Chapter I: Alick's Dying Song

MY young reader, were you ever in a hospital? Did you ever walk through the long rooms, called wards, among the rows of neat beds, with the white curtains before each couch, that the sufferer within may be entirely hidden from the view of even her nearest neighbors? Did you ever see the hospital surgeons, on what the patients call "student's day," when they go from one ward to another; a train of young surgeons following behind, visiting each couch in succession, and enquiring into the symptoms of each poor sufferer?

In one of the large hospitals belonging to the city of B —, there one morning lay a young girl, apparently about twenty years of age. Her name was Ruth Martin. She had been very sick, and had had a severe operation performed; but she was now better, though not the slightest trace of color had yet visited her cheeks or lips. Lying constantly in bed, as she had been obliged to do for several weeks, she had become exceedingly restless, and the night seemed very long. It was now near five o'clock, and would soon be day. She lay for some time amusing herself by watching those of her neighbors who came within her line of vision. Most of them were asleep, while the night watchers or nurses, who sit up regularly every night and sleep through the day, were leaning drowsily back in their rocking chairs.

The curtains were all drawn back from the beds, and presently Ruth saw Miss Alden, the head nurse of her ward, step softly from a side room and open the door into the next apartment, for the better circulation of the air.

There seemed some unusual movement in the adjoining room, but she could not see what it was. "Could Alick be dying?" she asked herself, her pulse beating wildly.

"Miss Stiles," she called softly, "I'm so thirsty I can't sleep."

Nurse arose mechanically, and brought her a glass of water. "I wish I knew," she said, "how Alick is this morning?"

"Hush, child! he's just gone. His mother, poor thing, was with him till three, when she went home to wash for an hour or two. I'm afraid he'll be off before she gets back, and that'll just about break her heart."

At this minute, there arose from the next room, a sound, low, but inexpressibly sweet and touching. It was the voice of the dying boy, singing with clear, distinct articulation, the words of the beautiful hymn,—

"I want to be an angel,
And with the angels stand,—
A crown upon my forehead,
A harp within my hand.

"There, right before my Saviour,
So glorious and so bright,
I'd wake the sweetest music
And praise him day and night."

With the last lines the voice faltered; then there came a quick, short gasp for breath; a bright smile broke out all over the pale face, and before the echo of the words had died out of the room, the soul of the patient sufferer had fled away from his tenement of clay, to the presence and embrace of the Saviour he loved.

The nurse who had so tenderly watched by his side, gently closed his eyes; breathing a sigh of heartfelt sympathy for the absent mother, when, with a quick step, that mother entered the room. She gave one keen, penetrating glance around; then her eye fell on the good nurse who only pointed to the calm, almost smiling countenance, lying so peacefully in the early morning light.

Still her heart refused to comprehend the truth. "He is but sleeping!" she said, softly approaching and placing her hand on his cheek.

"Oh, Alick!" she cried, as the cold marble touch chilled the blood in her veins; "gone without a word of farewell to your poor, desolate mother!" and throwing herself on her knees she hid her face in her hands, while great sobs shook her whole frame.

Two men now approached with long boards and handles attached, which they call stretchers, to bear away the dead body to another apartment.

They stood a moment, out of respect to the absorbing grief of the bowed form, and then the nurse gently touched her.

She understood at once that she must bid farewell, her long farewell, to the dear object of her affections. Stooping forward she lifted the lifeless body in her arms, and pressed her lips on the cheeks, the brow, eyes, and lips of the departed.

"Farewell, darling!" she whispered, tears raining down her cheeks; "farewell till I come to you. You're safe now with Jesus, and I'll be with you before long." Then without another word, she turned, and, hiding her face in her shawl, left the room.

The patients were now all wide awake. Ruth could see the men bearing slowly along the body so lately full of life, and two or three patients devoutly crossing themselves, as it passed close to their bed. For a few moments there was a solemn stillness throughout the two wards. One of their number had passed from time to eternity; had exchanged the trials and pains of earth for the triumphs and glories of heaven. Some, and among them Ruth, asked herself, "am I prepared, as Alick was, for the glorious transformation,—a sinner one moment, a saint the next?" She breathed a short prayer that she, too, might be ready when her summons came; when looking up, she saw the kind face of Miss Alden bending over her.

"How do you feel, this morning, Ruth?"

"Oh, Miss Alden! Alick is dead. I have not thought of myself," was the quick reply.

"Little dear, so he is! He wanted to be an angel, and Jesus answered his prayer right away. If we were all as ready as he was, 'twould be a happy thing for us. I hope you love your Saviour, Ruth!"

Her eyes fell, as she answered softly, "I'm afraid not!"

"Well, don't delay a minute then, to seek him for your friend. I've been in the wards long enough to know, if I never knew it before, that religion is the only thing that can carry us safely through the dark valley; and it makes the poor things so happy, too. Death is no king of terrors to those who love Jesus. He is their dearest friend, come to call them home to their mansion above the skies."

Ruth lay pondering these words; though her eyes followed the good nurse as she went from one couch to another, smoothing the clothes over one restless sufferer, or giving medicine to another.

Then the dumb waiters, or dummies, as they were called, came up loaded with the breakfast; when the nurse set the table, to which all who were able to walk soon seated themselves. To those who were strictly confined to their beds the nurses carried food nicely arranged on little waiters.

The meal was scarcely concluded, when a porter appeared at the door, bearing in his arms a child about five years of age, which he conveyed to a large chair turning back like a couch, and then left her in the care of Miss Alden.

"Bad case!" Ruth heard him whisper, "leg burnt to a crisp!"

Here, then, was a new appeal to the sympathy of the patients; and no one can tell what a relief it is to these poor suffering ones to have a child, a loving, helpless child, before their eyes to divert their attention from themselves.

Even the poor Englishwoman whose face was swollen to the size of two, with erysipelas, and whose constant cry was, "Oh, this hitch in my face!" held her breath to gaze at the pale new comer.

The child, whose name was Mary Larkin, was dressed with exquisite neatness and even taste. Her hair, which was chestnut brown, was smoothly parted from her forehead; a narrow frill was basted into the neck of her dress, which was of soft blue merino; one tiny foot, which had escaped from the shawl which covered her, was cased in a dainty little slipper, the elastic evenly crossed above the open-work sock, while the embroidered pantalet was just visible.

Mary took kindly to Miss Alden, at once, as indeed every body did. She clung tightly to her hand casting shy glances around. It was a novel scene to her, and for a few moments so occupied her attention that she forgot her pain.

In a kind, motherly voice Miss Alden asked, "Wouldn't you like to lie in a nice little house, as the other people do, and have your dolly, and some pretty playthings in there to play with?"

"Yes ma'am, I should."

"Well, let go my hand a minute, and I'll have it all ready for you. You're a good little girl, I am sure."

"I guess you're going to be my mother, now," said Mary, with an arch glance which altered her whole countenance.