Another frosty Christmas, but it was night now, and all the glories of a starlit sky could be seen from the corridor window, on the broad ledge of which Kate and Frances sat. The years that had passed had changed them much. Kate had a quiet power about her that could be more felt than expressed in words. Her face, quaint and clever, was lighted up by a singularly sweet smile; and nothing reminded one of the old Kate except the large, pathetic eyes. She was Mother Agnes's right hand with the little ones. Her way of managing them was so winning that she seldom or never caused vexation; and she brought sympathy, imagination, and judgment to bear in her work amongst them.
Frances had grown very pretty; she had golden brown hair, and blue eyes that were always laughing; and her face was not only beautiful in form and colour, but sensitive and refined. She had quite recovered her accident; was fleet of foot as a little hare, and full of health and spirits. Frances was always laughing, and it was a laugh so utterly joyous and free from care, that it seemed to have no place in this weary, hard-working, grasping, eager, restless nineteenth century, but to belong to some early age, before the world had lost its freshness, or better still, to be an earnest, with all that is good and true, of the "Restoration of all things."
She was leaning her head against Kate's shoulder, and talking eagerly.
"And then, dear Kate, as you have made up your mind to be a schoolmistress in Westminster, and to teach those poor little sickly children whom no one seems to care for, I have made up my mind to be an hospital nurse, and Mother Agnes has given her consent; and oh Kate, every spare minute they give me shall be spent with you. And you will have some dear little sitting-room looking on the river, I know. And there we shall sit together, and watch the rush of life on the river; and talk of a hundred things—of your school children and my patients, and the beautiful things that happen to us, and the comic ones. And, as we are talking, Mother Agnes will perhaps come in for a cup of tea (having come up to town on some errand), and you will give her the nicest tea possible, and then we three will sit there still when it is dark, and talk of everything in heaven and on earth. And when the girls from here are put out to places in London, they will come and see you, and have tea with you in your little sitting-room."
Voices and rushings of feet were heard on the stairs.
"Kate! where is Kate?"
"Kate, you are wanted in the schoolroom!"
"O Kate, here you are! Now, guess what has come for you from London!"
Little hands seized hold of Kate, and the children's eagerness was so great that she was obliged to remind them that she had only a wooden leg, and couldn't get downstairs quickly.
"Kate, we can't keep it back, we must tell you! It is your cork leg arrived. Mother Agnes has given the last five pounds herself, and ordered the leg to be here by Christmas."
But when Kate was introduced to her new member, with injunctions to treat it with due respect, she was quite overcome. She leaned against the wall and sobbed. She had never cried when she lost her leg; and it was only the love and kindness shown her that made her cry now. But the tears were only for a moment,—and they were followed by a great rush of gladness.
The little ones would not be satisfied without helping Kate upstairs and to bed that night, and placing the cork leg in a prominent position in the room, "so that you will be quite sure to see it, Kate, as soon as you wake up on Christmas morning."
"Why, my dear old Kate, you're only half awake yet, and the little ones have been up for hours already, and Christmas Day has broken upon the world once more. There; give me a kiss, and wish me a merry Christmas in a proper manner."
"Another Christmas," said Kate, half dreamily, raising herself in bed. "Frances, what are you doing?"
"Finishing a frock for poor Aunt's youngest; but oh, Kate, I have been watching the dawn too, such a lovely dawn; I shall never forget it. There, lean your head against me while I tell you about it. The light came creeping, creeping up, so slowly, and so shyly. Then suddenly the clouds parted, and a burst of glory came, making the dull snow, and even the icicles look warm in the red light. And was it stupid, do you think? I couldn't help thinking of you and the little children in Westminster, and how you would watch the sunshine coming into so many little desolate lives."
Frances stopped suddenly, and neither spoke for some moments. Her big blue eyes were resting on the snow scene outside. A vision crossed Kate's mind of two little girls watching that same scene many years ago, in the cold moonlight with sorrowful hearts. She thought she knew well what Frances meant about sunshine coming into a desolate life.
"Dear old Kate, how tired you will get sometimes with teaching those poor little things, who are sure to be tiresome and naughty. But then, you know, it will be all work for Him, and so of course you will be quite glad to be tired. And then He will not let you bear one tired feeling alone. It will be like those verses in your favourite poem:—
"But this it was that made me move,
As light as carrier-birds in air;
I loved the weight I had to bear,
Because it needed help of Love.
Nor could I weary, heart or limb,
When mighty Love would cleave in twain,
The lading of a single pain,
And part it, giving half to Him."
"O Kate, what a life! And then to think that all these little dawnings we see in people's lives are only pictures of the great dawn coming, when all things will be made new. Kate, doesn't it make you unutterably glad?"
"Indeed, it does, Frances. And, please God, you and I will take our places side by side in the great army of watchers and workers."
One glimpse more into the lives of two happy women. Only a few years later, and Frances had a love-story and a wedding. The story began in a summer holiday in the country, where she, not being very strong at the time, had gone for rest and change. He was the village doctor, and he first met her sitting by the bed-side of one of his poor patients, and her bright face haunted him. They met again in the Sunday school; and again at a great open-air parish tea, where Frances sat next him. She pitied him for being shy, and tried gently to draw him into talking about himself and his work; and her quick sympathy soon discovered a large intellect and large heart behind an uncouth manner. And then each found that the other was working out of love to an unseen Lord, and watching for the Daybreak, and the interest in each other deepened.
They met again often during those bright summer days; and when the time came for Frances to go back to her work in London, the doctor found that he could not let her go without first asking her to become his wife; and she found that she could not refuse. And now the doctor's little wife trots with him over the snow, wherever he goes, carrying sunshine into poor cottages, and often things more substantial than sunshine, and more likely to be understood by hungry people. All his patients are her patients; and, with her nurse's experience, she is able to show them how to carry out his orders.
She rejoices in showing kindnesses to the poor Aunt who once gave her a home. To Kate she writes that the country is looking lovely, and Kate must make haste to come and spend Christmas in the happiest home in England.
And Kate herself? In some corner of the great world she still works, with patience and tenderest sympathy, amongst uncared-for children. She has seen the first rays of light come into many a sad little life. And together she and the children watch "until the Day break and the shadows flee away."