Chapter VII: Part 7

"Hail! independence, hail! heaven's next best gift,
To that of life, and an immortal soul."
--THOMSON.

"There is strength,
Deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck
But little till the shafts of heaven have pierc'd
Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent
Before her gems are found?"
--MRS. HEMANS.

"BOOM!"

The loud voice of the cannon rent the air with sudden shock just as eager waiting eyes caught the first glimpse of the sun's bright disc peeping above the eastern horizon.

The sound broke suddenly in upon many a dream, woke many a sleeper.

"Independence day! the glorious Fourth, the nation's birthday," shouted Cyril, giving Don a kick, then springing out of bed and hurrying on his clothes.

"Oh! oh! Fourth of July!" echoed Don, following suit. "I'm so glad, 'cause now we can fire our crackers."

Their clatter and another shot roused Fan and Annis who joined in the rejoicing, the latter calling loudly for mother or Milly to come and dress her.

"No more hope of sleep," yawned Mr. Keith, in the next room; "so we may as well get up."

"Yes," returned his wife, "I wish you would, and watch over the children;--see that they don't burn their fingers or set things on fire.

"Yes, Annis, mother's coming."

Breakfast was prepared amid the almost constant firing of crackers and childish shouts of exultation, near at hand, and the occasional booming of the more distant cannon.

The young folks were full of gayety and excitement, hurrahing, singing "Hail Columbia!" "Yankee Doodle," and "Star-spangled Banner."

Rupert came in a little late to breakfast, from a stroll down town, and reported that a wonderfully large flag-staff had been planted in front of the court-house, and that the stars and stripes were floating from its top.

The Sunday schools were to unite and march in procession through the streets of the town, then separate, and each school betake itself to its own church, there to enjoy a little feast prepared by the parents and friends of the scholars.

There had been a good deal of baking going on in Mrs. Keith's kitchen the day before, and shortly after breakfast a large basket was packed with delicacies and sent to the church.

Then mother and Mildred had their hands full for an hour or so in dressing the children and themselves for the grand occasion.

They made a goodly show as they issued from the gate and took their way toward the place of rendezvous; the girls all in white muslin and blue ribbons, the boys in their neat Sunday suits, and each with a flower or tiny nosegay in his button-hole.

The house had to be shut up, as Celestia Ann claimed the holiday, but was left in its usual neat and orderly condition, by means of early rising and extra exertion on the part of the three older girls. Otherwise Mildred could not have been content to go, and delay was dangerous, as on account of the heat of the weather the procession was to move by nine o'clock.

The whole town was in holiday attire, and everywhere smiling faces were seen.

A shower in the night had laid the dust without turning it to mud, and the Sunday school celebration proved quite a success.

The children enjoyed their treat of cakes, candies and lemonade, then the little Keiths went home, tired enough to be glad to sit down and rest while father, mother and Milly told them stories of other Fourths that they could remember.

After dinner Mildred went to call on her friend Claudina, carrying with her another book for Effie Prescott.

"Dunallan," had been returned in perfect condition and with a little note of thanks.

Effie met Mildred with a pleased look, a cheerful greeting, and warm thanks for the book.

"I am so glad to see you!" she said, "and it was very kind in you to come; for I am owing you a call. I thought I should have paid it long ago, but there are so many days when I don't feel quite equal to the walk."

"You do walk out then?"

"Oh yes! every day when the weather is good. That is part of the cure. But I cannot walk fast or far."

"I hope you are improving."

"Yes, I believe so, but very slowly. I'm never confined to bed, but never able to do much, and the books are such a blessing."

From that they fell into talk about books and authors and were mutually pleased to find their tastes were similar as regarded literature, and that their religious views accorded.

It was the beginning of a friendship which became a source of great enjoyment to both.

Effie had learned to love Mrs. Keith. That drew Mildred toward her; and their common faith in Christ and love to Him, was a yet stronger bond of union.

They regretted that they had been so long comparative strangers, and Mildred felt well rewarded for the kind thoughtfulness on her part, which had at length brought them together.

But leaving Effie to the perusal of the book, she walked on to Squire Chetwood's.

Mrs. Chetwood and Claudina, in their deep mourning dress, sat quietly at home, with no heart to join in the mirth and jollity going on about them; yet calm and resigned.

"Ah," sighed the mother, tears springing to her eyes, as the joyous shouts of children penetrated to their silent room, "our little darling would have been so gay and happy to-day! But why do I say that! I know she is far, far happier in that blessed land than she could ever possibly have been here."

"I know that," said Claudina, weeping, "and I do rejoice in the thought of her blessedness; but oh, the house is so dreary and desolate without her! O Mildred, how rich you are with four sisters!"

There was a knock at the street door, answered by the girl, and the next moment Miss Drybread walked into the parlor where the ladies were sitting.

She was courteously received and invited to take a seat; which she did, drawing a deep sigh.

"Are you well, Miss Damaris?" asked Mrs. Chetwood.

"Yes; I'm always well; I try and do right, and have no sick fancies; am never troubled with the vapors. I hope you're well?"

"As usual, thank you."

"You've had a great affliction."

No response, for the torn hearts could scarce endure the rude touch; her tone was so cold and hard.

"I hope you're resigned," she went on. "You know we ought to be; especially considering that we deserve all our troubles and trials."

"I trust we are," said Mrs. Chetwood, "we can rejoice in her happiness while we weep for ourselves."

"Don't you think you made an idol of that child? I think you did, and that that is the reason why she was taken; for God won't allow idols."

"We loved her very dearly," sobbed the bereaved mother, "but I do not think we made an idol of her, or ever indulged her to her hurt."

"The heart is deceitful," observed the schoolma'am with emphasis, "and putting on mourning, and shedding so many tears, doesn't look like submission and resignation. I don't see how a Christian can act so."

"Wait till you are bereaved," replied the mother, sobs almost choking her utterance.

"And remember how Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, and that he never reproved the Jews for putting on sackcloth and ashes when mourning for their dead," said Mildred, adding, in her uncontrollable indignation, "I think you might be at better work, Miss Drybread, than wrenching the hearts of these bereaved ones whom Jesus loves, and in all whose afflictions He is afflicted."

"I'm only doing my duty," retorted the spinster; "the Bible says we must reprove our brethren and not suffer sin upon them."

"It says 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.' They are the words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount, and if you turn to the passage and read on a little further, you will see that people who try to pull the mote out of a brother's eye while there is a beam in their own, He calls hypocrites."

"I can understand an insinuation as well as the next one," said Miss Drybread, rising in wrath, "and let me tell you, Miss, that I consider you the most impertinent young person I ever met.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. and Miss Chetwood; I wish you joy of your friend," and she swept from the room and the house, before the astonished ladies could utter a word.

"What a disagreeable, self-righteous old hypocrite!" cried Mildred, her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing. "To think of her talking to you in that cold-hearted, cruel manner, Mrs. Chetwood and Claudina. But there! I am judging her. Oh dear! oh dear!"

She finished with a burst of sobs, clasping her arms about her friend, who was weeping bitterly.

Mrs. Chetwood, too, was shedding tears; but presently wiped them away, saying, "We will try to forgive and forget her harsh words. I trust she is a well-meaning, and perhaps, truly good woman; though mistaken as to her duty and sadly wanting in tact."

On her way home Mildred passed Mr. Lightcap's. She usually avoided doing so by taking the other street; but to-day was too full of grief for her bereaved friends, to care which way her steps were tending till they were arrested by Mrs. Lightcap's voice, speaking from her open door.

"Why, if it ain't Miss Keith! I hain't seen a sight o' you this long time. Walk in, won't you? and sit a bit. They've all run off somewheres and left me settin' here without a soul to speak to, and I'm dreadful lonesome."

Mildred could not well refuse the invitation, so stepped in and took a seat.

Her first feeling on becoming aware that Mrs. Lightcap was addressing her was one of embarrassment at the idea of facing the mother of her rejected suitor; but the next instant she concluded from the cordial manner of her neighbor, that she must be entirely ignorant of the affair, which was really the case; Gotobed having insisted upon Rhoda Jane keeping his secret.

Mildred was not in a talking mood, but Mrs. Lightcap grew garrulous over the day's celebration, the heat of the weather,--prophesying that if it lasted long, coming as it did after a very rainy spring, there would be a great deal of sickness--branching off finally to her housework and garden; two inexhaustible themes with her.

An occasional yes, or no, or nod of acquiescence, was all that was necessary on the part of her listener; and these Mildred could supply without giving her undivided attention to the steady flow of empty talk.

The firing of the cannon at short intervals had been kept up all day. "Boom!" it came now, causing Mrs. Lightcap to give a sudden start and break off in the middle of a sentence.

"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, "I can't git used to that there firin'; and I jest wisht they'd stop it; 'fore some on 'em gits hurt. It's a dreadful dangerous thing--gunpowder is, and I guess there ain't never a Fourth when there don't somebody git about half killed."

"Or quite," said Mildred; "people will be so careless; and I suppose that even with the greatest care there must be some danger, from the bursting of guns and other accidents that it is, perhaps, impossible to guard against."

Mildred sat very near the open door, Mrs. Lightcap farther within the room.

"Well as I was a sayin'," began the latter, resuming the thread of her discourse.

Some one came running without, his heavy footsteps resounding upon the sidewalk. It was a man. He paused before the door, looking pale and frightened, and beckoning to Mildred, said in a low, hurried tone, "Just step this way a minute, Miss, I want to speak to you."

Hardly comprehending, too much taken by surprise even to wonder what he could want, she hastily complied.

"She ought to be prepared, you know," he went on in the same breathless, agitated manner, drawing her further away from the door as he spoke; "he's awfully hurt, a'most killed, I believe, and they're bringin' him up the street now."

"Who?" gasped Mildred.

"Her son Gote; gun went off while he was ramming in the wadding and shot the ramrod right through his hands; I guess they'll both have to come off."

Mildred staggered back, sick and faint, and with a dazed sort of feeling that she was somehow to blame.

"They're comin'," repeated the man hurriedly, pointing to a little crowd of men and boys moving slowly up the street, scarcely a square away, "can't you say something to her! kind o' break the shock a little, you know."

Mrs. Lightcap had stepped into the door way and was looking this way and that, curious to learn the cause of Mildred's sudden exit.

"Why, Jim Foote, is that you?" she exclaimed. "What on airth are you a wantin' with Miss Keith?" then catching sight of the approaching crowd, "What's goin' on?" she asked, "anything the matter?"

Mildred sprang to her side, and fairly pushing her back into the house, threw her arms about her sobbing, "Oh, I'm so sorry for you! so sorry! Don't look! not yet. He--he's living but--"

"Who? who's a livin'? who's hurt? Girl, tell me quick! 'Tain't none o' mine, sure? 'Taint my old man? Oh, what'll I do? what'll I do?"

The trampling of many feet drew near, her husband rushed in, pale, breathless, trembling, and at sight of her burst out crying like a child. Then the wounded man was supported into the house, men and boys, and even women and girls crowding in after, till in a moment the room was full.

Rhoda Jane and the younger brothers and sisters were there, screaming and crying. Gotobed was silent, bearing his agony with the heroism of a soldier, but as his mother caught sight of his ghastly face, his mangled hands, the blood upon his person, and the surgeon with his instruments, she uttered a wild shriek and fell back fainting.

Her husband carried her into the kitchen, and some of the neighbor women gathered round with restoratives and whispered words of pity and condolence, while others hurried back and forth in quest of such articles as the surgeon called for.

Rhoda Jane rushed out of the kitchen door, and ran to the foot of the garden, screaming and wringing her hands, the younger ones following her.

Mildred could not go away and leave the family in their dire distress. She caught Gotobed's eye, and there was in it a dumb entreaty which she had neither power nor heart to resist.

Silently she made her way to his side. The doctors were clearing the room of all who were not needed.

"They're a goin' to take off my right hand," he said hoarsely. "It's an awful thing, but if--if you'll stand by me and let me look in your eyes, I can bear it."

She turned hers on the surgeon--Lucilla Grange's father.

"May I?"

"If you have the nerve, my dear child; it would be a great kindness to the poor fellow. There ought to be a woman near him, and it seems neither mother nor sister is equal to it."

"I will stay," she said, a great compassion filling her heart. "I shall not look at what you are doing; but I will stand by and fan him."

She kept her word; forgetting herself entirely, thinking of him only as one suffering terrible agony and in need of her support, she stood gazing into his eyes, her heart going up in silent, fervent prayer on his behalf.

Chloroform and ether were not known in those days, and the knife's cruel work must be borne without the blessed insensibility to pain that they can give. Had the magnetism of Mildred's gaze a like effect? I know not; but something enabled Gotobed to pass through the terrible ordeal without a groan or moan; almost without flinching.

The right hand had to be taken off at the wrist; the left, though much mangled, the surgeon hoped to save; and did so ultimately.

The amputation and the dressing of the wounds was over at last and Mildred was turning away when a cup of tea was put into her hand with the words, spoken in a half whisper, "Give him this; he will take it from you."

She held it to his lips and he drank; a plate was silently substituted for the cup and she fed him like a child.

Poor fellow! it would be long before he could feed himself again.

Mildred set down the plate and stole quickly from the house. Her long pent up emotion must find vent.

She went weeping home, her heart breaking with pity for the man she could not love, could not have married for the wealth of the world. Oh, why did he love her so?

She had read it in his eyes;--that she was more to him than all the world beside, and that he knew his was a hopeless passion.

She was glad to see that the sun was setting; because she knew from the lateness of the hour that tea must be over at home, and the little ones in bed; for she dreaded their questionings and curious looks, and loathed the thought of food.

Her mother, that best earthly friend, who always understood her as by intuition, met her at the door and clasped her in a tender, loving embrace; and on that dear bosom the whole sad story was sobbed out.

"Poor, poor fellow! my heart aches for him," Mrs. Keith said, mingling her tears with Mildred's. "And, my dear child I am very glad you had the courage and firmness to give him the help you did. I pity him, too, for his unfortunate attachment, at the same time that I, of course, could never, never be willing to see it returned.

"But your courage surprises me, I doubt if I should be capable of the like myself," she added, smiling through her tears.

"I know you would, mother dear," returned the girl, gazing with loving admiration into her mother's eyes; "for you are far braver and firmer than I. I should not have expected to be able to do it myself, but we never know what we can do till we are tried.

"I am sure our Father helped me in answer to prayer, and according to his gracious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be,'" she added in subdued, tremulous tones.

"I do not doubt it," said Mrs. Keith; "for 'our sufficiency is of God.'"

Throughout the whole town great sympathy was felt for the wounded young man. People showed it in various ways; by inquiries made of the doctor or at the door, by calling in for a little friendly chat and sending delicacies to tempt his appetite; which for a time failed under the pressure of pain, enforced idleness (a great change for one who had been all his life a hard worker) and depression of spirits; for there were seasons when he was well-nigh overwhelmed at the thought of his maimed and helpless condition.

Mrs. Keith went frequently to see and comfort him and his distressed mother, and was more successful in so doing than almost any one else; except Mildred, who occasionally accompanied her.

They carried to Gotobed food for the mind as well as the body; books which they read to him; as he could not hold them himself, and the other members of the family had little time or ability to entertain him in that way.

Also they said many a kind, encouraging word concerning the possibilities of future usefulness yet remaining to him.

"I shall never be good for nothing no more," he sighed, mournfully, one day, looking down at his maimed arm and wounded hand; "can never swing my hammer, or shoe a horse again. I'll have to be a helpless burden on other folks, 'stead o' takin' care o' father and mother when they git old, as I used to think I should."

"I don't know that, Gotobed," Mrs. Keith answered cheerily; "I think God has given you a good mind, and that you will gradually learn to do a great deal with that left hand; write, hold a book and turn the leaves, and so be able to educate yourself for usefulness in some new line; perhaps do more for your parents and friends than you ever could have done with your hammer."

A light broke over his face at her words, "Oh!" he said drawing a long breath, "if I thought that I could bear it."

"I think you are bearing it bravely," she said.

"I'm tryin' my best," he sighed, "but the Lord only knows how hard it is; 'specially when folks comes and tells you it's a judgment sent onto you for your sins."

"And who dares to tell you that?" she cried, flushing with indignation, "who could be so heartlessly cruel?"

"Well, Damaris was in t'other day. She means well enough, I guess;--she fetched something she'd cooked up for me--but she don't seem to understand a feller critter's feelin's. She give me a long lecture; said I'd been dreadful proud o' my strength and what a neat job I could make o' shoein' a horse and the like, and so that the Lord took away my hand to punish me and fetch me down. Do you think 'twas that way, Mis' Keith? I was thinkin' 'twas my own carelessness and not to be blamed on Him at all."

"It strikes me that you are very nearly right there," she replied, half smiling at the earnest simplicity with which he spoke. "He is very merciful and gracious, full of tender pity and compassion for the creatures He has made; especially those who are peculiarly His own because they have accepted of the salvation offered through Christ Jesus; yet He does not always see fit to save them from the consequences, as regards this life, of their own follies and sins."

"Carelessness is a sin," he said with a heavy sigh. "I didn't use to think so, but it's plain enough to me now. And do you think, Mis' Keith, He feels kind o' sorry for me even though 'twas my own fault?"

"I am sure of it; and that He will give you strength to bear your trouble if you will ask Him; to bear it bravely and not let it spoil your life by robbing you of cheerfulness and hope, and the usefulness you may attain to by a determined, manly struggle with your difficulties.

"There is a pleasure in overcoming difficulties," she added with a bright, winning smile, that was like a ray of sunlight to his saddened heart, "a pleasure that the slothful know nothing of."

"I'll try it!" he said with determination. "God helping me, I will. Bless you, Mis' Keith, fur them words. I'll not forget 'em."

Chapter Twenty-Third.

"The sad vicissitudes of things."
--STERNE.

"MY poor, dear friend, would that I could comfort you!" Mrs. Keith said in tones of deep heartfelt sympathy, folding her arms about Mrs. Chetwood and weeping with her; "but only Jesus can do that in such sorrow as yours."

"And He does, else I should die; for oh my arms are so empty, my heart and home so desolate!" sobbed the bereaved mother.

"I know it, I know it by sad experience; for I too, have wept over the grave of a darling little one."

"You?" Mrs. Chetwood said with a look of surprise; "you have so many."

"Yes; but then I had not all I have now. Eva was between Rupert and Zillah and would be thirteen now. She was five when God took her to himself."

"Ah, you do know how to feel for me!"

"Yes; and let me tell you how I was comforted. I fear I was not quite submissive at first; but a dear old mother in Israel, who had several times passed through the same deep waters, came to me and said 'My dear, the Lord gave you quite a little flock and when He comes and asks you to return him one, and you know He will keep it so safely in his kind arms and on his tender bosom, will you refuse? can you not spare Him one?'

"Then my heart was almost broken to think I had been so churlish toward my beloved Master and I resigned her cheerfully into His care, and by and by grew happy in thinking of her, so safe from all sin and sorrow and pain, so full of joy, at His right hand; and of the time when my work shall be done and I shall go to her."

Mrs. Chetwood thought for a moment, then turning to her friend with eyes brimful of tears, "Thank you," she said, "your words have done me good. Surely I too, can spare Him one. Had He taken all, what right could I have to complain? and oh, how sweet is the thought that He is caring so tenderly for my precious lambkin!"

The mothers mingled their tears again for a little, tears of blended grief and joy; then Mrs. Chetwood said "What else dear friend? I seem to read in your eyes that you have something more to say to me."

"Only this, suggested to me by the same old Christian soldier and confirmed by my own experience; that efforts to comfort others react upon ourselves, so proving the best panacea for our own sorrow."

"I believe it, am conscience-smitten that I have been so selfishly wrapped up in my own grief, and shall set about the work at once. Will you do me the favor to suggest where I shall begin?"

Mrs. Keith spoke of Gotobed and the sort of comfort and assistance of which he stood in need.

Mrs. Chetwood shuddered. "Poor, poor fellow!" she said; "my heart aches for him. I feel sick at the very thought of seeing any one in that mutilated condition, but I will go to him and do what I can for his comfort and relief."

"Thank you," returned Mrs. Keith heartily "And speak comfortingly to the poor mother. She is grieving very much for him, and does not look well. One of the little girls, too, is quite ill with intermittent fever."

It was well that Mrs. Keith had engaged her friend to take up the labor of love, for it was long before she herself could resume it. On reaching home she found Mildred sitting with Annis in her arms, the little creature moaning with pain and in a high fever.

"Mother, she is very sick," whispered Mildred tremulously, her eyes full of tears; for she was thinking of how suddenly Mary Chetwood had been snatched away by the grim destroyer Death.

"I fear she is, poor darling! poor little pet!" the mother said, bending over her and softly pressing her lips to the burning cheek.

"O mother, mother, if we should lose her!"

"We will do all we can to make her well, asking God's blessing on our efforts," Mrs. Keith answered with determined cheerfulness, though a sharp pang shot through her heart at the bare suggestion.

Dr. Grange was sent for at once. He pronounced the child very ill, but by no means hopelessly so.

"The sickly season," he remarked, "is setting in unusually early and with uncommon severity, both in town and country; people are taken down with the fever every day. But it is what I have been expecting as the result of the long heavy rains we had all through the spring, succeeded by this intensely hot, dry weather. Why we haven't had a drop of rain now, scarcely a cloud, for three weeks; the heavens above us are as brass, and the marshes and pools of stagnant water on every side are teeming with miasma.

"Keep the children and yourselves out of the sun during the heat of the day, and do not on any account allow them to be exposed to the night air and dew."

"Thank you for your suggestions," said Mr. Keith, "we will do our best to follow them."

He had just come home from his office; for it was near tea-time. The children too had come in from their work or play, and the whole family were gathered in the sitting-room, where the baby girl lay in her cradle, mother and sister hanging over her in tender solicitude.

Fan had climbed her father's knee and was lying very quiet in his arms with her head on his shoulder.

The doctor taking his hat to go, paused as his eye fell on her, and stepping quickly to her side, took her hand in his.

"This child is sick too," he said, and went on to question and prescribe for her, directing that she should be put to bed at once.

"Oh," sighed Mildred, "if we only had Aunt Wealthy here!"

"I wish you had," the doctor said; "but the neighbors here are always very kind in times of sickness."

"Yes; we have had experience of that in the past," replied Mrs. Keith.

The doctor called on Mrs. Chetwood and Mrs. Prior on his homeward way, and within an hour both were at Mr. Keith's offering their services in nursing or any thing else that was needed.

"You are very kind," Mrs. Keith said, "but I think we can manage for a while, and that you should save your strength for those who need it more."

The little ones objected to being waited upon by strangers, and Celestia Ann insisted that she wanted no help with her housework or cooking; so the ladies departed after exacting a promise that they should be sent for if needed.

That time came soon; before the crisis was passed with Annis and Fan, three more of the children, Zillah, Cyril, and Don, were taken down; then the father; and oh, what a weary burden of care, anxiety, toil and grief fell upon the mother and sister! They had sore need now of all the faith, patience and hope they had garnered up in happier days; of all the great and precious promises they had learned to lean upon.

Rupert was slowly dressing himself one August morning, feeling weak and ill, when his mother's pale, sorrowful face looked in at his door.

He tried to brighten up and seem strong and well as he turned to meet her, asking, "How are you, mother dear? and the sick ones? I hope you all slept."

"Not much," she said, vainly striving after the accustomed cheery tone. "Annis and Fan did pretty well (oh, I am thankful that the doctor considers them out of danger now, if we can only give them the good nursing they need,) but poor Cyril is quite delirious, very, very sick, I fear, and Zillah not much better. Besides--" but here her voice broke, and for a moment she was unable to go on.

"O mother, not another one down?" he cried, "You and Mildred will be killed with so much nursing."

"Rupert, it is your father now," she sobbed. "He tries to makes us believe it is not much; that he'll sleep it off in an hour or so, but oh, I can see that he's very sick."

"My father very sick," he echoed, aghast; "poor father! and you must lose his help with the others, and have him to nurse, too!"

"That is not the worst of it. He is suffering and perhaps in danger. Celestia Ann has breakfast nearly ready. I want you to eat at once then go for the doctor (he did not come last night) and call and tell Mrs. Chetwood and Mrs. Prior what a sick household we are and that now if they can give me help in nursing, I shall be very glad and thankful."

Mrs. Keith passed on into the kitchen.

"Breakfast's on table," said Celestia Ann. "You just sit down and eat, Mis' Keith; fur you look ready to drop. I'll pour you out a cup o' coffee, and then run in and look after the sick till you're done."

"Thank you," Mrs. Keith said, "though I have no desire for food, I will accept your offer, for I do feel faint and empty. Tell Mildred to come too, as soon as she can be spared."

Rupert and Ada came in together at that moment and took their places at the table.

"Only three of us this morning, 'stead of ten," Ada remarked sadly.

"Well, we'll hope the others will all be back soon;" said Rupert, longing to comfort and cheer his mother.

His head ached and chills were creeping down his back, but he said nothing about it, drank his coffee, forced himself to eat a little, and presently declaring himself done, put on his hat and hurried away on his errand.

It was now a fortnight since Annis had been taken ill and not a drop of rain had fallen yet. The nights and mornings were chilly and damp, then the sun rose and shone all day with a fierce, burning heat that scorched everything it touched; and day by day the fever had found new victims till every physician's hands were full to overflowing.

"How chilly it is!" thought Rupert, as he hastened down the path to the gate, "but it'll be hot enough presently," he added, looking up at the sky; "not a cloud to be seen, and the sun will be glaring down on us as fiercely as ever. I think if there isn't some change soon we'll all sicken and die."

He walked on up the street. Doors and windows were closed; scarcely any one seemed astir.

"They're sleeping late," he thought "Well who can blame them? they're either sick themselves or worn out taking care of the sick."

He came first to the hotel. Mrs. Prior was very busy getting breakfast, but stepped to the door to hear his message.

"I'm dreadful sorry;" she said, "and I'll call round, tell your mother, just as soon as I can; but I've half a dozen boarders down with the fever, and only one girl; the rest's all gone off to 'tend to their own folks; for the fever's bad all round in the country; and between them and the town folks the doctors is goin' night and day."

"I don't see how you can come at all then, Mrs. Prior," Rupert said, "I should think your hands must be more than full here at home."

"I'll come if I can, you may depend," she answered, "for I think a sight of your mother."

The boy sighed heavily as he turned and went on his way. How much of the brightness seemed to have gone out of life just then.

Dr. Grange's house was a few steps further on. An old lady, the doctor's mother, answered his knock.

"The doctor is in bed and asleep just now," she said. "He has had very little rest for the last three weeks, was up all night out in the country, and came home with a heavy chill. And the rest of the family are all down with the fever except myself and little five year old Ellen."

"What are we coming to!" exclaimed the lad.

"I don't know," she answered: "but God is our refuge and strength; a very present help in trouble!'"

"I do not know what to do," said Rupert, looking sadly perplexed and anxious; "mother says my father and Cyril are both very ill."

"I will tell the doctor when he wakes, and perhaps he will be able to go down. It would hardly be worth while to send you for another, for they're all equally busy."

"Thank you," he said, "we would not like to have to try another," and bidding her good morning, he went on his way to the Squire's.

Mrs. Chetwood put on her bonnet at once and went with him.

"Claudina would come too," she said, "but two of the boys are sick, and I'm afraid she is taking the fever herself."

"It seems as if everybody is taking it," said Rupert. "Mrs. Chetwood, is it often so sickly here?"

"Never was known to be quite so bad before," she answered; "they say the oldest inhabitant doesn't remember such a time. Do you notice how quiet and empty the streets are?"

"Yes, ma'am; people seem to be very late in getting up. The stores are all shut up still."

"There's no business doing at all," she returned, "and people are not up because they're ill; too ill, most of them, to leave their beds.

"There are not many houses in town where more than one or two are able to crawl about to help themselves or wait on the sick.

"And Dr. Grange tells me it is just as bad in the country. The harvest is uncommonly fine, but there's nobody to gather it in; there are loads of wild berries ripe on the bushes, but nobody able to pick them.

"Emmaretta Lightcap died yesterday; I was there last night and helped to lay her out. All the rest of the family are in bed with the fever, except poor Gotobed and his mother.

"Oh, it's a sorrowful time! Effie and one or two of the little ones are sick at Mr. Prescott's, and in the next house not one of the family is able to be out of bed."

Mr. Keith was quite as ill as his wife feared.

She devoted herself principally to him, while Mrs. Chetwood and Mildred together nursed the others.

Rupert had had a chill and fever followed in due season; but he managed to keep up and to conceal his illness from all but Celestia Ann, who did the best she could for him.

Mrs. Prior came in for an hour in the after noon, and taking Mildred's place enabled her to lie down for a little greatly needed rest and sleep.

Mrs. Chetwood spent the day and night with them, but then went home to return no more, her own family being no longer able to dispense with her care and nursing.

Zillah was slightly better that morning, but Mr. Keith, Cyril and Don were all delirious and so evidently in danger that the hearts of mother and sister were very heavy.

Mrs. Keith scarcely left her husband's bed side except occasionally to pass into the next room and bend for a moment over her little boys, to take Annis or Fan in her arms to caress, and reluctantly put them down again, and to whisper a word of hope and encouragement to Mildred, the other little girls and Rupert.

Celestia Ann had full sway in the kitchen, and with genuine kindness of heart took charge of the rest of the house, so far as she could, and prepared delicacies for the sick.

She was a great help in looking after the convalescing, had always a cheery word ready for the weary, anxious nurses, and in short proved herself invaluable in this great emergency.

What then was their distress and despair when they found they must lose her.

Glancing from the window on the morning of the second day after that which Mrs. Chetwood had spent with them, Mildred saw a countryman passing round toward the kitchen, and in a moment after his voice and Celestia Ann's could be heard in earnest colloquy, the latter interrupted by heavy sobs.

Then she appeared at the door of the nursery with her apron to her eyes and silently beckoned to Mildred.

"What is it?" the latter asked going to her.

"Why my brother's come to fetch me home, and I'll have to go, bad as I hate to leave you; for if I do say it that shouldn't, I don't see how you're agoin' to git along without me."

"Nor I," said Mildred, aghast. "O, Celestia Ann, must you go?"

"Yes; can't help it; for they're all down with the fever, 'cept mother (and she's poorly) and this brother that's come after me; and he's got a chill on him now. So I'll have to pick up my duds and be off right away."

"Yes, of course you must go to your own when they need you," said Mildred; "unless they could get some one else. O, Celestia Ann, don't you think it possible they could?"

"No; I know they can't, Miss Mildred; there's no help to be got these days for love or money; and the Lord only knows what's to become of us all!

"Sam says there's several died in our neighborhood a'ready, just for want o' good nussin and proper victuals; so the doctor says."

"And just so it will be with us," sobbed Mildred sinking into a chair and covering her face with her hands. "I cannot nurse them all properly, and cook what they need to eat; and oh, it is so terrible to think they must die for want of it."

"It's awful, and I'm dreadful sorry for you and everybody," sighed Celestia Ann, wiping away the tears that were streaming over her cheeks. "Maybe you might git Mis' Rood to come in for a few days. I'll git Sam to go and see while I'm a pickin' up my things.

"She ain't much for cookin' I don't suppose, but she could clean up and do that big washin', and help a liftin' the sick ones. That is if she'll come; but I dunno but she may be down sick herself."

Sam kindly undertook the errand, but alas, Mrs. Rood was "down sick herself," and no help could be had from that quarter, nor apparently, from any other; and with many tears Celestia Ann took her departure, saying, "I'll come back as soon as I kin, if I keep well, and my folks gits able to do without me."

Chapter Twenty-Fourth.

"Calamity is man's true touch stone."

IT was to Mildred Celestia Ann's parting words were spoken, Mildred sitting in dumb despair beside the bed, where Cyril and Don lay tossing and moaning in a burning fever. Her heart sank like lead in her bosom, as she listened to the rumbling of the wheels of the wagon that was bearing away her late efficient helper. "What could they do without her?"

A quiet step crossed the room, a soft hand was laid caressingly on Mildred's bowed head, and looking up she saw her mother's sweet, pale face bending over her; a worn and weary face, but with a strange peacefulness shining through its care and sorrow.

"O mother, mother, whatever shall we do?" cried the girl in a broken whisper, and with a burst of tears.

Mrs. Keith had a small Bible in her hand, her finger between the leaves. She laid it open before Mildred, pointed to a passage in the sixty-second psalm, and just touching her lips to her daughter's forehead, turned away to the little sufferers on the bed.

"Mother's darlings! mother's poor little men! Try to be very patient and good like the dear Lord Jesus when he was in pain, and mother hopes you will soon be well again. She is asking Jesus to make you well."

"I wish he would," moaned Cyril, while; Don uttered some incoherent words, showing that his mind wandered.

"I'se better, mamma," piped the baby voice of Annis from another bed. "Fan and me's better. I dess Dod will make us well, 'tause we asked him to."

"Yes, mother, don't fret about us," joined in Fan and Zillah patiently.

She went over and kissed all three, calling them "dear good children," then passed on into the kitchen.

Rupert was there trying to make a custard; Ada washing dishes.

"You see you're not entirely without help in this department yet, mother," the lad said laughingly.

"No," she answered with a smile that he felt was ample reward for his efforts, "how are you succeeding?"

"Bravely; at least it looks nice. Please come and tell me if 'tis ready to be taken off."

"It will be in a moment. Run out and get me a handful of leaves from that young peach tree, to flavor it with."

He obeyed, she stirring the custard and commending Ada's industry, while he was gone.

"Here they are, mother; is this enough?" he asked, coming back.

"Quite," she said taking them from him; then as her hand touched his, "Rupert," she cried with anguish in her tones, "you are sick! burning up with fever!"

"Heated over the stove, mother," he said, trying to laugh it off, as he lifted the kettle from the fire and poured its contents into a bowl.

"No, I am not to be deceived," she answered in a choking voice, "you ought to be in bed now."

He shook his head. "Somebody must keep up; several somebodies to take anything like proper care of the sick ones. And, mother, I'm as able as you are; you look dreadfully worn and ill."

She was all that; she felt the chills creeping over her at that moment, and her head seemed ready to burst; her heart also.

Oh, she had need of all the comfort and support of the words she had pointed out to Mildred, and of the exhortation contained therein.

"My soul, wait thou only upon God; for my expectation is from him. He only is my rock and my salvation; he is my defense, I shall not be moved. In God is my salvation and my glory; the rock of my strength and my refuge is in God."

She whispered them to herself, as with clasped hands and closed eyes, she sank heavily into a chair, half unconscious of what she was doing.

Rupert sprang to her side, thinking she was about to faint, and Ada, with the same thought in her mind, set down the plate she was wiping and hurried to her also.

They caught the last words. "'The rock of my strength and my refuge is in God.'"

"Yes, mother, dear," sobbed the lad, putting his arms around her, "and oh, you know it's a refuge that will never fail. 'Therefore will we not fear though the earth be removed and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.' 'Man's extremity is God's opportunity,' and He will help us through this strait somehow."

"Yes," she whispered, "and though it should be by death, what is that but going, home? To those of us who love the Lord and trust in His imputed righteousness," she added, looking earnestly, questioningly into his face.

"Mother, I believe I do," he said, "though I have never told you so before."

"Now I can bear it," she whispered, closing her eyes again, while a sweet smile played about her lips.

Her head dropped heavily on her son's shoulder.

"Oh," shrieked Ada, "she's dying! mother's dying!"

"Hush!" cried Rupert sternly, thinking of the mischief her cry might work should it reach the ears of the sick ones, "she has only fainted. A tumbler of water; quick, quick, Ada!"

As the terrified child hastened to do his bidding, Mildred came flying from the inner room, her face pale, her whole frame trembling with affright.

"Mother!" the word came in tones of agony from her pale, quivering lips.

"It's only a faint," said Rupert hoarsely. "Help me to lay her down and loosen her clothes. And haven't you hartshorn or something! whatever there is.

"Yes, Ada, quick, quick! the bottle of smelling salts! it's on the stand by father's bedside. O, mother, mother! you too! what's to become of us? O, Rupert, she's just killed with nursing! and I couldn't help it."

"Of course you couldn't; you are nearly killed yourself," he said, his tears falling almost as fast as hers, while between them they half carried, half dragged the insensible form into the adjoining room and laid it tenderly down upon a lounge.

Poor children! so utterly overwhelmed were they by their mother's helpless condition, superadded to all the other causes for anxiety, perplexity and distress, so taken up with efforts for her restoration to consciousness, that they scarcely heard the cries of the sick little ones, who could not understand why they were thus left alone, or the calls of their father who had roused from sleep and missed his gentle nurse; nor did they notice who it was that came in through the open kitchen door and silently assisted them, raising the window blind and sprinkling water on the still white face.

At last Mrs. Keith's eyes unclosed and she started up asking faintly "What is it? have I been ill?" then fell back again completely exhausted.

"You were faint, mother dear," said Mildred, vainly striving to steady her voice, "but lie still for a while and I hope you will get over it. You have been doing too much and must rest now."

"Rest, child! how can I? There is your father calling me. And the children are crying."

She started up again but with the same result as before.

"My poor sick husband! my little ailing children! what is to become of you?" she sighed, tears stealing from beneath the closed eyelids and trickling down the pale cheeks.

"Mother, I will do my best," sobbed Mildred; "only lie and rest yourself."

"And I am here to assist, and able to do it," said a somewhat harsh, discordant voice, though there was in it a tone of kindness too.

Then they looked up and saw standing near, the stiff, angular figure of Damaris Drybread.

"You?" Mildred exclaimed in utter surprise.

"Yes, I, Miss Keith. Did you think there was none of the milk of human kindness in me? My school's broke up by this pestilence, and only one of our family has took the fever yet; so when I heard that you were nearly all down sick here, and your girl had gone off and left you, I said to myself, 'There's a duty for you there, Damaris Drybread; go right away and do it,' And I came."

"And it was very, very kind in you," Mildred said, extending her hand. "I have hardly deserved it from you, for I've judged you, harshly."

"Well, I shouldn't wonder if I'd done the same to you," Damaris answered coldly, taking the offered hand only to drop it again instantly. "But that's neither here nor there; and I don't ask no thanks. I'm only tryin' to be a good Samaritan to you, because we're told, 'Go, and do thou likewise.'"

The cries of the children had become so piteous and importunate that Mildred rushed away to attend to them.

Her father's calls had ceased and as the little ones quieted down she could hear a manly voice speaking to him in gentle soothing tones.

"It is the doctor," she thought, with an emotion somewhat akin to pleasure; he was so sorely needed and had not called since the previous night; but on going in she found Mr. Lord by the bedside.

He turned, showing a face full of sympathy and concern, and held out his hand.

"This is kind," she said, putting hers into it.

"My poor child!" he responded feelingly, raising the hand to his lips in his absent way, "my heart aches for you. And there are many others in like affliction; many others! all round the country people are sick, dying; many of them simply for lack of suitable nourishment."

The tears rolled down his manly cheeks as he spoke, and the sight of them did not lower him in the girl's esteem.

"And what can I do?" he went on. "I know nothing of cooking; I can only carry them crackers to sustain their poor bodies, and try to feed their souls with the bread of life. I feel for them all; but for you--O, Mildred, dear girl, what can I do to help and comfort you in this extremity?"

"We have need of nurses. Mother--"

But with that word she broke into uncontrollable weeping; suppressed, for fear of disturbing her father, who had fallen into a doze--but shaking her whole frame with its violence.

It distressed her listener. He made a step toward her, a gesture as if he would fold her in his arms, but drew hastily back, blushing and confused as the door opened and Dr. Grange came in.

Chapter Twenty-Fifth

"All love is sweet,
Given or returned. Common as light is love,
And its familiar voice wearies not ever."
--SHELLEY.

"AH, good morning, my dear child! Good morning, sir," the doctor said in an undertone, giving his hand to Mildred and the minister in turn. Then with an anxious glance at the bed "How is he? sleeping now, I see. How did he rest through the night?"

"Not very well, and--"

"Your mother? where is she? not down too?" with almost a groan, as he read the truth in the young girl's face.

Mildred led him to her. She lay on the lounge still, with closed eyes and face of deathly pallor, her cheek resting against the dark curls of Rupert, who had thrown himself on the floor by her side, and laid his head on the same pillow, while he held one of her hands, caressing it tenderly.

His cheeks were burning, his eyes sparkling with fever.