseer, who spoke a few words of reprimand and ordered her to put the book away, which she did unwillingly and with heightened color. It came out again, however, the moment the closing-bell rang; and, to make up for lost time, was assiduously read during the homeward walk, and took the place of both supper and sleep till almost daylight the next morning.
Poor Tessa! she had inherited from her ancestry that love of romance and adventure which, in their own sunny land, makes the Italians rival the Orientals in their love of hearing and telling stories. The more thrilling these stories are, the fuller of passion and crime, the better they seem to suit the tastes of these fervid and excitable natures. And she was alone; there was no one to counsel her, no one to love her, no one even to talk to in the long evenings she must of necessity spend in her bare room at the factory boarding-house, hot and stifling in summer, cold and bare in winter. She had been taught to read at the poor-house school and a stray dime novel happening to fall in her way, her imagination, waiting for something on which to feed itself, seized upon the unhealthful food, and gratified taste quickly ripened into insatiable appetite. The girl read everything she could lay hold of, and there is always plenty of such literature close at hand and ready to be devoured. Novels at five cents apiece are sold by the million at country stores, railway-depots, and news-stations. Ephemeral in their nature, every one who owns them is ready to lend, give, or throw them away, and when books fail there are always quantities of "story-papers," full of the wildest, most improbable, and often vicious tales.
Tessa bought when she had any spare pennies, borrowed and begged when she had not; read by daylight, and twilight, and lamplight, sitting up as long as the miserable boarding-house lamps would hold out, and became so immersed in her world of romance as to become almost oblivious to outward things.
To do the little girl justice, she was too innocent to understand half the wickedness which in this way was brought before her notice, but none the less was she being gradually demoralized by this evil habit. Her appetite failed, she scarcely took any exercise, she became nervous and excitable to a degree, her work was neglected, and, worse still, she was becoming familiarized with ideas, suggestions, and thoughts that should never come within the comprehension of pure-minded girls. As to her work, she was fast losing all interest in, indeed all capacity for, that, and it was whispered among her superiors that but for her utterly friendless condition it would be expedient to supply her place in the mill with some more profitable work-woman.
"Miss Eunice," said Katie, at the next Wednesday afternoon meeting, "is it wicked to read novels?"
"What a wholesale question," said Miss Eunice. "It is not wicked exactly to do a great many things which it would be better on the whole to let alone—tipping one's chair up on two legs, for instance."
Katie blushed, righted her chair, and said: "I mean wrong; is it wrong to read novels?"
"Not all novels, certainly; that is, not all fiction. The best writers of our day throw their thoughts into that form, and our knowledge of history, philosophy, science, and character comes largely from this source. Our Saviour sanctified fiction by giving his highest and deepest lessons to his disciples in parables. If you mean that kind of novels, read in moderation, I should decidedly say no."
"She means dime novels," said one of the girls.
"Oh, 'Headless Horsemen' and 'Midnight Mysteries,' fascinating maidens carried off by desperate ruffians. I am thankful to say that I have no personal acquaintance with that sort of thing; but, girls, let me ask you a few questions. May I?"
"First, let all who read, or ever have read, what are called 'sensation stories' raise their hands."
A great many hands went up—more than the questioner liked to see.
"How many find such books help them in their work, make the factory seem pleasanter, and themselves more contented?"
Not a hand was raised, and the girl who had spoken before said:—
"I never can work half as well in the morning when I have been reading stories at night. I hate the sight of the factory, and wish I was a princess, or a splendidly dressed young lady with oceans of gold and jewels, like those in the books."
"Another question: Do books of this kind help you to pray, make the
Bible more interesting, and incline you to loving service for the
Saviour who has died that you might be saved?"
No one answered. The girls looked both surprised and shocked, and Miss
Eunice continued:—
"On the contrary, I dare say many of you remember times when the thrilling interest of an exciting story has made you utterly forget your prayers, or at any rate has made church and Sunday-school and the homely duties of a Christian life seem tame and flat by comparison. Is it not so?"
Many bowed assent.
"Now for my last question: Would you be willing that your fathers and brothers or the young men of your acquaintance should read all of these books with you, every passage, and could you, without blushing, read them aloud to your pastor or to me?"
No answer.
"There is another aspect of the question," continued the teacher. "Your employers pay you a stipulated sum in return for a certain amount of work to be done in a certain amount of time. They have a right to expect you to give your best skill, your closest attention. Do you think it is quite honest either to use a part of that time in reading foolish, useless, or hurtful books, or to come to your work so exhausted and preoccupied by them as to be unfitted for performing your part of the contract?"
"I do not desire to coerce you, or even to bind your consciences by any promise, but I leave you to consider all I have said, and I think if you do so honestly and prayerfully you will come to the conclusion that for you who hope you have found your Saviour,—nay, I will say for all, inasmuch as you all ought to be Christians,—the reading of this kind of books and stories is among those works of the flesh and the devil which you are called to renounce."
Katie had got the answer she had asked for, and besides she was well furnished with arguments to bring to bear upon Tessa the first opportunity she should have of talking with her, and that, she determined, should be very soon.
When the girls and their escorts had gone home that evening, the two sisters lingered to talk a little over the question that had so interested their scholars. It was a new thing for them to have any common interest, and Eunice hailed it as a good omen that her sister should consult with her about anything. Etta had not yet confided to her elder sister her new hopes, purposes, and feelings. She was an independent girl, who had always thought and acted for herself, and there had never been anything like sisterly familiarity between the eldest and youngest of the Mountjoys. The distance between them was too great, and perhaps the elder, in filling the position of a mother to her little sister, had at first assumed a little too much of the authority of one. She had grown wiser now, and did not attempt to force the young girl's confidence; but she could not but be conscious of a change. There was an increased gentleness of manner and sweetness of tone, a thoughtful consideration of others, and deference to her own wishes which she had never seen before. Her continuing to attend the Wednesday meetings, and her serious attention when there, were good signs; so was Etta's voluntary attendance at the Sunday evening service, a thing that had never happened before, and Eunice began to hope that the solemn, earnest realities of life would yet become precious to her light-hearted, wayward sister.
This evening they talked over the novel grievance, and the temptations to which the mill-girls were exposed, and Etta proposed a plan for their benefit, which, when matured and digested, besides being supported by Mr. Mountjoy's purse and his son's executive ability, eventuated in the conversion of an unused loft in the mill into a library and reading-room for the girls and such of their brothers and friends as knew how to appreciate its benefits by behaving like gentlemen.
The books were chosen with great care, and were the best of their kind to be had—popular science, history, and biography, with a large, a very large, proportion of such fiction as had a tendency to elevate and instruct, while it interested, its readers. The books were not to be taken from the building, except upon rare occasions and under peculiar circumstances; but the reading-room, which was nicely carpeted, well warmed, and furnished with long tables and comfortable chairs, was open during the noon intermission and for two hours every evening, and good behavior was the only condition demanded for enjoying both its social and literary privileges. The library soon became a very popular institution, and the sale and consumption of sensational literature decreased proportionally.
Before separating for the night, Etta said: "Did you notice the girl who asked the question about novels?"
"Katie Robertson? Yes; I have had my eye on her for a long time. She seems the most promising subject of your class."
"So I have always thought; but I have had a terrible disappointment in her. No one would suppose it, but I have recently heard that she is a thief, and that to a large amount. The child, innocent as she looks, has actually stolen fifty dollars from our mill."
"That is absolutely impossible! I will not believe it. Who told you so,
Etta?"
"One of the class. Bertie Sanderson. She was not at all willing to tell tales on her companion, but I questioned her and found it is as I say. She assures me that all the girls know about it, and that two of them—she did not give their names—saw the theft."
"Why did they not inform about it at once?"
"So I asked her; but she did not seem to know, and also declined giving the names of the two girls. That was a little more honorable than I gave Bertie credit for being."
"A little more deceitful, possibly," said Eunice, who had no high opinion of Bertie Sanderson; "yet, if she were herself one of these girls, she would, I suppose, have been glad to say so. Where do you suppose this child found fifty dollars to steal? Money is not kept loose around the mill, and the girls do not have access to the office. There is something we don't know about this, Etta. The subject ought to be investigated. Have you spoken to James?"
"No, I don't want to prejudice him against Katie, if she should be innocent; but I fear that is hardly possible, after what Bertie said."
"I should be more inclined to suspect Bertie herself. Where do you suppose she got that flashy silk dress she wears?"
"Isn't it horrid! I wonder those girls don't see how vulgar their cheap finery is."
"Perhaps they try to copy their teacher," ventured the elder sister, whose exquisitely neat style of dress was always remarkable for its plainness and simplicity when she came in contact with her Sunday scholars. But Etta was not yet sufficiently humbled to take reproof from that source, and she abruptly left the room. All the same, however, she thought and prayed a great deal upon the subject, and the next Sunday surprised her class by appearing before them without an unnecessary ribbon or ornament.
CHAPTER XI.
TESSA.
Katie Robertson remained in the mill that Saturday afternoon, although her work had long been completed, till the bell rang for five o'clock, that being the hour for the Saturday dismissal. Then she said to Tessa:—
"Come and take a walk with me. There's a full hour before tea, and I don't believe you've ever seen the Fawn's Leap. Have you?"
"No," said her companion, "I have never been anywhere in Squantown. They would not let us go, in the poor-house, and since I've been in the mill I've been too tired after work was over."
"Are you very tired now?"
"Not so very; I did not sleep much last night."
"Was it a very interesting story?" said the other, archly.
"Oh, yes," said Tessa, becoming at once very much excited; "she, Amanda, I mean, married the most elegant count, and he took her to his castle, and she had pearls and diamonds and silks and satins, and never had to do a thing all the rest of her life; and only think, Katie, she was a mill-girl in the beginning, just like us." The sentence finished with a sigh.
"Would you like a count to come and carry you off to a castle by-and-by, and give you all those things?"
"Oh, indeed, yes; when the light goes out, and I can't read any more I lie awake thinking about it, and wondering if such a count will ever come along. He might, you know, any day."
"Does that make the mill seem any pleasanter in the morning?"
"No! no! I hate the mill. It looks so rough and bare, and the girls all seem so common. I feel like crying to have to spend so many hours there."
"And then you can't do your work well. I know just how that feels. Miss Eunice says it isn't honest to do anything that will unfit us for the work we are paid for doing."
This was a new definition of dishonesty to Tessa, but she only said:—
"Who's Miss Eunice?"
"Oh, she's the teacher of the Bible-class; the nicest, most splendid lady in the Sunday-school, except, of course, Miss Etta. She's our teacher, you know, but she's so young she seems just like one of ourselves."
"Do you go to Sunday-school?" said Tessa opening her eyes. "I thought only little children went. Father said it was so in Italy."
"But everybody goes here. There's great big girls, quite young women, in Miss Eunice's class. Tessa," said Katie, struck with a sudden idea, "what do you do with yourself on Sundays?"
"I read," said the person addressed; "read all day long. I lie on the bed in my room, and forget how hot it is and how lonely, and then when it gets dark I remember beautiful Italy and cry."
"What a lonely life," said Katie, sympathetically. "Why don't you go to church?"
"We never went to church, my father and I. He said the church had ruined Italy, and he was not a Catholic any more."
"But we're not Catholics. Oh, I wish you would come to our church and our Sunday-school! It's just as nice!—there's Miss Etta, and Bertie and Gretchen and Cora, and two or three more, and on Wednesday Miss Eunice invites our class and hers to tea, and reads to us, and we have a society and work for missions and—oh, it's so nice!" said enthusiastic Katie.
"Do you go to Sunday-school just to have nice times?" and Tessa opened her black eyes very widely.
"No," said her friend, more soberly; "I think I go there to learn more about Jesus, and how to love him more and serve him better. Some of us hope to join the church soon."
Tessa asked some questions that led to a long talk which lasted till they had reached the Fawn's Leap, which was a beautiful little waterfall shooting down between two high rocks, from one of which to the other a fawn was reputed to have sprung. It was a very lovely spot, and the two girls threw themselves upon the grass to rest, while the Italian drew long inspirations of delight.
"It makes me think of home," she said; "the old home in Italy. We lived, my father and I, close to a waterfall just like this, among the mountains. After my mother died my father did not want to stay there, so he went to Naples and bought an organ, and we came to America in a big ship, and wandered about, and then"—her voice broke down then and she said: "Oh, Katie, I am so lonely! if I only had a home like yours, with people in it to talk to and to be kind to me, I should not want to read so many stories. I don't believe they are good for me." This was in reference to all Miss Eunice's talk about the evils of novel-reading as repeated by Katie.
A sudden thought struck the latter.
"Tessa," she said, "it must be awfully lonely at your boarding-house in the evenings and on Sundays. I wish you could come and live with me. I have no companions but the boys, and to have you would be just splendid."
"Do you think I could? Do you think your mother would let me? Oh, Katie, you can't really mean it!"
Katie had not taken her mother into consideration. Of course, she could not be sure of her approbation of such a plan, but she promised to ask, and went on planning how nice it would be—how the two girls could share Katie's room and bed; how they could go to the mill together. "And then," said she, "you could go to Sunday-school with me, Tessa."
But here Tessa drew back. She had no clothes, she said, fit to go to church in—only her working-dress and the straw hat which she wore every day to the mill.
"Go in that. Miss Eunice says God doesn't care what we wear when we go to church."
"But the girls do, and I care more about them."
This rather shocked Katie, but she did not see her way out of the difficulty, and mentally resolved to "ask mother": that way out of all difficulties which is first to suggest itself to a young girl's mind.
"There is the sun setting," said Tessa.—"It must be ever so late. I sha'n't get any supper; they never keep anything for us at our boarding-house."
"Oh, yes, you will! you are coming home with me; mother will have something ready for both of us. I told her where we were going, and she promised she would keep our supper for us, no matter how late it was. Besides, it will be a good chance to ask her about our plan."
So Tessa consented, nothing loth, and when she saw the fair, white cloth, with the clear glasses and bright, shining china, the delicate slices of white bread, the wild strawberries, and fresh brown gingerbread, and contrasted it with the bare table, the stoneware badly chipped, and the great piles of coarse provisions, into which the boarders dipped their own knives, she felt as though she had suddenly got into paradise.
Katie had told the home party about her Italian companion, and her apparent friendlessness, and all had taken such an interest in her that when the boys heard their sister ask and receive permission to bring her home to tea, and their mother's promise to make some soft gingerbread, they resolved to contribute their share toward the festival, and the strawberries, to gathering which they had devoted their afternoon holiday, were the result.
It was a very happy tea-party. Katie was in high spirits, her mother gentle and hospitable, the boys courteous and gentlemanly. Tessa had never been in such society before, and yet there was in her a native grace and refinement—due, perhaps, to the artistic atmosphere in which she was born—that prevented her from doing anything rude or awkward, or seeming at all out of place.
After tea the boys brought out the games, and the visitor showed herself quick to learn and eager to enjoy. The heavy, half-sorrowful look went out of her face, which became full of fun as her eyes sparkled and danced, and she pushed back her long black hair.
When the clock struck nine Mrs. Robertson said:—
"It is time for young folks who have to get up early to go to bed. The boys will see you home, dear; but perhaps you would like to stay and have prayers with us first."
"Oh, yes, I am sure she would," said Katie, seeing that her friend seemed not to know how to answer this proposition. So Eric handed his mother the books, and she first read a chapter in the Bible, and then kneeling down, with her little flock around her, read an evening prayer, commending them all to the love and protection of their heavenly Father. It all seemed very sweet to the visitor, who had never been present at such a service before. She could not probably have told how she felt, but a longing desire came over her to stay where everything seemed so near the gate of heaven, and she said impulsively:—
"Oh, Mrs. Robertson, if you would only keep me always!"
Then Katie said:—
"Mother, why can't Tessa live with us? There's plenty of room for her with me; and she has nobody belonging to her—nothing but a horrid room in the factory boarding-house, where nobody cares for her, and she has to read novels all the evening and all Sunday, and that makes her sick. It would be so nice to have her go to the mill with me every day, and to Sunday-school on Sunday—only she hasn't any clothes that are fit, and"—
"My dear, do stop to take your breath," said the astonished mother, "and let me get some idea of what you are talking about. Do I understand that you want Tessa to come and live here? I should much like to have her do so, my child, but you know—don't think me unkind, Tessa—that we are poor people, and find it hard to fill the four mouths that must be filled."
"Oh, I didn't mean that," said the girl, timidly, and turning crimson. "Of course, I wouldn't let you and Katie support me; but I could pay you my board, just as I do at the boarding-house. I suppose it would be more, but perhaps I could work harder and earn something extra, as some of the other girls do."
"How much do you pay now?"
"Two dollars and a half a week."
"And you have only three dollars! Katie makes five."
"Yes, I know; she works fast. Perhaps I could if there was any use—anything to do it for. I didn't need any money. They gave me my clothes at the workhouse, and I bought books with the other half-dollar."
Both girls looked very beseechingly at Katie's mother, and Eric, who had taken a great fancy to the dark-haired girl, added his entreaties; but she said:—
"I can not answer you to-night; I must think about it and pray over it. I will let you know when I have made up my mind. Now you must go home, dear; Eric will go with you. Good-night, and God bless you."
Tessa felt the kiss that accompanied these words down to the bottom of her heart. No one had ever kissed her before, so far as she could remember, except her father, and she longed most ardently to be taken into this home.
Katie followed her to the door and whispered: "Tessa, I shall ask God to make mother decide the way we want her to. You ask him, too. You know it says in the Bible: 'If any two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them.'" But Tessa did not yet understand about "asking God." She only stared and bid her friend good-night.
The next morning as she sat rather disconsolately on the doorstep of the boarding-house, not knowing exactly what to do with herself, for in consequence of last night's visiting she had neglected to provide herself with a new book, Katie came by and greeted her brightly. She looked so sweet and fresh in her simple Sunday dress that it was not to be wondered at that Tessa, in her soiled mill-clothes, again refused to accompany her friend to Sunday-school.
"You shall have my library book, any way. I don't care to get another to-day, and mother says you are to come round this afternoon to get her answer."
The book was a pleasant story, and though it lacked the species of morbid excitement to which the girl had accustomed herself, it filled up the time agreeably, and gave her a glimpse of a higher, purer plane of life than any with which she was as yet familiar. Some precious truths concerning the love of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the happiness of serving him, were woven into it, and served as the indestructible seeds which were yet to ripen in the girl's spiritual life. At about four o'clock she put on her hat, and full of mingled anxiety and hope, made her way to the corner house which seemed to her so much like heaven.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Robertson had thought the matter over in every direction. She did not at first like the idea of increasing the home party, or of introducing into it any element that might prove discordant. She dreaded to have Katie or the boys come under any influence that might counteract the earnest, religious training she was endeavoring to give her children. But there seemed to be nothing vicious, or even common, about Tessa; she was sweet and well-mannered, and so friendless and forlorn that it would be a positive charity to take her in. Then, too, the girl had evidently had no religious teaching and was profoundly ignorant about spiritual things. Perhaps this was missionary work sent to her very hands. She might at least try it for a while. The board to be paid would make it possible to do so, and if the plan were not a success, or proved hurtful to her own children, to whom she owed her first duty, she could but send the girl back to her present lodgings.
So, when Tessa came she was told, to her great joy, that her request was granted, and she might commence her new life on Monday. A very serious motherly talk followed, and among other things the new boarder was obliged to promise never to introduce sensational literature into the house.
Mrs. Robertson agreed to take Tessa for two dollars a week, on condition that she would assist Katie with the housework before and after mill-hours. The half-dollar a week thus saved would soon procure a simple Sunday outfit, and enable her to accompany her friend to Sunday-school and church.
Katie, with some of the remains of her precious fifty dollars, insisted on advancing this; and on the first Sunday morning the young Italian, looking very pretty but rather shy, took her place in Miss Etta's class, and was at once enrolled among its members.
Mrs. Robertson never had cause to regret her kind-hearted decision. Tessa was devotedly attached to Katie, and followed, rather than led, her friend. She was shy with the boys at first, but soon came to show them the same sisterly feeling that their sister did. Her wit, quickness, and power of story-telling soon made her a valuable addition to the family circle, while the genial home influences and good fare so told upon herself that her extreme delicacy soon disappeared, and she became capable of as much work or endurance as Katie herself.
CHAPTER XII.
GRETCHEN.
German Gretchen was absent from the mill one morning. No one noticed it except Miss Peters, who marked her down for one less day's wages. The young girl, who had drifted into the manufacturing town, as so many do, in search of work, had never been a favorite or attracted particular attention. She was a fair work-woman, obeyed rules, and went her way to the boarding-house when night came; but she made no friends either there or at the mill, and it would scarcely have been noticed had she disappeared altogether. Somehow she had floated into Sunday-school, and been placed in the class which afterward became Etta Mountjoy's, but here her apparent stolidity made her perhaps the least interesting of all the girls. Perhaps this was in part owing to the fact that one is not likely to be very talkative in a strange language.
But Gretchen had a heart, although no one in Squantown had yet found, or cared to find, it. It was safe at home in the fatherland, where the house-mother and father had as much as they could do to put enough black bread to support life into the mouths of the five little children, too young to do as she had done, when she accompanied a neighbor's family, who were emigrating to seek their fortune in the New World. These neighbors had gone to the far West, and not caring to be burdened with a possibly unproductive member of their party, had left the little girl in the hands of a German employment agency, through which she had found her way to Squantown Mills.
Gretchen had many homesick hours when she would have given a great deal more than she possessed to be at home again sharing the poverty and hardships of the Old World, but she expressed her feelings to no one. Indeed, she knew no one to whom she could have expressed them. She did her day's work faithfully, receiving her regular payment of fifty cents, and occasionally a little more, which little she resolutely put away at the bottom of her box, to be sent home to her mother and the little ones when there should be a good opportunity.
But now Gretchen was absent from her work one, two, three, four days. It was Miss Peters's duty to report all absentees on Saturday night, and she did so after the hands had been paid off and gone home. The book-keeper noted the absence in his pages, asked if work was so pressing as to make the appointment of a substitute necessary or advisable, and being answered in the negative quite forgot to inform his employer of the girl's absence.
But when Sunday came, and Gretchen was absent from the place in the class which she had so regularly occupied, it was a different thing. Etta, among her other activities, had from the first been a good visitor of absentees. Indeed, when her scholars lived with their families, as in the case of Katie and one or two of the other girls, she had made more visits and laid down the law more than was quite agreeable in all cases. Now, with her newly awakened sense of responsibility toward the immortal souls placed under her charge, she had begun to watch over them as one who must give account of their souls. She had several times thought of looking up Gretchen, in order to become acquainted with her surroundings, etc., but had not yet put her design into execution, and now the girl's absence from the class gave her teacher the very opportunity she desired.
As soon as tea was over, in the long June twilight, Etta put on her hat, and walked down the hill upon which the grand house stood to the valley, in which was the long row of boarding-houses occupied by such of the mill-hands as had no homes in the place. It was stiflingly hot down here, though it had been cool and fresh on the high ground above, and the young lady, who had not often visited the purlieus of the mill, felt as though she could scarcely breathe, and did not wonder that men sat at the open windows in their shirtsleeves, and that tired-looking women seemed gasping for air. The bare wooden buildings, with their long rows of windows and doors all of the same pattern; the smooth, beaten yards, all just alike; the swarms of children making it seem anything but Sunday-like with their noise; the teeming population, which made the tenements resemble ant-hills, and seemed to forbid any idea of privacy, looked very dreadful to her.
On the other side of the street was a long row of brick cottages, each inhabited by two or more families, the distinctive sign of each being the family pig, kept, for greater convenience, in the front yard, from which odors, not the most choice in their nature, were constantly wafted across the way. In the doorways of most of these lounged Irishmen smoking and swearing, in some cases in a state of intoxication; for, although the rules of the mill concerning drinking were very strict, and no habitual drinker was ever knowingly engaged in it, it was impossible to prevent the men from depositing a part of the earnings received every Saturday night in the hands of one or two liquor-dealers whom the law licensed to sell death and ruin to their fellow-men.
How dreadful, thought the young lady, to be compelled to spend one's life in such wretched surroundings. Is it any wonder that the women become hopeless slatterns, and that the children grow up in vice and sin? How thankful I ought to be to the heavenly Father who has surrounded me with such different influences! how I wish I might do something to raise and elevate these, and give them a few of the blessings of which I have so many!
Etta Mountjoy had grown since that early June Sunday when she had visited her pastor in such sorrow and perplexity. She had read and seen and thought more and more of the wonderful love of our heavenly Father in surrounding her with so many blessings and in sending his only Son to be her Saviour and friend. She looked back upon the life of self-pleasing she had so long led with sorrow amounting to disgust. How could she have been so ungrateful? How could she have failed to love One so altogether lovely? She was learning now to find pleasure in prayer, and the Bible, which had been to her such a dull book, began to be more interesting than any story which she had formerly devoured. And she was trying, faintly and with many relapses, it is true, to take up her neglected duties, especially those which had been most distasteful to her, and perform them steadily "as unto the Lord." Out of all this was springing up in her a desire to do something for Christ—something which would be, if not a return for his favors, at least a token of her gratitude to him. To-night just such an opportunity as she had desired came to her hand.
If Etta had only known it, the dwellings of the operatives at Squantown were palatial compared to those into which the working-classes are huddled in cities; for here the many windows opened upon pure fresh air and green fields, the little yards were scrupulously clean, and vines clambered up the sides of the doors and windows, even to the roofs. The fare, plain as it was, was not tainted by exposure in a city market, or by being hawked about the city streets, and the price of living was no higher than the wages received in the mill enabled the people to pay.
The young teacher had the number of the house at which her scholar boarded written down in her class-book, and at that number she at once knocked. No one came for some time, but at last repeated raps brought the woman who kept the house, and who might perhaps be excused for her want of greater promptitude on the ground of having so many dishes to wash after the boarders' tea.
In answer to Miss Etta's inquiries the woman answered civilly enough, for it would not do to offend one of "the family," that Gretchen's room was the back garret; that she believed the girl had been sick for a day or two, but she had not had time to look after her, though she had sent her little boy up with her meals. The child couldn't have eaten much, for the tray came down almost as it went up. She had been trying to find time to go upstairs all day, and was just meaning to do so now that her dishes were done. She would go up now, and let the young lady know how her scholar was.
"Let me go with you," said Etta; but the request was only a form, as the girl usually did just as she pleased without waiting for anybody's permission, and, indeed, the woman of the house knew no reason why, on this occasion, she should not follow her own inclination.
Three flights of stairs were climbed, a long narrow hall, studded with doors on each side, traversed, and Mrs. Doyle opened one in the southwest corner of the house, where, the sun having beaten on the sloping roof all the afternoon, the temperature was something fearful. The room was small, for Mr. Mountjoy had built the boarding-houses, and desired to try the experiment of each inmate having a separate room instead of a great many men or women being herded together in open dormitories. It contained simply a cot, a wooden chair, and a table upon which stood conveniences for washing and the untasted supper. On the cot lay the German girl, blazing with fever and tossing about in the greatest discomfort. At first she did not know her visitors, and seemed a little frightened at seeing the room so full. But presently, recognizing her Sunday-school teacher, she grasped her hand and drew her down to the side of the bed, pointing to her German Bible, in which she had been trying to study her Sunday-school lesson.
Etta was touched, and began to think there might be some interest in even the plain, undemonstrative Gretchen. She bent down to ask her some questions about her sickness, during which Mrs. Doyle hurried to throw the one window wide open, and to make the disordered room fit to be seen.
"The child is very ill, I am afraid," said Etta, coming across to the window and speaking to the woman in very low tones; "don't you think so?"
"Yes, I am afraid she is," said the person addressed, uneasily, for severe illness in a large, crowded boarding-house is no light matter. She and her children were dependent upon their boarders, and a sudden panic might empty the house.
"Can't you send for a doctor, Mrs. Doyle? Papa will gladly pay him, I know."
"Yes; Johnny could run, I suppose, but he'd be sure to tell somebody, and I wouldn't like it to get about till we know what it is, any way."
"Please go yourself, then. It's after tea, and there isn't much to do."
"But suppose the girl gets worse, and begins to scream and frightens the boarders."
"Oh, I '11 stay with her till you come back. I'd rather; I shall be so anxious to hear what the doctor says. Please go, Mrs. Doyle, and hurry."
Etta Mountjoy had a way with her that could not be resisted by most people, and even Mrs. Doyle, not overgifted with the milk of human kindness, could not refuse her. So she went downstairs, and only stopping to put on her bonnet and tell her eldest daughter to go on with the preparations for breakfast,—which always had to be made over night,—as she was going out for a little while, walked swiftly down the street.
Etta sat on the hard chair by the patient's bed, and for some time watched the tossing limbs, heavy breathing, and flushed, excited face. She was not used to sickness. Indeed, she had never seen it since her mother died, so long ago that she could not remember the pain and the suffering, but only the terrible results, which were pale, cold death, the coffin, the funeral, and the grave.
Did all severe sickness end in death, she wondered? Was this strong, healthy girl about to die? And if so, was she ready? She had never thought of the possibility of death in connection with any of her scholars. Had she taught them the things which alone could be of value to them when they came to stand face to face with a holy God? What advantage then would be familiarity with dates, with geography, and with catechisms? How would they then blame her for not having pointed them to the Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world? The responsibility of undertaking to deal with human souls, upon which she had so thoughtlessly rushed, now seemed to her something terrible. True, she had not then known or understood anything about it; but, nevertheless, it now seemed to her a great sin, and an earnest prayer for forgiveness rose up from her heart, accompanied by another for the salvation of the sick girl before her.
Meanwhile the moments rolled slowly by: the sick girl tossed and moaned; the church-bells rang for evening service, first merrily, as glad to call the people to the house of God; then slowly, as loth to stop while any more stragglers might be induced to come; then with one or two long sobs for those who, in spite of all persuasion and all "long-suffering patience," wilfully stay outside, stopped, and the silence was only broken by the shouts of the noisy children below. Even these ceased at last, and as the sunset glow faded—flame red changing to pale yellow, and that again to cool, sombre gray—the time of waiting seemed to the unskilled watcher well-nigh interminable.
CHAPTER XIII.
SHIP-FEVER.
Presently Gretchen spoke. Her voice was thick, her accent even more foreign than usual, and at first the listener could not understand the words. But she put her ear close down to the bed and made out:—
"Miss Etta, am I going to die?"
"I don't know," said Etta, bewildered; "I hope not."
"I'm not afraid," said the German, "but—but it looks all so strange and dark. You didn't use to tell us about Jesus, and I couldn't rightly understand the minister; but don't it say here," putting her hand upon the Bible by her side, "that he will save everybody that comes to him?" Her teacher nodded. "Coming to him is asking him, isn't it?" Another nod. "Then, please, Miss Etta, ask him for me. I can't. I can't seem to think. Ask him now."
Poor Etta! never in her life had she been so confused. She had only just learned to pray for herself. She had not yet overcome the reticence which we all feel concerning our own interest in spiritual things sufficiently to tell her own sister of her experience and purpose—how could she bring herself to do this hard thing which her scholar asked of her? But the scholar had a human soul, and that soul might be very near to eternity. How could she refuse to do this thing which, by the very nature of her position toward her, the scholar had a right to ask?
Then an idea struck her, and opening her hymn-book,—for she had expected to attend the evening service after ascertaining the cause of her scholar's absence,—she knelt close to the window, and in the fast-fading light read in a tone of reverent supplication the hymn commencing,—
"Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou biddest me come to Thee,
Oh, Lamb of God, I come!"
Every word of the hymn was prayer, and Etta felt grateful for this help in doing what would have otherwise seemed to her impossible. She threw her whole soul into the last line of each verse, and could not but hope that Gretchen, who lay quite still now, though saying nothing, was following and saying in her heart,—
"Oh, Lamb of God, I come!"
After this there was silence and darkness, and Etta continued to kneel with her face hidden on the window-sill, praying silently that God would indeed save this soul, teaching it that which heretofore she had been unable and unworthy to teach. The effort at obedience to what was so evidently her duty had greatly strengthened the girl; she felt that God was with her in the still room, and the glad joy of those who against their own inclinations work for him began to spring up in her soul.
The doctor and Mrs. Doyle found her thus, and springing to her feet,
Etta came over to the bed to hear what the former thought about
Gretchen.
Judging from Mrs. Doyle's account, the doctor seemed inclined to make light of the case, until he had made a careful investigation, and then he looked very grave, and asked where the patient had come from, and how long she had been in this country. Hearing that it was nearly a year since she crossed the ocean, and that she had worked for eight months in Squantown Paper Mill, he looked still more puzzled, and finally said:—
"I really can't account for it, but it certainly is a case of ship-fever; a very bad case, too."
Mrs. Doyle's consternation was extreme. She muttered something about having her children to care for, shut the door tight, and went hastily downstairs, leaving the doctor and the delicately bred young girl to decide what was to be done in the situation.
Doctor Bolen looked at his companion in somewhat quizzical perplexity. Here was a patient dangerously ill with a contagious disorder, at the top of a house swarming with human beings. She must have care and close watching, and the only person within reach to give it was a girl whose gay light-heartedness and instability were well known in the town. Had she known what to do, she was too young and delicate for such a task. And should she take the infection—what then? Would the wealthy mill-owner thus expose his youngest child, and, as every one knew, his idol?
"I must get hold of some responsible person," he said at last, aloud, but more to himself than to his companion. "But whom? I don't know of a nurse that would come even from the city. Besides, it would cause a panic to do so, and a panic is the most likely thing in the world to cause the infection to spread. Mrs. Doyle, it is clear, is frightened out of her senses, and she can't be expected to risk her children and her livelihood for a stranger. One of the Irishwomen across the way might take care of her for money; but then she'd talk, and the whole gang would be frightened. I don't really know which way to turn." But Etta answered instantly with the intuitive perception for which she was noted:—
"There's Eunice."
Why had he not thought of it? Eunice Mountjoy, with her calm, cool head, her perfect unselfishness, her entire devotion to the good of others; Eunice, who was known and blessed wherever throughout the village there was sickness, suffering, or want; Eunice, who had many a time helped him out of a perplexity,—Eunice was the very person. But how should he get hold of her?
"I will go," said Etta, to whom he expressed the wonder.
"No! You are too young, and at the same time too old, to go through this manufacturing village alone after dark."
"Then you go, and I will stay here, for I suppose Gretchen must not be left alone."
"Of course not. She may become delirious at any moment, and there is no saying what she may do. She does not know us now. Would not you be afraid to stay with her?"
"No," said Etta, steadily. "Tell me just what to do and I will do it."
"But you might take the infection. Have you thought of that?"
"God will take care of me," said she, with a rising color; and the doctor, remembering how he had found her, thought that perhaps he could not do better than to leave her under such protection.
He was gone a long time, a very long time, it seemed to Etta, whose patient became very restless and needed constantly to be soothed and coaxed back to bed when she sprang up and insisted—in German—on going to her mother. Her teacher, at such times, bathed her face with the warm water the doctor had brought, or gave her a sip of cold water which had been left when the tea-tray was carried away, spoke to her in soothing tones, and finally sang hymns, which seemed to quiet her better than anything else. She had sung all she knew and was commencing the répertoire over again, when a heavy step, followed by a lighter one, came along the passage, and presently Dr. Bolen appeared, followed, not by Eunice, as her sister had expected, but by Katie's mother, Mrs. Robertson! There was no time for questionings. The doctor gave Mrs. Robertson his directions, and then, leaving the patient to her, he took the young girl's arm and led her from the room, down the stairs, and out into the street, where the cool night air seemed wonderfully refreshing.
"I would not have exposed you thus," he said, "if there had been any other way. Do you feel very tired, very much exhausted?"
"Oh, no," she said bravely, for the air had greatly revived her. "I don't believe it will hurt me a bit. It's time I learned to do something besides amuse myself, you know. I've never been of much use in the world yet, but I mean to be."
"You have great capacities and opportunities for usefulness," said he, gravely, "but you know none of us is sufficient for these things."
"I am asking God to help me," she said in a low tone. "Don't you think he will?"
"No one ever sought his help in vain. I am glad you are setting out in the right way. All success be with you. Now you must attend to my directions and obey me exactly. As soon as you get home take off every garment you have on; throw away or burn up everything that can't be washed, take a warm bath, and go to sleep as soon as you can, and, remember, you are not to go near my patient again till I give you permission. Will you promise?"
Then he told her how sensibly Eunice had planned that Mrs. Robertson, who often went out to nurse the sick, should be engaged to take care of Gretchen; that to-morrow a certain empty house belonging to Mr. Mountjoy should be fitted up as a temporary hospital, and the sick girl moved there that the battle of life and death might be fought where there were not crowds of people to take the infection. He also cautioned Etta not to spread a report concerning the nature of Gretchen's disease, as a panic might result which would be not only deleterious to her father's business interests, but also disastrous to the lives of multitudes of the employees of the mill.
By this time they had reached the door of Etta's home, and Dr. Bolen bade the girl good-night, after reiterating his directions.
Eunice came to her sister's room that night after she was in bed to see if the doctor's orders had been complied with. She gave her such a caress as her undemonstrative nature rarely gave way to, and it somehow opened Etta's heart and mouth as well. A long talk followed, and Eunice heard a great deal that made her very happy to hear. Etta begged her pardon for the many times she had refused obedience to one standing toward her almost in the position of a mother, and promised to be more docile and helpful for the future. Both felt that the sisterly bond which had been so weak between them was linked afresh to-night, and that they were now sisters in reality because they were one in Christ.
The next day Eunice's plan was fully carried out. The vacant house, which had been for some months without a tenant, was swept out and furnished with a few necessary articles, and Gretchen, now entirely delirious, was taken there in a close carriage, and Mrs. Robertson established as resident nurse. The good woman fretted and grumbled a good deal at leaving her home and her children,—whom, of course, she could not see for a long time,—but she was a good woman in spite of her grumbling. She was a very experienced nurse, and here was service for the Master from which she dared not turn away. Katie, assisted by Tessa, was fully competent to manage the house and cook what they and the boys needed to eat, so she resolutely accepted the trust.
Eunice and Etta went down to the empty house early in the morning, and both worked hard, with a woman who had been hired to do so, to get the rooms in readiness, but when all was prepared, they went home, for Dr. Bolen said there was no use for either to be unnecessarily exposed to infection. He did not want more patients than were sent him in the natural course of events.
Great pains were taken to keep the whole matter quiet. Katie and Tessa and the boys were cautioned not to speak about it, and the removal of the patient was effected during the forenoon when all the factory "hands" were safe in the mill. But the precautions were useless. Before the next night there were four more patients in the temporary hospital, all from the rag-room, and the consternation was extreme. Many refused to work, and the mill was in danger of being forced to stop just in the middle of filling some very important contracts, when the doctor, taking his own life in his hands, as doctors must, made a thorough investigation of the rag-room, where all the cases had occurred, and found the contagion to be in a bale of rags imported from Ireland, which had not received the usual overhauling before being brought to the mill. These were all collected and burned, and the room thoroughly fumigated, the operatives receiving full wages for the days they were thus shut out from work, and one good result of the fever was that henceforth the bales were all opened and smoked in a separate building before they ever entered the mill at all.
The contagion did not spread any farther after this, and the hands returned without more delay to the mill. Mr. Mountjoy sent to the city for an experienced hospital nurse, and promised to pay all the expenses of the illness, in addition to the wages of those who were thus prevented from earning anything. The "hospital" was supplied from the kitchen of the "great house," and both Eunice and her young sister found full occupation in the preparation of dainties and food for the sick.
The interest in the five sick girls was intense, and when one—a poor, sickly little thing—died, every one felt as though death had come very close, and many were compelled to listen to the voice which said:—
"Prepare to meet thy God."
CHAPTER XIV.
GOOD FOR EVIL.
"Bertie Sanderson has not been in the mill for a week," said Tessa to Katie, as the two friends walked home together one hot afternoon. "One of the rag-room girls said so. I wonder if she has the fever!"
"That's not likely; the girls are all getting better," said her companion.
"Yes; but she's been absent for more than a week," persisted Tessa.
"Let's go round that way and inquire."
But Katie, somehow, shrank from this. While she knew nothing with absolute certainty, she could not help feeling that Bertie was in some way connected with the general avoidance of herself by the girls of the Sunday-school class, and the evident suspicion with which both Miss Eunice and Miss Etta regarded her. What her former companion could have said or done, she had no idea; but the sense of an undefined something had made her of late keep as far as possible from Bertie. She was about to say with her usual impulsiveness:—
"No; I hate Bertie! Don't let's go near her," when she remembered all her purposes of doing Tessa good and setting her a Christian example. Is it Christian to cherish a dislike of another because one has reason to suppose that other has done one an injury? Katie's enlightened conscience knew it was not. It was not like him who said:—
"Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you;" and who, by acting in strict accordance with his own teachings, "left us an example that we should follow in his steps."
For a few moments the little girl said nothing as she walked silently by the side of her companion; then, having during those silent moments sent up an earnest prayer that the hateful feelings might be taken away from her heart, that so she might become more like Christ, she answered by turning her steps in the other direction.
The two girls found, as Tessa had suggested, that Bertie had indeed taken the fever, and was very ill in her own comfortable home. Dr. Bolen had suggested her being removed to the temporary hospital, and being cared for by the competent nurses there; but her mother would not hear of it. She was always a very foolish woman, had been very much opposed to her daughter's going into the mill, and now told her husband that this fever was all the result of his obstinacy, and she hoped he enjoyed having murdered his own child. Now, however, she meant to have her own way. Her Bertie, who was every bit as good as the city young ladies, her cousins, was not to go to an empty house and be nursed with a lot of common mill-girls. If her mother couldn't take care of her, she should like to know who could—which would have been unanswerable if Mrs. Sanderson had known how to nurse anybody—a thing of which she was profoundly ignorant. So poor Bertie had a hard time of it, and daily grew worse instead of better; and as if this were not enough, Mrs. Sanderson never thought of isolating the patient, or of keeping the other children from her, and before long the third child, a boy of six years old, was taken down with the fever also, and the incompetent mother had her hands more than full with the care of her house, the two patients, and two fretful, badly trained little children, with only Nina, who had never been taught to do anything in the world, to help her.
Matters were in this state on the evening when the girls called, and poor Mrs. Sanderson, coming to the door, without an atom of prudence or caution, insisted on dragging in Katie at least, because in her wild delirium Bertie had been incessantly shouting her name. Katie was impulsive, not very old or experienced, and had, moreover, been always taught to obey grown people, so without a thought of possible danger to herself, she followed the woman into the house, while Tessa waited for her outside, and was soon standing by the bedside of her old acquaintance.
She would never have known Bertie Sanderson. The long, disorderly hair, as well as the disfiguring "bangs," had, by the doctor's orders, all been shaved off; the round, rosy cheeks were pallid and sunken; the solid frame was wasted almost to a skeleton, and there was a fierce, wild look in the eyes alternated with an expression of intense fear.
Katie stood aghast, and even as she looked the wasted lips suddenly shrieked out:—
"Katie, Katie Robertson! Send her here. I want to tell her something."
"I am here," said Katie, as soothingly as she could, for her fright.
But Bertie took no sort of notice of her; evidently did not recognize her at all, and went on:—
"It wasn't a lie! I did see her find it and put it in her pocket. That's being a thief, isn't it? It was money—a great deal of money. I saw a five and a nought. It wasn't a lie, I tell you! She did steal it! Katie's a thief, for all she's so saintly."
Katie started. This, then, was the mystery; this was the secret thing that had been setting so many against her. She had never in all her speculations concerning the general avoidance thought of this as a cause. Bertie must have seen her find that fifty-dollar bill and put it in her pocket. But even if, from mere idleness, she had repeated the story to her companions, had she told simply what she really saw, could it be called stealing? And if Miss Eunice or Miss Etta had heard it they would naturally have spoken of it to their brother; he would have told the facts as he knew them, and that would have made matters all straight.
Bertie must have altered her tale in some way, exaggerated it, or suppressed a part. What for? Could her companion be so malicious as simply to desire to make her unpopular and to prevent the young ladies from looking upon her with approbation? She could not understand it. Of course she could not, for malice and jealousy were entirely foreign to Katie's nature, even if she had not been striving "in all her ways to acknowledge" her Saviour. She did wish, however, that she had thought of mentioning her good fortune and Mr. James's kindness at the time, that all this trouble might have been avoided.
Meanwhile Bertie began to moan and cry and call for Katie; and the latter, after speaking in vain again and again, turned to go.
"Oh, don't go away!" said Mrs. Sanderson, imperatively. "She'll know you by-and-by; and I can't stand her calling for you; besides, if you can just stay with Bertie and give her the medicine and drink, I might get a chance to see to Alf., who is most as bad as she is, and see what Nina's doing with those children; they've been screaming this half-hour. I don't believe she's given 'em a mite of dinner, and I guess there ain't anything in the house for supper. You just stay where you are."
Not a thought had selfish Mrs. Sanderson for the fact that she was exposing a neighbor's child to the same evil which had overtaken her own. Nor in Katie's inexperience did she think of it either; but she did feel very indignant at the tone of command and very much inclined to rebel.
Moreover, she did not want to stay and take care of a girl who had behaved so shamefully toward herself. One by one the bitter things she had been forced to endure through this girl's treachery and deceitfulness came to her remembrance—the avoidance of her companions, the disapprobation and suspicion of the overseer, the changed manner of her Sunday-school teacher, the tears she had shed in secret, and the discouragement she had felt in her efforts to be good; and a sense of indignation possessed her which for a moment made her feel almost glad that the girl had thus got her deserts.
But this feeling was not of long continuance. The Good Spirit, who was leading Katie along the paths of righteousness, would not allow her to turn aside from them because for the moment the way seemed unpleasant and opposed to her natural inclinations. Unheard by outward ears, but heard quite plainly in her heart, he whispered words that made the little girl pause and think a second time before she refused to do as she was commanded. Here was a good opportunity of being like Christ. He forgave his enemies. He was kind to the unthankful and the evil. He gave up his life that those who hated and persecuted and finally killed Him might be saved. This thought decided her.
"Let me speak a word to Tessa first," she said; "then I'll stay."
She then told her waiting companion how ill Bertie was, and how Mrs. Sanderson was overwhelmed with so many to see to, and wanted her to stay and help. She asked Tessa to get tea for the boys and send one of them for her at bedtime, all of which her friend promised faithfully to attend to, and went her way.
When Katie returned to the sick-room, Mrs. Sanderson actually thanked her, and then went off, glad to attend to other responsibilities, and the young nurse was left with the excited, tossing patient. Strangely to herself, she did not feel the least anger or bitterness toward her now, in spite of all her unkindness to herself. The words which had been in a recent Sunday-school lesson, "I was sick and ye visited me," came again and again to her mind, and it hardly seemed to be Bertie to whom she was called to minister. She had no experience in sickness, but to some people nursing is an intuitive gift, and Katie inherited it from her mother. Her touch was cool and light. She seemed to know by instinct when the patient needed drink or change of position. She smoothed the disordered bed, shook up the pillows, turned the cool side uppermost, closed the open blind through which the western sun was blazing into the sick girl's eyes, and finding a large newspaper lying on the floor, made a fan of it, keeping off the flies and creating a current of air, till by degrees the tossings and cries ceased, the wildly staring eyes closed, and Bertie fell into a light, though restless, sleep.
Meanwhile, Mr. Sanderson had come home from the bindery, and seemed surprised to find Katie sitting so quietly by his sick child. He remonstrated with his wife—in another room—for exposing a stranger to such danger of infection; but when she asked him what she was to do with two sick children and three well ones on her hands, and who was to get the meals for them all, he had no answer to give, only he set about making the fire and getting supper himself, holding the baby on one arm and telling Nina what to do about setting the table. When all was ready he sent Katie down to her supper and himself watched the two sick children,—which, now that one of them slept, was quite possible,—resuming his watch after he had had his own. Mrs. Sanderson declared that she was completely "beat out," as well she might be, poor woman, and dropping on the lounge in the sitting-room was asleep in a moment, while Katie coaxed Nina to help her wash the dishes, clear up the room, and put the two younger children to bed.
By this time Dr. Bolen came in, looked at his patients, and said that, though Bertie was certainly not better, sleep was the best thing for her and should be encouraged as much as possible. Alf., he thought, would do well. Then seeing Katie and not recognizing her, he asked where that other girl came from and what she was doing there. Mrs. Sanderson explained, dwelling emphatically upon Bertie's cries for her friend and the soothing influence her presence had exerted.
"That's all very well," said the doctor; "but how am I going to excuse it to her mother if she gets the fever, and what am I going to do with another patient upon my hands and no one to nurse her?"
"Oh, well, there's no harm done. She's only been here a little while, and her brother's coming to take her home before long."
"Not quite so fast, my good lady. She has been exposed to the fever already, and if she goes home now, may communicate it to her two brothers or the other girl that boards with them. Then her mother would be sure to go home to take care of them, and there would be an end of my hospital and my quarantine. No; she must either go to her mother and take her chance there, or she must stay here till we see whether she has escaped the contagion."
"Please, let me stay here," said Katie, who had overheard this conversation. "I don't think I shall have the fever, but I am sure I can be of use to them all."
"Wouldn't you like to go and be with your mother?"
"Yes, sir, I'd like to, but I'd rather stay here; because, because they need me, and"—the rest of the sentence was spoken low as if without being intended for any one to hear, but both the doctor and Mr. Sanderson heard it and marveled at the words. They were:—
"Even Christ pleased not himself."