Chapter XI: In the Hospital

LEFT to herself in a strange place, with none but strangers near, and suffering such pain as she had never known before, Ellen felt very unhappy. The long ward, with its double row of small white beds, seemed dreary to her, and she longed to be in her own dear home, tended by her mother's hands, and cheered by her father's loving words.

The nurse who waited upon her was most kind, and did her best to comfort the poor girl. But she could not understand the thoughts which troubled the sufferer's mind, and made her situation so unendurable. The knowledge that this suffering was the result of her own wilfulness and folly added to her pain. If only she had had the courage to resist Julia's persuasions, and act rightly, this trouble would not have befallen her.

How it would distress her mother to receive a letter from Aunt Matilda telling her of what had occurred! And Jerry! How sorry Jerry would be! Ellen could picture the dismay the news would cause in her home. And the thought that all this might have been prevented if she had but acted wisely, was not reassuring.

Night approached, and stillness and repose pervaded the ward. Most of its occupants slept through the night, but there were a few whose maladies deprived them of rest. Ellen was one of these. Her burns smarted so sorely that sleep was out of the question, and as the night wore on her agitation of mind increased.

She began to fear that she might not recover. She had heard of persons dying from the effect of burns—what if she should die?

Oh, how the thought of death alarmed her! What a terrible sense of her sinfulness and unworthiness it awakened! How different her past conduct, which had been so easily excused, looked in the light cast upon it by that thought! She remembered how of late she had neglected reading her Bible, and had been glad to banish from her mind the serious thoughts that had been aroused by Miss Graham's earnest teaching. How she had suffered herself to be persuaded by Julia into doing much that she knew to be wrong, and had even uttered words which were not true. Oh, how the recollection now troubled her!

The pangs of conscience were sharper than her bodily pains.

The fear of dying all unprepared as she was, threw her into an agony. She longed for the presence of some friend to whom she might confide all that troubled her, and who could give her comfort. If only Miss Graham were there!

Ellen raised herself on her elbow, and from her bed in the corner looked down the long, dimly-lighted ward. Was there any one there so wicked and miserable as herself? she wondered.

The night nurse was seated at some distance from Ellen's bed, but she heard her move, and came at once to her.

"Can't you sleep, my dear?" she asked, kindly. "Is the pain very bad?"

"Yes, very, and my head aches, and I am so thirsty," complained Ellen.

The nurse held a glass of toast-water to her lips; then shook up the pillow, and placed her in a more easy position.

"There, now you will sleep, I think," she said, as she left her side.

But no, there was no rest for that weary, conscience-stricken spirit. The same thoughts revolved in her mind, the same fears distressed her. The King of Terrors, like a grim enemy, confronted her, and she saw not the Prince of Life, who has despoiled him of his power.

But in the midst of her distress, there floated across her mind words heard some time before and forgotten. What recalled them she knew not. Doubtless the Holy Spirit prompted their recollection.

"'As many as touched Him were made whole.'"

Long had the words slumbered in her memory; now they awoke, and gave their message to the heart that so sorely needed it.

She recalled the occasion when she had first heard them. The scene in Farmer Holroyd's barn presented itself to her mental vision. Again she saw the earnest young preacher, and the eagerly-listening people. She remembered the nature of the discourse then uttered; the graphic description of the leprosy of sin, and the misery and death to which it would lead. Ah, she understood it all now, as she did not then. The leprosy was cleaving to her flesh; she felt its contamination, but no remedy could she command. Yet what did the words say—those words which she recollected the preacher had bidden her remember?

"'As many as touched Him were made whole.'"

She had heard Christ proclaimed as the Great Physician, she had spoken of Him as such to her brother, but had all the while been unconscious of her own need of His healing touch. But now, how precious was the truth that Christ could make her whole! But would He? Was there any doubt of His willingness to pardon and cleanse?

No! All who touched Him had been made whole. They had but to come and be healed. Not one had been rejected as unworthy of the blessing who sought it at His hands. And He was the same Saviour now as then, "the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever."

Blessed words! What comfort they brought to Ellen's troubled heart! Trembling, yet believing, she approached in spirit the Saviour, and laid her fingers on the hem of His garment, when, lo! Her faith was rewarded, and she felt in herself that she was whole of her infirmity. To grief and terror succeeded peace and quietness, and a happy sense of forgiveness.

Tranquility of mind produces a corresponding state of body. Ellen became less sensible of pain, and, as the light of morning broke, she lost all consciousness of it, in refreshing slumber.

On the following afternoon, much to Ellen's delight, Miss Graham entered the ward.

The faces of all the patients brightened at her entrance, for the doctor's daughter was a frequent visitor there, and no one was more welcome. She passed between the rows of beds, having a smile and kind word for the occupant of each as she passed, and made her way to the corner where Ellen lay.

"I was so sorry to hear of your accident yesterday," she said, as she seated herself by Ellen's side. "See, I have brought a few flowers to cheer you."

As she spoke she placed in the girl's hands a lovely little bunch of violets and snowdrops. Ellen knew not how to thank her. The sight of the delicate white blossoms and sweet-scented violets brought tears to her eyes, for they were like a breath of the old home-life, from which she seemed now so far removed. They recalled the early spring days, when, with her little brothers and sisters, she had wandered in the fields and lanes which lay around her home, looking for the first snowdrop or searching for the hidden violet, whose presence was betrayed by its perfume.

"Oh, thank you, thank you! How beautiful they are!" she said, as soon as she could speak. "It is almost as good as being at home, to see these flowers."

But the sigh in which Ellen's remark ended, showed that the almost signified a vast difference after all.

"I dare say your thoughts often travel homewards, now that you are lying here?" said Miss Graham, sympathisingly.

"Ah, yes, indeed they do," replied Ellen. "I would give anything now to see father and mother and all of them."

Feeling sure that it would be a relief to Ellen to talk about her home, Miss Graham began to ask her questions about her brothers and sisters, to which Ellen readily responded. Her friend, was much interested in hearing about little Jerry, and the affliction which had been laid upon him.

"Does Jesus make people well now, do you think, Miss Graham?" Ellen asked, after she had told how firmly Jerry believed that the Lord would some day make him whole.

"His power is the same now as in the days of old, dear, though it is manifested under different conditions. Your little brother is quite right in believing that Jesus can restore him to health if it be His will, and is obeying the teaching of Scripture in praying as he does, for you know we are told 'in everything by prayer and supplication to make our requests known unto God.'"

"Oh, how I wish his prayer might be answered," said Ellen. "I pray every day that he may be made well."

"Then be assured, dear Ellen, that your prayer and his are not unheard, although the answer be delayed, and may not, perhaps, come exactly in the way you desire. Our Heavenly Father, in His infinite wisdom and love, sometimes sees fit to deny our requests; but I trust it will not be so in this case."

Ellen's face brightened.

"Mother says he is stronger than he was, and suffers less pain," she remarked. "Oh, I do hope he may get quite well in time."

"Have you seen anything of Mary Nelson, Miss Graham?" she asked, after a pause. "Do you know how it was she did not come to the class?"

Her teacher looked sad as she answered, "Yes, Ellen; I went to see Mary yesterday, and I am grieved to say I found her very, very ill."

"Oh, I am so sorry to hear that," said Ellen. "I do hope she will soon be better, for I am very fond of Mary. I felt so vexed with aunt for turning her away as she did. I suppose she told you all about it?"

"Yes, she told me about it," replied Miss Graham, quietly. "It was a trial to her, but it troubles her no longer."

Something in the young lady's manner struck Ellen as strange.

"Mary is very ill, you said, Miss Graham; but you think she will get better, do you not?" she asked, looking anxiously at her teacher as she spoke.

Miss Graham did not immediately reply. She was making an effort to repress the emotion which the question called forth. At length she answered, in a low tone, "She is better, Ellen. She is released from all pain and sorrow, and at rest now."

"Oh, Miss Graham, you do not mean that she is dead!" Ellen exclaimed, in a voice that expressed at once grief and awe.

"We must not grieve for her, Ellen," said her friend. "She was lonely and sad on earth; now she is sheltered in the Father's home above."

Yet Ellen could not but grieve. The news was so unexpected, and to her seemed so sad that she was greatly moved as she listened to the particulars of her friend's illness and death, which Miss Graham proceeded to give her.

"Directly I saw her, I felt sure that Mary was most seriously ill," she said. "And my father, who visited her with me later in the day, confirmed my worst fears, and could hold out no hope of her recovery. Yet I little thought when I left her peacefully sleeping last evening, that I should not see her again in life, for it seemed probable that she might linger a few days. But early in the morning, when Mary awoke, the woman who watched beside her observed a great change in her appearance, and knew that it betokened the approach of death. Death had for Mary no terror; calm and happy in spirit, she passed joyfully from earth to the presence of her Saviour."

Ellen's tears fell fast as she listened to these words, and she was much touched by learning how kindly Mary had thought of her, and the message she had sent her.

The news of Mary's death, following the thoughts which had alarmed her on the previous night, produced a solemn impression. Had she been suddenly called to face death, she could not, like Mary, have met it calmly and joyfully. But now, through faith in Him who has conquered the "last enemy," for her also, death had lost its sting, and she could look forward without fear to whatever the future might bring.

Encouraged by her teacher's kind manner, Ellen told her of the distress of mind she had experienced, and how the sacred words recalled by memory had pointed her to the Saviour. Miss Graham's heart rejoiced as she listened, and the sympathy and encouragement she expressed in the conversation which ensued, strengthened the young believer's faith and joy. Ellen felt very thankful when she was assured that her life was in no danger from the injuries she had received, but that in a week or two she would be in all probability quite well again, and looked forward with hope to a life of usefulness and happiness in the service of Christ.