ANXIOUS TIMES.
FOR days and weeks the three girls and their mother lived in a state
of the greatest anxiety. Mr. Grace had sustained injuries of so severe
a character that the hospital authorities could not allow him to be
removed to his home, much as his wife would have desired to have him
under her own sole care. Mrs. Grace spent her whole time, therefore, in
a sort of hopeless endeavour to be in two places at once. When sitting
with her husband in the private room at St. Mercy's which she had
engaged for his better accommodation, more than half her thoughts were
with her girls at home. When spending a few hours at Briar Cottage,
setting right the things which inevitably went wrong in her absence,
and preparing again to leave them, her heart was yearning towards the
precious invalid to whom her presence, she knew, was essential comfort
and rest.
Between these conflicting cares, pulling her, as they did, in opposite
directions, the poor lady found herself at length on the verge of an
illness which threatened to hinder her from the performance of either
duty. Then, and not till then, did she realize that she had been,
albeit half unconsciously, trying to do what is beyond the power of any
human being, and what God would never have us do. More strength than
the actual work demanded of her, consumed, had been wasted, in useless
worry; no wonder she so nearly broke down.
Mothers and fathers are but children of the great Father above, and are
learning of Him as long as they live. Mrs. Grace received a lesson at
this time which she never afterwards forgot. She saw where her mistake
had been, and seeking help from above strove to cease fretting, and
while doing her best wherever she might be, to leave all other care to
God. Then her fevered brain grew cooler, her nerves once more regained
their wonted firmness, and she was able to do for all her dear ones
everything that was required.
"If you will but profit by my experience, girls," she told her
daughters, "you may rely upon it that we never need try to do more
than we can. Only let us make sure that we are calmly and faithfully
fulfilling our present duty, and we may be quite content to abandon to
the Infinite care everything beside."
The sisters, too, learned much during that season of trouble. The
servant was a steady young woman, and did by them in the absence of
superintendence as well as could possibly be expected. But for all
that, they missed their mother sorely. Never had they half appreciated
her tender and unfailing care until for a time they had to do without
it. But that they were good girls in the main is proved by the fact
that they became more scrupulously obedient to the known wishes of
their parents, and more solicitous for each other when thus left to
themselves than ever they had been before when helped by constant
reminding.
Maud always now changed her damp boots directly she came in—a
troublesome point with her—lest she should catch cold and add to her
mother's trouble, and never once took a book to bed with her. Minnie,
on her part, no longer sat up in her room when she ought to have been
asleep, trying new ways of doing her hair. This was a weakness to which
she frequently gave way, when Mrs. Grace was at home to come up and
chide her for having the candle so long burning. But on the nights
that mother was away, she would not have done so for the world. They
both, too, were very good to little Margerie, and she tried not to
rebel against an occasional approach to amiable tyranny which their
well-meant endeavours took.
But the best was that each and all were drawn towards their heavenly
Father as they had scarcely imagined possible until now. In the
loneliness, especially, of going to bed without a parent's tender
"good-night" kiss, the comfort of kneeling down with their arms around
each other, in the presence of a love that neither slumbers nor sleeps,
was such that none but those who have experienced it can know. It was
worth more than all the grief and suspense, and well-nigh orphaned
feeling of that sad time, to realize the blessed truth of the Lord's
pity for, and nearness to, all who are suffering and sad. And of the
three, Margerie, because herself the most pitiful and loving, knew it
the most.
It was not until nearly the end of March that Mr. Grace was allowed to
return to his own home. Even then, he was but as a wreck of his former
self: so hollow his eyes and wasted his cheeks, so pale and thin his
hands. There had been only a suspicion of gray in his hair and beard
when the year began, now there were more white hairs visible than
brown; and his once firm, elastic footstep tottered as he walked from
the cab at the gate of Briar Cottage to the front door.
No one was more startled and shocked at this sorrowful change than
the girls' brother Jamie, a lad of about sixteen, who, as he was
apprenticed to a mathematical instrument maker on the other side of
London, lived away from home, and has had no occasion to figure in our
story hitherto.
"It will be a terrible while before father is able to go to business
again, I should think," the boy observed, looking at the question from
the point of view which presented itself most prominently to his mind.
"Did the doctor say how long?"
"He distinctly said that your father must not attempt the slightest
exertion for at least another two months," replied Mrs. Grace with a
sigh. "And it seems doubtful whether he will even then be equal to his
former occupation."
Jamie was silent for a few minutes. He knew enough to be aware what
such delay might mean.
Then he said: "But his employers are willing to wait for him, aren't
they?"
"They have done so until now, and have shown great consideration in
many ways. But when they hear how uncertain his return to business
appears to be, I fear they may find it necessary to get someone else to
permanently fill his vacant place."
"But they won't hear unless father tells them," objected Jamie. "If
they still think that there is a prospect of his going back soon, they
might keep the post open for him."
Mrs. Grace shook her head decisively. "Your father would not think that
right, I am sure," she said. "He intends, if well enough, to write to
the principal to-morrow, and inform him of the exact state of affairs.
Then the firm will be able to act as they think best in the matter."
"Mother," said Jamie after another pause, during which he had been
thoughtfully examining the end of a pen-holder, "is that what people
would call 'prudent?' If father lets this situation go, he may, when he
gets well, have a great deal of trouble to get another as good."
"That is very possible, Jamie, and no one is more keenly aware of
it than your dear father. But you know it is his aim in all things
to 'seek "first" the kingdom of God and His righteousness,' and no
deception for selfish ends will work with that—not the very smallest.
The kingdom of God is 'truth,' and your father will tell the exact
truth, giving a faithful and accurate representation of his case, and
leave the preservation of this situation or the obtaining of another to
Him whose service he feels to be his only duty."
It proved even as the Graces had feared. The sick man's employers, on
learning how slow was his progress towards health and how doubtful the
prospect that he would ever completely recover from the severe injuries
which he had sustained, decided with many genuine regrets that they
would be compelled to find someone else to take his place.
There is no denying that this was a severe blow. And prepared for it
as Mr. Grace had believed himself to be, the shock caused a serious
relapse in his condition which the most assiduous attention on the part
of his wife and daughters—even a constant supply of Margerie's famous
toast "with the crust cut off"—was powerless to avert.
What were they to do? With the breadwinner laid aside, and instead of
a regular income, a continual extra expense in the shape of doctor's
bills and luxuries for the sick man.
"Do you know, Maud," said Minnie one night, as she twisted her front
hair into a row of little curl-papers before going to bed, "I've been
thinking."
"What about?"
"About father and mother and all of us. And about father losing his
situation, and—and, Maudie, he doesn't seem to get a bit stronger, that
I can see."
"He looks very bad," agreed Maud gravely.
"And he must have things—nourishing things, and all that, you know."
"Yes, of course."
"And they cost money."
"Of course they do."
"And so do other things," pursued Minnie, making a neat little paper
parcel of the last tip of hair. "And," she concluded, giving the ends
a final screw up, and finishing off with an emphatic pat, "one of the
most expensive is Ellen."
"But mother couldn't do without her," said Maud, looking surprised.
"I'm thirteen and five months old," observed Minnie slowly, "and you're
twelve and three months. That's twenty-five and eight months between
us. Ellen is only twenty-four."
"O-oh, I see!" rejoined Maud, catching her sister's meaning, fancifully
though she chose to express it. "And," she added, laughing at her
own continuance of the whim, "I take fives in gloves, and you take
four-and-a-half. That's nine-and-a-half, whereas Ellen wears only
sevens—not to speak of the advantage of two pairs of hands instead of
one."
"You stand-under?" queried Minnie.
"I do."
"Are you willing to mention it to mother?"
"I—don't—know," answered Maud reflectively. "I'll think about it. Give
me till to-morrow evening, and I'll let you know."
"I think we might," said Minnie. "With perhaps a charwoman now and
then. And see what a saving it would be!"
It was on the morning following this talk, while the subject Minnie had
mooted was still under Maud's consideration, that Margerie met with a
rather curious adventure, the importance of which she at the time but
little guessed.
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