Chapter VI: Lessons not Learned from Books

THE children had expected to spend a happy evening in dressing their dolls; but now it was with grave, sad faces that they set about their work. It was dreadful to know that Cousin Edith was so ill, and then to remember how vexed they had been with her on Friday, and what unkind things they had said.

"Of course she was cross because she felt so ill," said Kate, sagely. "I expect we should have been as bad. I am always like a bear when I feel sick."

"If we had known she was going to have scarlet fever, we wouldn't have minded," said Florrie.

"But how could we know," returned Kate, impatiently. "The thing is, we ought to have known better than to get vexed with her. We might have guessed that there was some reason for her being so very cross."

On the morrow the children were very anxious to know how their cousin was, but the news which came was not comforting. Little Edith was very ill; and as the days went on, the reports grew more and more alarming. The fever ran high, and soon Miss Jameson knew that the child's life was despaired of. She hardly dared to tell the little girls how ill their cousin was; but they knew enough to make them very unhappy whenever they thought of cousin Edith.

The doll dressing was meanwhile proceeding. Topsy was fully dressed, and looked resplendent in her yellow satin gown; Miss Lily's blue frock was almost finished, and promised to suit her charmingly, though Florrie had been rather careless in gathering the skirt, and had been made to do the work a second time. Kate's baby doll's clothes, which required to be made so very neatly, were nearly completed. The scrap books too were progressing. But the children's pleasure in their work was clouded by the thought of their cousin's peril. On Florrie's heart it weighed most heavily. She felt that if cousin Edith died, nothing could ever make her happy again. She had fancied that she did not love Edith; but now she knew that she did love her, and that she would miss her cousin sadly if she were taken away.

Another Sunday came, and little Edith was no better. Katie and Florrie could not keep from crying when in the morning service they heard the clergyman request the prayers of the congregation on behalf of Edith Hobson, who was lying seriously ill. They cried again when they reached home, and found that a message had been sent by their grandmother saying that Edith was no better, and the doctor had little hope of her recovery.

"What will Aunt Sophie do if she dies?" sobbed Kate; "the only little girl she has!"

Florrie said nothing. She was quieter than Kate; but it was not because her feelings were less deeply moved.

Miss Jameson did her best to comfort her pupils. She spoke to them of the Saviour who loves little children, and reminded them how He had healed the nobleman's son, and raised the daughter of Jairus. Then she knelt in prayer with them, and asked the Lord to spare little Edith's life, if it were His will.

That night when the children had been long in bed, Miss Jameson sat alone by the schoolroom fire. She was thinking sadly of the little life that she feared would soon pass from earth, and the terrible blank that its departure would make in the mother's life. All was still about her when suddenly she was startled by the sound of a step on the stairs. What could it mean! Was one of the little girls walking in her sleep? The next moment, to Miss Jameson's astonishment, the door opened, and Florrie appeared in her white night dress, with her dark hair streaming over her shoulders. At first Miss Jameson imagined that she was dreaming; but it was no dream that had brought to Florrie's face that look of deep distress. With a sob she threw herself on her knees beside her governess.

"Miss Jameson! I thought I should find you here, and I could not bear it any longer. I am so miserable, oh, so very miserable."

"Why, Florrie, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Miss Jameson; "you will catch a dreadful cold, coming down like this!"

"I don't care if I do," cried the child, wildly; "I can't bear it."

Miss Jameson caught up a thick shawl which lay near, and wrapped it about the child; then lifted her on to her lap. She was trembling violently from cold and agitation.

"Now, Florrie, tell me all about it," said Miss Jameson; "what is troubling you so?"

"Oh, you must know," cried the child, "it is about Edith. Katie can pray; she has prayed, and she says she is sure that Jesus will make Edith well; but I can't think so; I can't pray; my heart feels too bad. Miss Jameson, if Edith dies, I shall feel like—that dreadful word—a murderer!"

"No, no!" said her governess soothingly; "you must not think that, Florrie. You did not really hate your cousin. You said it, but you did not mean it."

"But it was wicked of me to say it: I shall have to give account of it in the day of judgment," sobbed the child, giving confused utterance to the thoughts that had been working in her disturbed mind. "And oh, Miss Jameson, I was glad that Edith was ill, and could not go with us to the Park. I said I was not, but I was really glad. I did not feel a bit sorry for her. But then I did not think that she would be so very ill."

"And now you are very, very sorry that you had such unkind thoughts. You feel how wrong it was. Well, you cannot ask your cousin now to forgive you; but you can and must, dear Florrie, ask your Saviour to forgive you. Kneel down now, and tell Him all about it, and ask Him to forgive you."

Florrie knelt down and hid her face in her governess's lap. She uttered no word aloud, only a sob was heard now and then; but Miss Jameson knew that the child was pouring forth her sorrowful confession in the ears of Divine love. She prayed too, both for Florrie and for her little cousin. Presently Florrie raised her head. Her eyes were still wet with tears, but the look of deep distress had passed away. "I have told Jesus all," she whispered, "and I have asked Him to make Edith well. Do you think He will?"

"I hope so, dear," was all Miss Jameson could say.

Then she led Florrie back to bed. Her sisters were fast asleep, and the little girl stole into bed as quietly as possible that she might not wake them. When Miss Jameson looked at her a few minutes later she too was sleeping, and her face wore a happy expression although it was still stained by tears.

Miss Jameson went downstairs the next morning with a sense of dread upon her mind. She greatly feared that the day would bring sad news. But Katie met her at the foot of the stairs, her face radiant with joy. "Oh, Miss Jameson!" she cried breathlessly, "Edith is better! Grandmamma has sent to let us know. The fever turned last night, and now they think she will get well."

"Oh, that is good news! how thankful I am!" cried Miss Jameson.

And thankful indeed were all the children. But Florrie said little. Her feelings were too deep for words. Her prayer had been heard. The crushing load had been lifted, the dark fear had passed away. Not soon would she forget the lesson which this sad experience had taught her. She was resolved that in coming days she would be as patient and loving with her little companions as she would wish to have been should death come suddenly to break up the companionship.

As the days went on there was still hopeful news of Edith, though her recovery was very slow, and it was long ere her cousins saw her again.

There was no fear now that the children's occupations would be interrupted by an invitation to their grandmother's, and the dressing of dolls and making of scrap-books went on steadily. And quite as a surprise at last the children received the welcome news that their parents were coming home on the following day.

Rendered nervous by hearing of Edith's attack of fever, Mrs. Bartlett could no longer be happy away from her elder children. She must see them ere she could feel sure that they were perfectly well.

"Why it seems no time since they went away," said Gertie, who was nevertheless very glad to hear that her parents were about to return.

"Three weeks to-day," said Kate.

"It seems a long time to me," remarked Florrie, gravely; "so much has happened since they left us."

"Won't mamma be surprised to see all the dolls and scrap-books!" said Gertie. "Well, we've been very happy on the whole, but it is nice to think that they are coming back."

And very joyful was the meeting between parents and children on the next day. Their mother was quite as much surprised and pleased at their industry as the girls expected. She heartily approved of the undertaking, and to the children's delight she promised that they should one day go with Miss Jameson to the hospital and give their presents to the poor little patients.

How much talking there was when, an hour after her arrival, Mrs. Bartlett came to take tea in the schoolroom as usual! Every particular of what had happened during her absence was confided to her. But Florrie could not rest till she had drawn her mother aside and made her confession of wrong thoughts and feelings. Not many words were needed to make her mother understand the bitter sorrow she had felt when she feared that her cousin would die. And her mother's sympathy was very sweet to Florrie, and the few wise words she spoke abode in the child's memory.

We may not dwell on the children's visit to the hospital. It was a touching sight to see the happy, healthy, well-cared-for children passing up and down amongst the little beds, and speaking kind words to the stunted sickly little sufferers who lay on them. It was pleasant to watch the pale sad faces light up with joy as the children distributed their gifts. The young Bartletts knew that day as they had never known before how richly God had blessed them in their happy home-life, and they felt that they must show their gratitude by far deeper love to Him and warmer love to others.

"What do you think, Miss Jameson," cried Kate that evening, when she came to the schoolroom to say good-night to her governess; "papa has seen Aunt Sophie to-day, and he told her about our going to the hospital, and she says that she will give a cot to the hospital—that means, you know, that she will pay for some little child to be always there. She wishes to do it because she is so thankful to God for sparing Edith's life."

"I could never have believed it of Aunt Sophie," said Florrie, solemnly; "never—after the way she spoke of the hospital that day."

"Then you see, Florrie," said her governess, "that it is not well to judge anyone hastily. Many persons are kinder and better than their words seem to show."

"Oh, Miss Jameson," cried little Harry, "mamma has bought a new text to hang up in our room. It is 'Little children, love one another.'"

"I know why she chose that one," said Florrie. And the others thought that they knew too, but they said nothing.

Not in vain did the words stand constantly before the eyes of these children. A glance at the text was sufficient to check them when they were disposed to utter hasty and unkind words. Daily did they pray to be made loving and Christ-like, for the experience of these three weeks had taught them their own weakness and sinfulness, and their inability to do any good thing without the aid of God's Holy Spirit. When after many weeks little Edith was able to visit her cousins again, she found them strangely kind and patient, whilst they on their part wondered at the change in her. For she was no longer selfish and disagreeable as she had been before, since she like them was trying to follow Jesus, and to do what He would have her do.

THE END.

LONDON: KNIGHT, PRINTER, MIDDLE STREET, E.C.