Chapter II: The Patient Child

MARY LARKIN was the daughter of a tailor. He had two other children, one son of seven years, and a daughter scarcely as many months. Hers was a sad case. One day she and her brother Thomas were playing in the kitchen where their mother was washing; the baby was lying in his cradle, amusing himself with his toes, when suddenly there was a dreadful shriek of distress, and Mrs. Larkin turned to see Mary in a large kettle of boiling water. Thomas had become angry with his little sister and pushed her there.

On reaching the child, the mother found one foot and ankle completely submerged, so that when the stocking was removed, not only the skin, but some of the flesh came with it.

As soon as it was possible, a physician was summoned, who prescribed for a few days, and then advised her to be sent to the hospital, where she could have constant care. He did not tell the almost distracted mother that her child would, doubtless, have to suffer the loss of a limb, though he anticipated it from the first, and was sure it would be better, both for the mother and child, that she should be removed.

As soon as these particulars about the young stranger were known, they excited universal sympathy. Mary appeared to be a lively, affectionate child. Just now there were marks of suffering on her face; her eyes had a dark circle around them, and her brow was often contracted; but there was an occasional sparkle in her bright orbs, a slight elevation of the eyebrows, which made her almost beautiful.

She was Irish, and had a rich brogue quite peculiar even among the children brought up in America. It was not many days before she had given her own names to the different persons about her. One of the nurses whose name was Cowles, she designated as "Miss Knowles," and never varied from this title. The kind lady who every few days brought her flowers, fruit and playthings, she called "the lady in black." The woman with the dreadful hitch in her face, was "Patty McNiles's bye," because she was always talking about her "bye," boy.

Though Mary was a constant sufferer, she scarcely ever complained. At first she sympathized too keenly with those about her, and often asked Miss Alden, whom she called "Darling," whether it was not time to give such a patient her medicine, whether it would not do Ruth's hands good to spat them. She had seen this done once when the circulation seemed suspended.

Sitting in her lounging chair, her poor burnt limb laid on a pillow before her, her dolly over her shoulder, she seemed to notice everything which passed around her.

One day Ruth told her about Alick, and how sweetly he sung just before he went to heaven. She was silent for some time after this, and the next time she saw the nurse, asked softly,—

"Darling, do you think I shall die as Alick did? If I do, will you let me sing?"

The house-doctor used to come every day, and apply fresh starch bandages to Mary's limb. This caused her the keenest agony, and all her fortitude could not keep her from uttering sharp cries. But she soon regained her cheerfulness, and seemed to comfort herself with the thought that it was over for that day.

One morning, Ruth, whose couch was near Mary's, and who had just been separating a bunch of hot-house flowers to share with her little friend, saw that the surgeon stopped longer than usual, by her lounging chair; that he made some explanations in technical terms to the students around him, then gave a few directions to Miss Alden before he passed on.

Poor Mary tried hard to be patient, but could not repress some screams. As soon as the surgeon had bound up the limb, the smiles broke out again over her face, though her lashes wore yet heavy with tears. "I guess you've got a cent, doctor," she said archly.

This was said in consequence of a promise he made her one day, if she would be a good girl while he dressed her leg, he would give her a cent.

The doctor laughed, and threw a penny into her lap, when many of the students followed his example.

In the afternoon the porter who brought Mary up, came for her again. Miss Alden expected him, and had her patient ready; but there was no smile on her face as she saw the child borne carefully away.

"Where is Mary going?" cried Ruth.

"She has gone to the operating-room, to have her foot and ankle taken off," answered the nurse in a faltering voice.

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry!" came from one and another of the patients.

"She'll never know it, little dear," added the nurse. "She'll take ether, and a blessed thing ether is too."

In less than an hour Mary returned, and was laid tenderly on her bed. She seemed exhausted, and had scarcely recovered her consciousness. She smiled, though, when "Darling" bent over and kissed her, and then fell quietly asleep.

It was not until the next morning, that she seemed aware of what had taken place. She gazed at her limb as if she could not understand how her foot had disappeared; then, as if suddenly realizing her loss, her voice quivered, and there was scarcely a dry eye about her, as she repeatedly inquired,—

"How will I walk about, now?"

Toward her brother, who in a fit of passion had maimed her for life, she seemed to cherish not the slightest resentment; but talked often of him and her baby brother, in the most affectionate terms. Visitors were extremely kind to her, and seemed to vie with each other who could do most for her comfort. On such occasions she would always portion off her toys or cake, saying in her own rich brogue, "This shall be for Tommy; and this, for baby; and this, for me."

It was astonishing how soon she reconciled herself to the idea of the loss she had sustained. No one knew where she picked up the word, but when she accidentally hit her wounded limb, instead of crying, she would say,—

"Oh, Mary! I'm sorry for your poor stump!"

For a few days she suffered much less than before the amputation, and entered into whatever was ludicrous or mirthful, with all her heart.

When the patients were able to be out of bed, there were a few rocking chairs which they could use. One woman who was dropsical claimed one of these for her own exclusive use. Even when she was too tired to remain out of bed, she would remonstrate loudly against its removal.

Ruth, who was now convalescent, had often watched her proceedings with much merriment, and one time when all was quiet, and the night-nurse absent from the room for a moment, she slipped from her bed and removed the chair to quite the other end of the apartment.

The woman awoke with the first ray of light, and soon discovered the loss of her chair. With a shout that roused every one from their slumbers, she called Miss Stiles, who was innocently reposing in it, to bring it back at once.

"I'll know who did this," she exclaimed looking defiantly about. "I'll know it before night!"

When the doctor made his morning call, instead of answering his question as to how she had slept, she gave him a description of the kind of treatment to which she was exposed.

"But I'll know who did it; I'll know," she kept repeating.

"You're worse off than the woman with a hitch in her face," he said with a quiet smile; "you have a hitching chair. But I dare say Miss Alden will make it all right."

There was some inquiry made as to who was the author of the mischief; but without any discovery. The woman grumbled all day, that she was "dacent,—as dacent as any one in the hospital. She had had two husbands, and was as dacent as any one, and would not submit to such tratement."

When night came, she was evidently worse; but nothing would induce her to retire until the rest had done so; and then she made sure of her prize by tying her garters together, fastening one end to the chair, and the other round her neck.

When the doctor came the next day, he found her so, and with a much quickened pulse.

"Did you move the chair?" he asked softly, approaching Ruth's bed.

He had seen her eyes sparkle with merriment, and concluded her the rogue.

"Yes, sir, I did it."

"Well, you had better keep your bed at night, in future."

Little Mary, as well as the others, amused herself talking about the woman with a chair tied round her neck. They all saw how selfish she was, and how disagreeable her selfishness made her. Poor woman, she lived but a short time after this, and died lamenting that since she came to the hospital she had "lost her muff,—a fine dacent one, too."

But soon, Mary's limb below the knee began to show signs of mortification; and after a few days of severe suffering, it was found necessary to have another operation, and take it off higher.

She understood now what was to be done; but when Miss Alden told her the surgeons would do it while she was asleep so that it wouldn't hurt her, she submitted without a word.

The most remarkable trait in this patient child was her truthfulness. She had evidently been well taught at home, for nothing would induce her to tell a lie.

She used often to call one and another of the patients to her chair to button her dolly's dress, or tie a string in her apron.

"Come here, Maggy Jones," she called one day. "Please come here!"

"No, I can't; my foot is cut off," answered the girl, laughing.

"O Maggy, that's a wicked lie! I see your two feet; oh, where will you go now?"

This she said in a voice of great distress, and never afterwards believed anything the girl told her.

One day, after the doctor had been playfully teasing her, pinching her cheeks, etc., she said, "I don't like Dr. P—, he's a maninger."

Nurse made her repeat it, and they all laughed, though they couldn't discover what "maninger" meant.

The next day the doctor said gravely, as though he felt hurt, "Don't you like me, Mary?"

Her face was dyed with blushes in an instant; but she replied softly, "Yes, I do."

"But did you say yesterday you didn't, and call me a dreadful name?"

"Yes, I did; but I like you now."

"What did you call me?"

"A maninger."

"And what is a maninger, pray?"

"Why, it's a—a real bad man; I'm sorry now, though."

"Well, I forgive you," he said patting her head, playfully. "Now, remember, we are good friends again."

"Did you say so, Mary?" or, "didn't you say this?" were questions often put to her by the patients, thinking she would deny something she had said. But no, she would not do it; often ending with the emphatic words, "I say it's real wicked to tell a lie!"

By and by, Mary was so well that Dr. P— said she must be carried home, as her bed was needed for another patient. When the ladies who visited the hospital so often heard that, they loaded her with books and toys, and some gave her money.

The day she left, the kind doctor put five dollars which had been given her in small sums, into the bank in her name; and promised if no one else bought her a cork leg, he would do so; that she could go to school.

Ruth was dismissed about the same time, and others were brought in to take their places; but Miss Alden did not soon forget her cheerful little charge, nor the endearing title, "Darling," which Mary had so lovingly given her. She parted from her with many tears, after making her promise to come and see "Darling," as soon as she was able.

I have written you this true story, my young readers, that you may learn in the history of Alick, how peaceful and happy is the death of those who put their trust in God; and by the contrast between little Mary and the dropsical old woman; how much more amiable and beloved are those who endure suffering with meekness and patience, than those who fret and murmur at every trifling annoyance, or repine at the allotments of Providence.

Johnny's Fretting.