IN THE HOSPITAL.
Jem came back within the hour. He found his Meg awake and calm. She had
had some breakfast, and was now lying with her hand clasped in little
Dickie's with a serene smile on her face.
As for the child, he lay on the soft white pillow with his eyes closed
from the light, dozing occasionally and then rousing just enough to
understand the tender care that surrounded him, and to realize that he
need have no fear now.
"Cherry," he said, without moving, hearing Jem's entrance and believing
it to be his sister, "is this what ye asked Jesus to send me?"
"Yes," answered Cherry, who was standing on the other side of the bed,
"only I didn't know as the Lord Jesus would send anything so very nice
as this."
Dickie assented, adding with a little sigh of satisfaction, "I never
want to get up no more."
"You shall lie here as long as you like," said Meg assuringly. "Now,
Dickie, open your eyes and look at Jem."
"I can't open my eyes," answered Dickie, "'cause they hurt so; but I'm
glad fa'ver-Jem has come back."
"Am I to be 'father-Jem'?" asked the man, bending down to look closer
into the little face.
"Yes," said Dickie; "if it's 'mo'ver-Meg,' it must be 'fa'ver-Jem.'"
Jem smiled and then sighed. He had hoped for something different from
this; but what if His Father's will had arranged it so?
"You do not mind, Jem?" came in Meg's soft voice. "His feeling so has
made me very happy."
"So it shall me, sweetheart," he answered, taking the child henceforward
right into his big heart.
Then he turned to Cherry.
"Make haste and put on your hat, Cherry," he said to her; "for I want to
get your poor father to give you to us to take care of. D'ye think he
will?"
Cherry looked doubtful. It was on her lips to say, "Father would do
anything for drink," but she felt it would be cruel to even think such a
thing now, and she hastily dismissed the thought. And as it went another
came--"I'll ask Jesus to help." So when she put on her shabby little
hat, and turned down-stairs with Jem, the uppermost thought in her
heart came to be, "Oh, if only poor father could love Jesus; I shouldn't
mind about being happy myself."
Perhaps Jem's mind was running on the same subject, for he walked along
very silently by her side. Once he turned to her to take her little thin
hand, and to ask her if he were walking too fast, but after that he
scarcely spoke till they stood inside the hospital.
He felt Cherry's hand trembling so much then, that he stooped to her,
and spoke in a whisper.
"There's naught to be afraid of, dear," he said; "and if you're thinkin'
of your poor father, the best plan as I know on is to tell God about
that."
Cherry looked up. Did he guess from her eyes that she had already done
so?
They soon found themselves in the accident ward, and in a moment were
standing by a bed in which Cherry could recognize her father's form.
"I don't suppose it'ull be much use," said the nurse in a low tone; "he
hasn't taken a bit of notice since he was brought in; the only word he
says is 'Dickie,' and you don't either of you seem to be him."
Jem shook his head.
"May I speak to him?"
"Oh, yes; but you mustn't be disappointed if he don't notice."
She made a gesture which implied that he had not long to live, and then
stood off at a little distance; while Cherry, at a sign from Jem, bent
towards the bed and whispered, "Father!"
[Illustration: Jem took the child out of the chair and wrapped his arms
round him pacing up and down the room with him on his breast.--p. 176.]
The suffering man moved uneasily and groaned.
"Father, I'm so sorry as you're hurt. Don't you know your little
Cherry?"
"Dickie, Dickie!" said the man despairingly.
"Do you want Dickie?" asked Cherry, trembling.
"No, no, no; only I wish he hadn't been hurt. Dickie, Dickie!"
"Father," said Cherry, gathering courage from Jem's eyes, "father, you
know as I and Dickie pray to the Lord Jesus?"
The miserable man seemed to be listening.
"Well, father, we asked Him to find some one to take care of Dickie,
and--"
"They'll have him again," broke in the man. "I said as I'd give 'im over
to 'em, and they'll hold to 'im. It ain't a bit o' use. Oh, I can't talk
to yer. Oh, my dreadful pain! To think Dickie should ever suffer like
this; and I took no heed of it when I might."
"But, father," said Cherry, restraining her tears by a violent effort,
"there's stronger than them as has Dickie in hand. Don't ye see that
Jesus is stronger than them?"
The man only groaned afresh.
"And Jesus has heard me and Dickie askin' Him, and He's found us such a
nice home. Father, 'ull you be willin' to give us to those as is so good
to us?"
"Who?" asked the man, for the first time opening his eyes.
"To me," said Jem, coming close. "I've taken 'em from old Sairy, and
they shan't ever go back, if you'll say as you will let me and Meg be
their guardians."
The poor dying eyes were eagerly scanning Jem's face; they returned to
Cherry's as if satisfied.
"Their mother was a good woman," he said.
"So Cherry tells me. We'll do our best to teach them to be good too."
The man turned his head away as if he had done with the subject, and
indeed with all earthly things. Then, just as Cherry and Jem were
looking at each other in dismay, he roused himself once more.
"You may 'ave 'em," he said.
Jem signed to the nurse to draw near.
"Tom Seymour," he said solemnly, "do you make my wife and me guardians
of your two children, Cherry and Dickie?"
"Yes," said the man distinctly; "and God grant as you may keep the
charge better'n I've done."
"God will help us," said Jem, taking the hand which lay outside the
counterpane; "and, my friend, God will help _you_. If you turn to him
now He will receive you."
The man drew away his hand with impatient pain.
"That's past for me," he said between his teeth.
"No, it isn't, father," exclaimed Cherry. "If Jesus 'as been so good to
you as to take Dickie away from old Sairy, don't ye think as He can be
kind enough as to take you from Satan?"
"I'm too bad, Cherry; it ain't no use talkin'. You've tried, my girl, a
score o' times. And so did yer mother; it ain't a bit o' good. Leave me
to die now. If Dickie's all right, I can't 'elp the rest."
Cherry's eyes looked despairingly at Jem, but he encouraged her to try
again, himself only praying silently that some word, winged by the power
of the Mighty Spirit, might enter that hard heart.
"Ain't you goin' to _thank_ Jesus, then?" asked poor little Cherry.
"He's been awful kind to Dickie, father."
The man was silent; but Cherry thought he heard her nevertheless.
"You did love Dickie, father?"
"And I _do_," flashed the man angrily; "howsoever cruel I've been, I do
love the little 'un."
"And Dickie loves Jesus," pursued Cherry, soothingly; "and if you was to
ask Dickie which he'd rather you'd love, he'd say as he'd like you to
love _Jesus_. I know he would."
"It ain't no good now," said her father hopelessly.
"Why ain't it, dear father?"
"'Cause I've sinned till--it ain't no good now."
"But Jesus is sorry, and He'll forgive if you'll ask Him. Father--I
_know_ He will. He says somethin' about 'Wash me, and I shall be whiter
than snow.'"
"Ah! that's them as can be washed."
And then Jem said earnestly--
"'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though
they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'"
"It's because Jesus died instead of us, father," added Cherry, weeping.
"Oh, father, why don't ye come to Him?"
The man did not answer her. Wearied out with pain and emotion, he lay
exhausted; nor would the nurse allow any more talking.
"You can come again this evening," she said, looking into Cherry's
woe-begone face. "He may live till then."
With this they were forced to be satisfied, and Cherry turned away with
a sad heart.
Slowly they made their way home again, while Cherry's halting steps
seemed to drag more wearily than they had done while hope beat in her
bosom. Tear after tear coursed down her cheeks, and it was with
difficulty that she could guide herself in the crowded thoroughfare.
At last Jem, seeing this, took her hand again, and sought for words of
comfort.
"You mustn't doubt God, child," he said kindly; "we're all apt to think
as He can't do nothin' without us. But 'tis oftentimes when we have done
all as is in our power, and yet have failed, that He can work best. Me
and Meg was readin' yesterday--why, it was only yesterday!" he
exclaimed, stopping to interrupt himself,--"we was readin' afore I went
to my work some such words as these: 'Not by might, nor by power, but by
My Spirit, saith the Lord.' And, Cherry, it seems to me as it ain't when
we can do most, but when we'll let _Him_ do most, as He can work best."
Cherry listened and took courage, and though she did not say a word, she
thanked Jem from the bottom of her little heart.
When they presented themselves at the hospital again that evening, and
asked to be allowed to see Tom Seymour, the answer came like a knell to
them both:
"He died at three o'clock."
"Dead?" asked Cherry; and no one knew the depths of that crippled
orphan's heart at that moment. No one but God; but He knew, and pitied.
Dead! and no messages of God's love, no assurances of forgiveness, no
pardoning grace could reach him now. He had sunk into the grave, in
spite of all her efforts, all her prayers, unsaved!
A hand touched her arm. It was the nurse's who had stood by them that
morning.
"Come in here," she said, leading the way to a little comfortless room
where people waited. It was empty now, and the nurse closed the door.
She held out to Jem the piece of paper he had left with her that
morning, containing his address in case of his being wanted.
Under his name was written, in the doctor's hand, "I, Tom Seymour,
leave my children to his care," and then there was a weak straggling
cross, and the doctor's signature as witness.
"When you were gone," explained the nurse, "he never spoke for an hour
or so, and we didn't disturb him, because we knew he couldn't recover.
You see the accident went hard with him, because he drank so. Well,
after an hour or two he woke up, and he called as before, 'Dickie!'
"I went to him to quiet him, and he asked 'if the carpenter (meaning
you, I suppose, Mr. Seymour) was there, and Cherry?'
"I told him that you were coming again, and asked if he wanted you to be
fetched.
"'I don't know where he lives,' he said; 'but it don't matter. Ask the
doctor to write it down.'
"The doctor was going his rounds, and when he had done with his patient
I asked him to come, and he wrote at the poor fellow's request those
words on that paper, to which he managed to put his cross. After that he
was terribly bad for ever so long; it had hurt him so to move. I knew he
wouldn't last long, and I offered to send for the little girl, but he
only shook his head.
"'She wouldn't be here in time,' he said; 'but when she comes, tell her
as the last word as her poor father said was, 'Wash me, and I shall
be----'
"He couldn't finish it; so I said the end of it to him, 'whiter than
snow.'
"'Yes, "whiter than snow," sins like crimson, "wash me, and I shall be
whiter than snow."'
"He didn't speak again, but after a bit I looked at him, and he tried to
reach my hand. Though I don't understand that sort of talk myself,
thinking to please him, I took his in mine, and said again, 'Wash me,
and I shall be whiter than snow,' and he gave one look at me, and then
one long look up, and so passed away."
Cherry took the nurse's kind hand and covered it with kisses and tears;
she tried to utter her thanks, but was choked.
And when she and Jem turned homewards once more, though her tears were
pouring, they were far more grateful than sad, as the words seemed to
ring in her ears:
"Not by might, but by My Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts."
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