Through an almost fatal accident, an old lady of seventy-five years lay
at death’s door for many long weeks. She had not been as prosperous
during the last twenty-five years of her life as she had been in her
early married life, and many of her old time friends had drifted out of
her life, and she drifted out of theirs. She thought of all this as she
lay on her bed of affliction, too weak to move more than one arm. It was
sad to think of the old friends who had forgotten her so completely. They
must all know of her illness, for her daughter Mary had read several
notices to her from the local papers concerning her serious accident, and
more serious condition since the accident occurred.
Somehow she felt so lonely and isolated and neglected. Better die and be
out of this painful existence than to lie sick in bed for weeks and weeks
and be absolutely forgotten by the old-time friends, whose society she
once enjoyed so delightfully.
When her daughter came in she had hard work to turn her feeble head to
the wall, so the tears on her lashes could not be seen. She even felt
one on her thin cheek, but had not the physical power to wipe it away.
As the daughter went about the room, tidying things up, and dusting off
the stand on which the medicine bottles stood, she listened carefully to
see if her mother was sleeping. A slight cough from the bed convinced her
that the invalid was awake, and she broke the silence by saying:
“I hope the mail today will bring a letter from brother John. He knows
of your accident, and I feel sure he will reach us today with his answer.”
The finger on the bed moved slightly and a weak voice answered; “I hope
so, Mary. It’s nice to receive a letter from our absent ones, at such
times like this.”
Mary knew how it exhausted her mother to talk, so she said no more, but
pulled down the blind to shut out the light, and left the sick room with
a pain at her heart. Her keen eye had seen the tears on her mother’s eye
lashes, and she felt certain that the poor invalid had been weeping over
confinement and isolation from society and her friends.
In an hour the morning mail arrived, and she was agreeably surprised to
find five letters, addressed to her mother, besides the one from John.
She opened John’s letter and read it over carefully, to make sure that he
had said nothing to hurt his mother’s feelings. John was so careless at
times, and would bring up business problems that should not be spoken of
when the mother was not in condition for such matters. Then Mary went up
to the sick room and read John’s letter aloud.
“I’m glad to hear he’s well,” the invalid said laboriously, and closed
her eyes again from sheer weakness.
“But mother,” exclaimed Mary, “here’s a letter from Mrs. Moore—your old
friend, Mrs. Moore, of whom you spoke only yesterday.”
The invalid opened wide her eyes and listened until the letter was
finished. It spoke of the old time friendship, and expressed hope that
the invalid would soon recover, and be in condition to enjoy a visit from
her friend, just so soon as the weather was settled.
“How kind of Mrs. Moore to think of me in my affliction,” exclaimed
the invalid in much stronger tones. “It’s better than medicine to hear
from her. Old friends are so dear to the heart, for they bring up old
memories.”
“But here are letters from more of your old friends, mother. Here is
one from Mrs. Bridgens, and one from Mrs. Jones, and one from old Miss
Christie, and from Mrs. Cook.” And Mary sat for almost an hour reading
the messages from old friends to the invalid of whom the writers spoke so
tenderly, and wrote of old-time adventures and scenes from their girlhood
days.
Mary was delighted to see the change these messages of love had worked
in her invalid mother. The faded old eyes were lighted with a new
illumination, and a little color had struggled back to her cheeks. She
asked to have the letters given to her, and she brought both hands
together to receive them, holding them as tenderly as a little girl would
hold her first doll. Mary went downstairs, leaving the invalid holding
her love letters so fondly, and when she returned in half an hour, she
found her sleeping sweetly, and fondly holding those letters in one
feeble hand. And Mary whispered:
“If they only knew how much pleasure and hope their letters brought to my
dear old mother, they would never neglect writing to their old friends
when affliction is upon them. God bless them for the hope and happiness
they brought to this home.”