_EVERY_ home for friendless children, every sin or poverty-blighted ward
and almost every hovel, garret and cellar where evil and squalor shrunk
from observation were searched for the missing child, but in vain. No
trace of him could be found. The agony of suspense into which Edith's
mind was brought was beginning to threaten her reason. It was only by
the strongest effort at self-compulsion that she could keep herself to
duty among the poor and suffering, and well for her it was that she did
not fail here; it was all that held her to safe mooring.
One day, as she was on her way home from some visit of mercy, a lady
who was passing in a carriage called to her from the window, at the same
time ordering her driver to stop. The carriage drew up to the sidewalk.
“Come, get in,” said the lady as she pushed open the carriage door. “I
was thinking of you this very moment, and want to have some talk about
our children's hospital. We must have you on our ladies' visiting
committee.”
Edith shook her head, saying, “It won't be possible, Mrs. Morton. I am
overtaxed now, and must lessen, instead of increasing, my work.”
“Never mind, about that now. Get in. I want to have some talk with you.”
Edith, who knew the lady intimately, stepped into the carriage and took
a seat by her side.
“I don't believe you have ever been to our hospital,” said the lady as
the carriage rolled on. “I'm going there now, and want to show you how
admirably everything is conducted, and what a blessing it is to poor
suffering children.”
“It hurts me so to witness suffering in little children,” returned
Edith, “that it seems as if I couldn't bear it much longer. I see so
much of it.”
“The pain is not felt as deeply when we are trying to relieve that
suffering,” answered her friend. “I have come away from the hospital
many times after spending an hour or two among the beds, reading and
talking to the children, with an inward peace in my soul too deep for
expression. I think that Christ draws very near to us while we are
trying to do the work that he did when he took upon himself our nature
in, the world and stood face to face visibly with men--nearer to us,
it may be, than at any other time; and in his presence there is
peace--peace that passeth understanding.”
They were silent for a little while, Edith not replying. “We have now,”
resumed the lady, “nearly forty children under treatment--poor
little things who, but for this charity, would have no tender care or
intelligent ministration. Most of them would be lying in garrets or
miserable little rooms, dirty and neglected, disease eating out their
lives, and pain that medical skill now relieves, racking their poor worn
bodies. I sat by the bed of a little girl yesterday who has been in the
hospital over six months. She has hip disease. When she was brought here
from one of the vilest places in the city, taken away from a drunken
mother, she was the saddest-looking child I ever saw. Dirty, emaciated,
covered with vermin and pitiable to behold, I could hardly help crying
when I saw her brought in. Now, though still unable to leave her
bed, she has as bright and happy a face as you ever saw. The care and
tenderness received since she came to us have awakened a new life in her
soul, and she exhibits a sweetness of temper beautiful to see. After
I had read a little story for her yesterday, she put her arms about
my neck and kissed me, saying, in her frank, impulsive way, 'Oh, Mrs.
Morton, I do love you so!' I had a great reward. Never do I spend an
hour among these children without thanking God that he put it into the
hearts of a few men and women who could be touched with the sufferings
of children to establish and sustain so good an institution.”
The carriage stopped, and the driver swung open the door. They were
at the children's hospital. Entering a spacious hall, the two ladies
ascended to the second story, where the wards were located. There were
two of these on opposite sides of the hall, one for boys and one for
girls. Edith felt a heavy pressure on her bosom as they passed into the
girls' ward. She was coming into the presence of disease and pain, of
suffering and weariness, in the persons of little children.
There were twenty beds in the room. Everything was faultlessly clean,
and the air fresh and pure. On most of these beds lay, or sat up,
supported by pillows, sick or crippled children from two years of age
up to fifteen or sixteen, while a few were playing about the room. Edith
caught her breath and choked back a sob that came swiftly to her throat
as she stood a few steps within the door and read in a few quick glances
that passed from face to face the sorrowful records that pain had
written upon them.
“Oh, there's Mrs. Morton!” cried a glad voice, and Edith saw a girl who
was sitting up in one of the beds clap her hands joyfully.
“That's the little one I was telling you about,” said the lady, and she
crossed to the bed, Edith following. The child reached up her arms and
put them about Mrs. Morton's neck, kissing her as she did so.
It took Edith some time to adjust herself to the scene before her. Mrs.
Morton knew all the children, and had a word of cheer or sympathy for
most of them as she passed from bed to bed through the ward. Gradually
the first painful impressions wore off, and Edith felt herself drawn to
the little patients, and before five minutes had passed her heart was
full of a strong desire to do whatever lay in her power to help and
comfort them. After spending half an hour with the girls, during which
time Edith talked and read to a number of them, Mrs. Morton said,
“Now let us go into the boys' ward.”
They crossed the hall together, and entered the room on the other side.
Here, as in the opposite ward, Mrs. Morton was recognized as welcome
visitor. Every face that happened to be turned to the door brightened at
her entrance.
“There's a dear child in this ward,” said Mrs. Morton as they stood for
a moment in the door looking about the room. “He was picked up in the
street about a week ago, hurt by a passing vehicle, and brought here. We
have not been able to learn anything about him.”
Edith's heart gave a sudden leap, but she held it down with all the
self-control she could assume, trying to be calm.
“Where is he?” she asked, in a voice so altered from its natural tone
that Mrs. Morton turned and looked at her in surprise.
“Over in that corner,” she answered, pointing down the room.
Edith started forward, Mrs. Morton at her side.
“Here he is,” said the latter, pausing at a bed on which child with
fair face, blue eyes and golden hair was lying. A single glance sent the
blood back to Edith's heart. A faintness came over her; everything grew
dark. She sat down to keep from falling.
As quickly as possible and by another strong effort of will she rallied
herself.
“Yes,” she said, in a faint undertone in which was no apparent interest,
“he is a dear little fellow.”
As she spoke she laid her hand softly on the child's head, but not in a
way to bring any response. He looked at her curiously, and seemed half
afraid.
Meanwhile, a child occupying a bed only a few feet off had started up
quickly on seeing Edith, and now sat with his large brown eyes fixed
eagerly upon her, his lips apart and his hands extended. But Edith did
not notice him. Presently she got up from beside the bed and was turning
away when the other child, with a kind of despairing look in his face,
cried out,
“Lady, lady! oh, lady!”
The voice reached Edith's ears. She turned, and saw the face of Andy.
Swift as a flash she was upon him, gathering him in her arms and crying
out, in a wild passion of joy that could not be repressed,
“Oh, my baby! my baby! my boy! my boy! Bless God! thank God! oh, my
baby!”
Startled by this sudden outcry, the resident physician and two nurses
who were in the ward hurried down the room to see what it meant. Edith
had the child hugged tightly to her bosom, and resisted all their
efforts to remove him.
“My dear madam,” said the doctor, “you will do him some harm if you
don't take care.”
“Hurt my baby? Oh no, no!” she answered, relaxing her hold and gazing
down upon Andy as she let him fall away from her bosom. Then lifting her
eyes to the physician, her face so flooded with love and inexpressible
joy that it seemed like some heavenly transfiguration, she murmured, in
a low voice full of the deepest tenderness,
“Oh no. I will not do my baby any harm.”
“My dear, dear friend,” said Mrs. Morton, recovering from the shock of
her first surprise and fearing that Edith had suddenly lost her mind,
“you cannot mean what you say;” and she reached down for the child and
made a movement as if she were going to lift him away from her arms.
A look of angry resistance swept across Edith's pale face. There was a
flash of defiance in her eyes.
“No, no! You must not touch him,” she exclaimed; “I will die before
giving him up. My baby!”
And now, breaking down from her intense excitement, she bent over
the child again, weeping and sobbing. Waiting until this paroxysm had
expended itself, Mrs. Morton, who had not failed to notice that Andy
never turned his eyes for an instant away from Edith, nor resisted her
strained clasp or wild caresses, but lay passive against her with a look
of rest and peace in his face, said,
“How shall we know that he is your baby?”
At this Edith drew herself up, the light on her countenance fading
out. Then catching at the child's arm, she pulled the loose sleeve that
covered it above the elbow with hands that shook like aspens. Another
cry of joy broke from her as she saw a small red mark standing out clear
from the snowy skin. She kissed it over and over again, sobbing,
“My baby! Yes, thank God! my own long-lost baby!”
And still the child showed no excitement, but lay very quiet, looking at
Edith whenever he could see her countenance, the peace and rest on his
face as unchanging as if it were not really a living and mobile face,
but one cut into this expression by the hands of an artist.
“How shall you know?” asked Edith, now remembering the question of Mrs.
Morton. And she drew up her own sleeve and showed on one of her arms a
mark as clearly defined and bright as that on the child's arm.
No one sought to hinder Edith as she rose to her feet holding Andy,
after she had wrapped the bed-clothes about him.
“Come!” she spoke to her friend, and moved away with her precious
burden.
“You must go with us,” said Mrs. Morton to the physician.
They followed as Edith hurried down stairs, and entering the carriage
after her, were driven away from the hospital.