Chapter VII: The Helper Still

DO you imagine that the train soon started? Nothing seemed farther from its thoughts.

The baby eagerly drank his milk from the bright tin cup, much occupied, it is true, as soon as his first hunger was appeased, with gazing at the queer shapes in its sides, but never recognizing, apparently, his own beautiful face. But after each gaze, he would seize the cup and take another long draught.

"I tell you he was hungry and thirsty both, I should think!" Wells said, watching him with interest. "His mother ought to give you a great many thanks for this."

"Poor mother!" said Christie with a sigh, and she drew the baby closer.

He settled back in her arms at last, satisfied and smiling.

"Tamed," Wells called it, and he and the old gentleman who had returned to his own seat exchanged smiles of admiration, as Christie "mothered" the baby, cooing him presently into quiet, restful slumber.

The shawl did duty again as a pillow, and this time, genuine sleeping was done.

Long past nine o'clock now, and no train either came or went. The officials seemed all to have departed, and some of the passengers. The old gentleman kept his seat, so did the pale-faced man, so did the disgusted young lady who had finished her book, and had now no other occupation to indulge in but grumbling.

"How far are we from the city?" Christie questioned.

"Why, not more than a dozen miles."

"I should think some of the men who are in a hurry would try to hire a wagon to take them in."

Wells shook his head. "I should like to see a wagon that could get through this mud!" he explained. "You see there is no wagon road; the old road strikes off at that junction down below, and winds around, I don't know how many miles. I don't suppose it would be possible to drive direct from here to the city, and the regular road is used so little out this way now, that it must be horrid after these rains."

"Well, shouldn't you think that man over there, who is so anxious, would try to walk? I think I could walk twelve miles if mother or the baby was sick."

"Not in this mud, I venture. I doubt if you ever took many long walks in such mud. Why, in some places it is knee deep! Besides, don't you see he would stand a chance of seeing this train whisk by him when he was about half-way. No; his best plan is to sit still and be patient."

"He doesn't look patient," said Christie. "I never saw anybody's face look less patient than his; and I am so sorry for him I don't know what to do. I keep thinking I wish I could do something to help him. I wonder if it is his mother who is sick."

Wells studied him for a few minutes, and then gave it as his opinion that it was the lady whom he meant to marry; though why he thought so, I am sure I don't know.

The next thing that claimed attention was the sprained ankle.

"I'll tell you what it is," said Wells, "there's something going on down there in my foot that I don't like. It gives the most horrid tweaks of pain every few minutes that you ever heard of, and it is swelling so that I don't believe I shall ever be able to wear a boot again."

"It ought to be bathed," said Christie, "and bandaged; that is what mother did when father sprained his foot once. She took cold water and bathed and bathed it, oh, a long time! Then she made a great long bandage, and bound it up, and it got well after a while. I think I ought to bathe your foot."

"You!" said Wells in dismay, and looking more astonished than he had at anything yet. "As if I should allow you to do such a thing!"

"Why not? I should think you would be very foolish not to let me. I know how; I've done it for father, by the hour. You see it soothes the pain, and makes the swelling go down. But I don't know what I could put water in. How queer it is that we can get to places where we miss all the little things that we thought we should have, of course! Now I thought I should 'always' be where I could get a basin or a bowl to put water in.

"If the baby had drank all the milk, I could use the pail. But I dare not throw it away, because he might need it before his mother gets to him."

"I should think not!" said Wells, meaning about the milk. "It costs too much to throw away."

"Yes," said Christie gravely. "But then they did not charge me any more than other people charge for a quart of milk."

Wells' eyes danced over this; he had not meant the cost in money, but he said nothing.

Meantime, Christie looked up and down the car, her face thoughtful and anxious. She was studying ways for bathing the sick foot.

Wells was secretly glad that there seemed no chance for it. He would have liked his mother to do it, but he could not bear to think of having his foot bathed by this trim little girl.

Suddenly Christie hopped up, her face bright, and yet doubtful, if you can imagine the two on the same face. She saw a way to do it, if only the "Seaside Library" woman would be good and help. It was very unpleasant to have to ask a favour of her, but Christie was not one to stop at unpleasant things, when they looked as though they ought to be done.

The lady's satchel lay open at her side on the seat. She was fumbling discontentedly through it, looking for something that she did not seem to find.

But the thing that Christie saw was a small white pitcher lying snugly among the napkins, empty, and waiting, apparently, for work to do.

She went over to her in haste. It would not do to take much time to think about this thing which was so disagreeable.

"Would you be so kind as to lend me the pitcher for a little while to keep baby's milk in? I want to fill the pail with water to bathe the lame foot. It is beginning to swell very much, and I think that will help it. Mother thought it helped father."

A long speech for Christie. The lady looked so "very" disagreeable that the child felt a nervous desire to keep on talking, and not give her a chance to make a disagreeable answer. But she came to the end of her long sentence at last, and waited.

Wells was laughing. He was almost willing to have his ankle bathed, if it would in any way add to the discomfort of the lady.

For what seemed to poor Christie several long minutes, she stared at her as though she were some unpleasant curiosity that had not been seen before, then said:

"I suppose so. What a set I have got among! The insolent boy doesn't deserve to have his ankle bathed! If he had been sitting in the cars as he ought, the accident would not have happened. Why can't you throw that slop of milk away, if you want the pail?"

Christie meekly explained her fears that the baby might fancy himself hungry when he awoke.

And at last, with a disgusted sigh, the lady took the delicate china pitcher from its nest and passed it into Christie's keeping.

"Here," she said. "You will break it, I presume, the next thing; and it belongs to a set. I was a simpleton to bring it, but how was I to know there would be such a nuisance of a time?"

"Oh, thank you!" said Christie. "I will be very careful of it." And she tripped away with a relieved face.

The old gentleman was watching. When the milk was carefully poured into the china pitcher, what did he do but offer to take care of it!

Very grateful was Christie, for while she poured, she had wondered what she should do with the frail china thing, in order to keep it from bumping against the car. To be sure there was no motion now, but there was always the hope that the cars would start.

Next the pail must be washed. For the first time in her life Christie made her way to the water-cooler, which stood in a corner of the car, and managed to learn how to make the water flow. Washing the pail was an easy matter. It was a relief to come to something that she knew just how to do, and had often done before.

She was soon at her work, a neat handkerchief doing duty as a bathing cloth. The sock was carefully, tenderly drawn from the poor swollen foot—not without help from Wells' knife, for the ankle was by this time very unwilling to be touched—and the bathing began. At first Wells' face had a flush on it that was not all caused by pain. It was such a queer thing to have a little girl, and she a stranger to him, bathing his foot. But the cold water felt so pleasant, and the touch of the small hand was so gentle and skilful, that gradually a feeling of relief and satisfaction began to steal over him.

"I did not know there was so much good in water," he said, watching her as she steadily passed her cool cloth up and down the foot.

"Water is real wonderful," said Christie. "Mother says that half the people in the world don't know what a splendid doctor it is. Sometimes she uses it real hot, and it will stop a pain in a few minutes. Hot water would be good for your foot if we could get some. I wish we could, for I am most sure that it would make this swelling go down faster."

"We might split some pieces off the side of the car, and start a fire. I could whittle some off, maybe, or the old gentleman would. No, he can't leave his pitcher of milk. But the young man hasn't anything to do; we might try him. I have some matches in my pocket."

By this time he had to stop and laugh over the bewildered look on the little nurse's face.

"I beg your pardon," he said, seeing the flushed cheeks. "I am afraid it sounds like making fun of you, and that is the last thing I am thinking of, I can tell you. I was only thinking that you had done so many things to-day that seemed impossible, perhaps you would manage a fire, to heat water. You can't think how nice the cold water feels. I hate to have you down there mussing over me. You are getting drops of water all over your pretty dress. I'm afraid among us we shall manage to spoil all your clothes. But my foot feels fifty per cent. better. I can tell you somebody who will be very much obliged to you for this morning's work, and that's my mamma."

Said Christie, "Isn't it nice that the baby sleeps all this while? If he should waken before I get your foot bandaged, I don't know what I should do!"

The distressed tone of motherly anxiety in which she said this, set Wells off into another laugh. He thought her the strangest little girl he had ever seen in his life. The truth was, that he was not acquainted with any little girls who knew how to do things which are supposed to belong to women. But Christie had been her mother's oldest daughter, and her only helper in the home for so many years, that she had learned many things, and had a fashion of planning beforehand, very much as her mother did.

"Bandaged!" repeated Wells when his laugh was over. "Why what will you bandage it with? I should say that was about as hard to manage as a fire."

"Oh, no! I didn't know what you meant about making a fire. I'm sure there is fire enough in the stove. If I could make a place on the stove to set this pail, I could have hot water; but I really 'can't' do that. A bandage, though, from somewhere we 'must' have. You see the foot must be bandaged now that it has been wet; mother thinks they swell more after wetting, unless they are bound up pretty tight. I have one other handkerchief, but it is small; still it would make a beginning, and I suppose you have one, and the old gentleman maybe has two, men often have; I think we can get enough to make quite a nice bandage."

"Are you really going through the car to take up a collection of handkerchiefs for my benefit?"

Wells was so amused that he could hardly speak the words, but Christie looked perfectly sober.

"Why not?" she said. "Anybody who had one would give it for such a thing, you know. And it is really necessary. Mother was 'very' particular about it when father had a sprain."

"Well! I suppose you will do it. I think you would do anything that it happened to come into your head ought to be done. But I beg you to ask each of the contributors for their addresses, for I shall want to express a few handkerchiefs to them, if this train ever 'does' reach the city."

In due course of time, Christie did just that thing. She went timidly over to the old gentleman and told him her plan. She did not like to do it, but it seemed the next thing to be done. And as she walked along, she remembered that she had not liked to do one of the things that had come to her since she stopped the train; yet they had all turned out well, so far. Even the china pitcher was doing its duty as nicely as though its owner had been willing to lend it.

The old gentleman was delightful. He shook out two of the largest and finest cambric handkerchiefs that Christie had ever seen. It did seem a pity to tear them, but he gave them up as though it was a pleasure to him to think of their being torn in bits.

The young man was equally ready, and more able, for he opened his case, and produced three or four, which Christie saw with joy, for she need not now go to the owner of the pitcher.

"How are you going to fasten the pieces?" he asked, as he spread out the handkerchiefs and prepared to help tear them. "Pins will scratch, and besides will not make a smooth bandage. Take care, you are getting that one too wide; bandages are nuisances unless they fit nicely. What shall we do about the sewing? I suppose you haven't a work-box with you?"

"Not quite," said Christie, laughing, and feeling as though she were well acquainted with him, "but I have something that will do to sew bandages. I had a necktie to hem for father, and I took it along for work to-day at my uncle's. The only trouble is it is black silk, and I ought to have white thread, but it will do."

"Of course it will do," her new friend said heartily. "Did you ever read fairy stories? There is one about a little woman who had in her pocket, or her mouth, or her shoes, somewhere about her, just the thing that was wanted next. I didn't know that fairies travelled in the cars, but I believe you must be her cousin at least.

"I wonder if you would like some help in putting this bandage on? I have done such things before now, and I think perhaps my hands are a little stronger than yours."

"Oh!" said Christie, relieved, and smiling. "I am so glad. I didn't know how it would get on. I tried once to bandage father's foot, and I did not do it well at all. But I thought I must do the best I could this time, and maybe it would last until he got to the city. Are you a doctor, sir?"

"Not quite; I am only studying, with the hope of being one sometime. You did not know you were a teacher as well as a fairy, did you?"

"I?" said Christie, looking greatly astonished.

"You. I have been watching you all the morning, and I concluded just now, that it was time I roused myself and began to think of something besides my own great disappointment. I suppose I shall reach the city just as soon if I help bandage that foot as though I sat here and looked at my watch, and longed for the train to start."

The sentence ended with a little sigh, and the anxious look came back to his pale face as he skilfully rolled the bandage into a hard little ball.

"I am very sorry for you," said Christie gently. "I do hope you will get to the city in time! And I can't help thinking that you will."

There was such a confident little note in her voice that he glanced at her curiously.

"Do your fairy powers reach in that direction?" he asked, smiling just a little. "Could you wave your wand, do you think, and make this train start on its way?"

She shook her head, smiling, yet with a serious mouth.

"Nobody ever thought of such a thing as calling me a fairy; I'm only Christie Tucker. But I prayed to God to let you get to the city as quick as He could, and to let your friend get well. And I cannot help thinking that He will do it. I 'know' He will if it is best."

"How did you find that out?"

"Why," said Christie, puzzled how to answer this, yet feeling that it ought to be answered, "of course He will. He said so, you know. Or, well, He said so about some people. Are not you one of them, sir?"

"One of whom?"

"One of the people who love God? He said He would make everything come just right to the people who love Him. And He never breaks a promise, you know."

"Look here, little woman, that lady over there who is tearing a letter into bits, has not been very polite to you I have noticed, and I suppose she doesn't love you nearly as well as your mother does, for instance: but suppose you knew that her sister was very sick, and that she was anxious to get to her; if you could, wouldn't you make this train go on as fast as possible, so as to give her a chance to get to the city?"

"Yes, sir," said Christie unhesitatingly, "I would, of course."

"Then you are better than God? You see He doesn't do it."

Christie considered this for a moment, then said:

"But I might make a dreadful mistake. Perhaps two trains would run into each other, or it might be all wrong in some way. You see, God knows how to do things, and I don't."

"Ah, but if you knew how to do things, you could plan so that it would all come out best. This is what you say God does for those who love Him, and I am showing you that you would do it for those who don't love you, and are therefore making yourself out to be better than God. Don't you see?"

Christie looked distressed. What she saw, was, that this man needed to have somebody explain things to him. He did not disturb her faith, but how was she going to show him that God was good to all?

She thought it over in silence, while he still rolled at the bandage, which showed a perverse desire to twist, and needed care from her watchful fingers all the time.

At last she said timidly, "I know there is a way to explain, but I don't know how to do it. If you knew our minister, he could tell you. Don't you think, though, that some people won't 'let' God do the best for them? He wants them to choose to love Him, and then He can take care of them and see that everything comes out all right. Our minister told me about it.

"There was a little boy living at Mr. Briggs' that came all the way from the Home for Little Wanderers in New York. Mr. Briggs took him to work on the farm. His name is Johnnie, and our minister said:

"'What if Johnnie should run away, and refuse to live with Mr. Briggs, could he be taken care of as he would have been if he had stayed with the man who had promised him a home?'

"He said a great deal more, and made it real plain. If you could talk with him, I know he could make you understand: but I am only a little girl."

"You are a very good little girl," he said gently, "and whether I understand things as you do or not, I thank you for praying for me. That will not do me any harm, I am sure. Now we will go and see about fitting the bandage to that sick foot."

Skilful fingers soon had the foot more comfortable than it had been since the accident. Wells submitted to the new helper meekly, though he made a wry face at Christie behind the piece of handkerchief that was left from the bandage.

"I don't know about liking that man," he said to Christie when the foot was nicely done up and resting on the cushions of the turned seat. "He might have walked up before and helped you with that baby. He must have seen that it was a tug for you."

"Men don't know about babies," Christie answered gravely, "but I am glad that he knows about bandages. How nicely he did that! It looks just as though a doctor had been here. Well, he is a doctor."

"The mischief, he is! Then I ought to have offered to pay him."

"Oh, no!" said Christie, distressed. "I don't believe he would have liked that. He did it for kindness, not for pay. He is very pleasant, but just as sad! He gives very long sighs, right in the midst of his talk. I am sorry for him; sorrier than before he helped us."

"Why?"

"Because I am afraid he doesn't believe in God. He is not one of God's people, I'm most sure: because they never talk in that way, and it makes things a great deal harder to bear."

"Talk in what way? How do you tell people of that kind?"

"Why, he almost found fault with God! Talked as though he did not believe that God would do the best for everybody. And you know His children never say such things."

"Don't they? I'm sure I did not know it. I guess I am not acquainted with many of them. I'll tell you what it is, Christie, I have a brother whom I would like to have you make understand things if you could. He is sick and lame, and will never be any better; and he got so by helping somebody else, doing his duty, you know. It would be hard work for you to make him believe that things are just right in this world. He thinks it is awful that he doesn't get well. And I must say it seems most too bad. He was a splendid scholar, you see, led his class in college, and was going to make a great man, people thought; now it is all spoiled, and he suffers all the time, and will have to, as long as he lives."

"What hurt him?" asked Christie, her eyes full of sympathy and sorrow.

"Why, a house was burning, and he climbed a ladder when nobody else would, and went inside, and saved a little baby: and part of the wall fell on him and hurt his back. The doctor says he will never be any better."

Christie's tears came outright now.

"I'm so sorry for him!" she said. "But if he only knew God, it would be a great deal easier to bear."

What a long, long, morning it was!

The baby had his nap out, and awoke and fretted a good deal, and cried outright for his mamma, and drank some more milk, and played with the old gentleman's gold-headed cane, and went over to the pale-faced young man and was entertained for a while, and cried some more, and was given a cookie, and at last fell asleep again.

And there that train stood immovable. It began to be certain now that there was serious trouble. Word came, through the railroad men, that the track was injured a long distance ahead, and for that reason no train could get out from the city to relieve them.

To add to the dreariness, it began to rain, a fierce, driving storm, and of course the mud grew deeper every moment.

"Dear, dear!" said Christie. "I hope they don't know about it at home. Mother will be so worried that she won't know what to do."

"It's most a wonder that your people let you start out," said Wells. "I suppose the morning papers gave an account of the mischief done by the rain in the night: but our folks are all away, and I, like an idiot, never looked at a paper."

Then Christie, her cheeks somewhat red, explained that they did not take a daily paper, that father couldn't quite afford it yet, and so they had known nothing about trouble on the railroad.

"There is always some trouble with this road," said Wells, feeling cross. "First it is a freshet, and then a landslide, or a washout, or the engine gives out. I don't know how many times we have been detained, but never so long as this. I should like to know what we are to do for some dinner? I know I am as hungry as a wolf. I didn't eat much breakfast this morning; it was so sort of stupid to be sitting in that great dining-room all alone."

It was after twelve o'clock when this remark was made. The patience of everybody in the car was exhausted, and Christie was beginning to look anxiously at the dribble of milk left in the pitcher. What should she do if the train did not start soon, or the mother come?

"That doctor of yours will have to plunge through the mud and get us some more milk, or something," said Wells at last, trying to raise himself on his elbow to get a view of the rainy world.

"What object is that!" he said, as he drew back his head. "Look, Christie, there are two of them, and they are dragging a basket between them that must be decidedly heavy. How are they ever going to get through that puddle of water? And where are they bound for, do you suppose?"

Said Christie, "It is Sarah Ann!"