As soon as Mrs. Grey recovered her health and strength, she took up
her abode in Margaret's sickroom, her mother's former "hospital," and
devised endless ways of relieving the tedium of her long confinement.
Margaret spent her days on one of the little white beds, and her
nights on the other; the change was easily effected by members of
the household, and was very refreshing. Mrs. Grey read to her, told
her stories, played games with her, brought her fresh flowers and
fruit every day, and was as companionable as a girl. Yet it cost her
brave heart something thus to live over again Maud's illness, without
alluding to it; only a mother who has ministered to a dying child can
know at what a price. Once, when Margaret was suffering unusual pain,
she broke down, and cried heartily; but for herself she shed no tears.
"My precious child," she said, "how you need your own dear mother now!"
"I wouldn't have her see me suffer so for the world!" cried Margaret.
"As long as I live, whatever happens to hurt or distress me, I shall
have one comfort--my darling mother never had to see this!"
Mrs. Grey made no reply to this exclamation, but took care to put it
into every letter she wrote her children, till they had all received
this hint how she wished them to feel after she had gone. Meanwhile,
letters and luxuries flowed in from them all. Belle wrote about the
children, especially Mabel and the twins; Laura kept up her usual
artillery of fun; even "the boys," Frank, and Rafe, and Fred, wrote,
when they found what a delight it was to Margaret. Under ordinary
circumstances, "the girls" would have relieved their mother from the
care they all regretted so much; but Belle was tied hand and foot
by her babies, and so was Laura, who had become duly impressed with
the danger still lurking about her nursery; the daughter who came
between, these two (Grace) had her husband's mother with her, of whom
people said, "She means no harm, but she is peculiar." She was so very
peculiar, that it took all Grace's faith and patience to endure her
semi-annual visits, which she looked forward to as she would to a fit
of sickness. Old Mrs. Harrison would never have got over it if Grace
had deserted her for any reason whatever; yet if any one had accused
her of being exacting, she would have been surprised and felt insulted.
One morning, when Margaret was beginning to suffer less, she said,
earnestly:
"Now, aunty, I think I have taken as much of your time, to say the
least of it, as the case required, and I want you to go on with your
book. What a trial this long interruption must have been!"
"It has not been a trial, dear. You will understand why, one of these
days. I used to chafe and fret when interrupted in favorite pursuits,
but I have learned that my time all belongs to God, and just leave it
in His hands. It is very sweet to use it for Him when He has anything
for me to do, and pleasant to use it for myself when He hasn't.
There's no knowing what I have learned through these weeks that I
needed to learn, in order to have my book what He chooses it shall be.
Perhaps your fractured ankle has a mission to some soul, which it will
accomplish through my pen; who knows?"
"I think I shall write a book myself," said Margaret, demurely.
Mrs. Grey smiled interrogatively.
"It would be such fun years hence to read it over. Yes, I certainly
will write it. Come, aunty, you bring your pen and paper and set the
inkstand between us, and we'll both write. I am going to write down
the nice things that have happened to me; the letters and presents I
have had, and my journeys, and excursions, and all that. And I shall
illustrate it with pen-and-ink sketches. It will be a bigger book than
you ever wrote, if I live much longer, and you all go on being so good
to me."
"I don't believe you can use ink; however, we'll see. That's a good
idea of yours. I wish I had begun such a book at your age. It would
be most entertaining reading at my time of life. Oh, what a volume of
undeserved mercies."
"Well, I have a nice blank-book on hand which you shall have."
She went and hunted it up, collected her materials, and they both
became absorbed in their work, until a little musical laugh from
Margaret broke in upon the stillness.
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Grey. Margaret handed her the book by way of
reply. She had written its title on the first page:
"MY BOOK OF REMEMBRANCE,"
and had drawn a picture of herself as a miniature angel flying down
from heaven into a bright, artistic room.
"I remember my father's painting in which I was represented as thus
entering the world, and how it was one of the last things mother
consented to part with. She finally let it go to our landlord for rent.
He refused to take it for a long time, declaring that he must have
the money; when he concluded to consent to do so, mother called his
attention to its title, 'The Advent of my First-Born,' and explained
that it was my father's poetical way of stating a prosaic fact.
"'La!' quoth he, 'you don't say that's a angel, do yer? I always
thought it was a _lightning bug_!'"
Mrs. Grey laughed. It rested and refreshed her to see Margaret's
brightness beginning to return. But their books were not destined to
grow that day, for Mrs. Cameron and Agnes came and staid an hour and a
half, and then Mrs. Huestis drove them away, and Mrs. Cram stepped in
for a minute and staid forty-five, and so it went on till dusk. Mrs.
Cameron always had some important secret to divulge, and must see Mrs.
Grey alone; Mrs. Huestis always wanted advice; Mrs. Cram invariably
was in trouble and wanted sympathy; and as to them all they were not
in the least to blame for taking so much of her time, for they all
knew that _her_ time was not her own. She had, long ago, consecrated
it to Christ, and He used, but never abused it. Agnes Cameron amused
Margaret, while her mother was in the library below, with scraps of
domestic scenes, wherein she hit off, in a good-natured way, some of
their household "ways," as she called them. One of her little brothers
had a "way" of doing mischief, and his last performance was pouring a
can of kerosene oil on the parlor carpet.
"Mamma spanked him for it," continued Agnes, "and he said, 'the
whipping hurt, but I 'joyed pouring out the oil!'"
"What a little scamp!" said Margaret. "Your mother couldn't have
whipped him very hard."
"Oh, yes, she did; she used her slipper. But he 'joys his mischief too
much to care what she does to him. He put the kitten into a pot of hot
soup; he drank a lot of sugar of lead; he pushed tacks up his nose, and
into his ears; he scratched the piano all over with scissors; he threw
papa's razor out of the window; he has poured ink all over himself
twice; he climbed out of the window and hung there by his hands till
mamma fainted away; and yesterday, when he wanted something she refused
him, he climbed up on to the table, and walked across it, and helped
himself."
"And what was done to him?"
"Oh, nothing. We all laughed, that was all."
"He would drive me crazy in a week," said Margaret, scandalized.
"No, he wouldn't. He is such a good-natured little fellow you couldn't
help loving him."
Margaret would not dispute the point, but she thought it all the more a
fraud upon the child to spoil him, when he was created with agreeable
qualities.
"I would not laugh at his mischief if I were you," she said, at last.
"He'll get to think it is nice and smart to cut up capers."
"Oh, he'll outgrow his ways."
Margaret had her doubts, but had too little experience with children
to venture to offer any further advice. After what seemed an endless
period of time, Mrs. Cameron and Agnes departed, and the short wintry
day came to an end.
Margaret's book of remembrance grew in spite of interruptions, for all
sorts of kind deeds and loving deeds kept rushing in, and sometimes
after writing for a time, she would lie back on her pillow in silent
ecstacy, that she, a little while ago, only an "incumbrance," was now
literally surrounded with mercies. If every young person would keep
such a record, there would be more smiling and more gratitude in this
frowning, grumbling world.
And now she was to take the air, and glide over the smooth, white snow
that fell just in time to cover all the inequalities of the roads.
Samp had not been much hurt when he fell from the box, and new horses
had been bought in place of the pair that had to be killed after the
accident.
Mrs. Grey went with her, and both sat thoughtfully side by side, and
quite silent, for they had each lived through a world since their last
drive.
But on their return, Mrs. Grey said, "I have had a curious request made
me during your imprisonment, and want to consult you about it."
"You are always having curious requests. How people do act."
"It is not their fault. I belong to 'people.' Well, here is a letter
from a woman I don't remember ever seeing, though she says she once
spent a summer in a boarding-house with me and mine. She wants me to
come and examine her home-life, which she pronounces a failure, and
tell her what is amiss. But read the letter before you give an opinion."
DEAR MRS. GREY:--
Some years ago I spent a summer at Newport in the "House on the
Cliffs;" among others, you were there, with your children. I was
only a young girl at that time, but I was struck with the difference
between your family and those of others; I did not understand then,
nor do I know now, wherein this difference lay. But I am the mother
of six children, the eldest a boy of fourteen, the youngest a baby.
In deep humility, in bitter disappointment, my husband and myself
have come to this conclusion: our boys and girls are exceptionally
troublesome, or we are very bad managers. Our home-life is beset with
disorder and discomfort, which is becoming intolerable. Well, can
you, and will you, undertake the task of spending a day or two, more
or less, as you think best, in our family? See for yourself where
the fault lies, and act the part of a friend to us in the greatest
emergency of our lives? It is asking a very self-denying act on your
part; we realize that, but virtue has its own reward. Whatever
strictures you may find occasion to make, will be thankfully received.
We are unknown to you, but you are well known to us, and we put our
cause into your hands.
Truly yours, LUCY A. THAYER.
Please address Mrs. Neilson Thayer, Box 298, New York.
"It's a nice letter," Margaret reluctantly owned; "but you mustn't go."
"Why not?"
"There are five hundred and forty reasons why."
"Tell me one."
"Why should you, who can speak to thousands through your books, be
pinned down to one disorderly family?"
"Oh, that's no argument at all. If I were sitting on a pedestal, and
had to climb down in order to help my brother, my sister, it might be a
different thing. But I am not. My advantage over these younger people
is, that I have longer experience of life than they have, and that's
all."
Margaret smiled.
"I believe if the whole world knelt at your feet you wouldn't know it,"
she said.
"I don't think I should, for I _wouldn't_ know it. And, Margaret, I
think I shall go and have a long talk with these people; to do it, I
may have to stay with them one night, as I suppose Mr. Thayer will only
be accessible in the evening."
"Well, it's just like you to do such things."
"_That's_ not the way to put it. It's just like God to make His
children serve one another."
"Do go right away, then, and have it over with. You have spoiled me so,
that I hate to have you out of my sight. However, I've plenty to do
while you are gone."
"Oh, I should not leave you if you had not. Let me see, I must write to
this Mrs. Thayer, to say that I am coming. To-day is Friday--too late
in the week; I'll go on Monday."