CONCLUSION.
Rosa reached home on Wednesday morning. Her bright smile had
vanished, and her sweet eyes looked sad and tearful; yet her step was
firm and her manner calm. Lucy felt sure when she met her sister,
that she had found support in this great trouble from that God who
bids us "cast all our care on Him, for He careth for us."
When Rosa bent over Harty, and called him by name, he looked
strangely at her, and, muttering, turned away. At first this was
almost too much for her to bear; but by degrees she became accustomed
to it, and commanded herself sufficiently to relieve Mrs. Maxwell
from her post as nurse. Poor Mrs. Maxwell was quite worn out, and
was very glad to take a little rest. Lucy had darkened her room,
that she might sleep the better; and as soon as the tired woman had
lain down, she stationed herself by the door to keep the hall as
quiet as possible. Lucy found that she had been unjust to Mrs.
Maxwell. She had always thought her a stern woman with a cold heart;
but when she saw how tenderly she watched by Harty's bedside, she
felt that she should always love her for it, and never call her cross
again, when she found fault about trifles.
Mrs. Maxwell herself was surprised to find how deeply she had become
attached to Dr. Vale's children. She had met with much misfortune
and unkindness in the world; and when she came to live in Dr. Vale's
family, she resolved to do her duty faithfully, and did not expect to
love those around her or be loved by them. Although her severe
manner had softened but little, by degrees she had become so fond of
the children that she was only happy when doing something for them;
and now her anxiety for poor sick Harty knew no bounds.
Several sad days of care and nursing passed by. Dr. Vale, Mrs.
Maxwell, and Rosa, were with Harty by turns, day and night; and Lucy
patiently waited on all until evening came, when she slept soundly
from pure weariness.
Mr. Gillette was a comfort to all: he seemed truly a messenger from
his Master in heaven, for there were ever sweet words of consolation
on his lips. He daily offered prayers in the room of the sick boy;
and all who knelt with him rose up strengthened by trust in the God
who "doeth all things well."
One day, when Harty had been ill a week, Rosa was sitting by him in
silence, when, in a low, weak voice, he called her by name.
"My dear brother," she answered, very calmly, although she was much
startled.
He took the hand she placed on his, and said, in a searching manner,
"Am I very ill?"
"We hope you may get well, but you are in God's hands," was Rosa's
reply.
To be in God's hands was not an idea of peace to poor Harty. He
could not turn with loving trust in sickness to the God whom he had
neglected in health. A pang darted through his heart, a pang of fear
and remorse, more deep and painful than he had ever felt. He was to
die with all the sins of his youth upon him! In his weak state this
awful thought was too much for him, and his mind again wandered in
delirium.
Rosa continued by his bedside in silent prayer. She did not again
hear her name called, as she hoped, and she was forced to resign her
place to Mrs. Maxwell, without having another sign of consciousness
from her brother.
When it was again Rosa's turn to act as nurse, she found that there
had been a decided change in Harty. He slept more calmly, and
breathed more naturally. Dr. Vale came in when she had been sitting
by the bed a few moments: a rapid examination served to show him that
there was, indeed, cause for hope.
The joyful news spread through the household, and many thanksgivings
went up to the God who dispenses sickness and health. Rejoiced as
all were at the idea of seeing Harty once more in health, there was
in every heart a deeper cause of gratitude: they might now hope that
he would not be called to meet his Father in heaven while yet a
disobedient, wandering child. Time might yet be given him to learn,
to know, and love that Father, and walk in His holy ways.
When Harty was again conscious of what was going on around him, his
father was with him. "Don't trouble yourself to think now, my dear
boy," said Dr. Vale, soothingly. "I hope you will soon be much
better; and I pray God that He will enable you to lead a new life.
Lie still now, and you will soon fall asleep again, to wake much
refreshed, I hope."
Harty's recovery was slow and tedious. He was very weak, and little
inclined to talk. He seemed most contented when Rosa was singing to
him some pretty hymn, and Lucy was sitting by him on the bed
smoothing his hair, or fanning him gently.
His large eyes looked sunken and thoughtful, and his manner, once
boisterous, was mild and gentle.
"Don't move for me again this morning, dear Lucy," he said one day;
"your little feet must be very tired with running up and down stairs.
When I get well I shall have to wait on you all the rest of my life
to repay you for this kindness."
This was so unlike the old, exacting Harty, that it quite overcame
little Lucy, and the tears were in her eyes as she answered, "I love
to do anything for you, my dear brother. I want nothing from you but
to get well as soon as you can, and look bright, and merry, and tease
me as you used to do."
A sad smile crossed Harty's face, as he said, "I don't mean to do as
I used to do in anything, Lucy. You will forget how unkind I was to
you, won't you, pet? I don't think I shall be so any more."
Lucy's tears fell fast. Don't talk so, Harty," she said; "You were
never unkind to me. I was a foolish little thing, and let everything
worry me. Come, we won't talk any more; you look tired. Here is
Rosa, she will sing,--
'Softly now the light of day,'--
while you take a nice little nap."
By degrees the colour came again to Harty's cheeks, and his limbs
renewed their strength.
One calm Sunday evening, towards the end of June, he was sitting
between his sisters, looking out at the evening sky.
"Let us have the Catechism once more," said Lucy; "it will seem like
old times."
Rosa and Lucy began as usual together. Harty's voice was with them;
and there was a deep solemnity in his manner as he pronounced the
words, "Yes, verily, and by God's help so I will; and I heartily
thank our Heavenly Father that He has called me to this state of
salvation, through Jesus Christ our Lord; and I pray unto God to give
me His grace that I may continue in the same unto my life's end."
His sisters felt that he spoke from his heart; and there was that joy
in their hearts which the angels know over "one sinner that
repenteth."
As the summer passed away, the cottage looked cheerful once more, as
of old. The children again rambled in the woods or strolled in the
orchard, and whenever their voices were heard the tones were pleasant
and kindly.
True, they all had faults of character still to overcome, and were
sometimes tempted to go astray; but there was in each heart an
earnest wish to do right, and a spirit of love and forgiveness that
kept them from all variance.
Mrs. Maxwell was still formal and particular; but she now had little
cause for complaint, for Harty was so grateful for her watchful care
during his illness, that he made many efforts to overcome his
careless habits, and in a great measure succeeded.
"The dear boy forgot for once," she would sometimes say, as she hung
his cap on the accustomed peg, or overlooked some act of
heedlessness; for she felt that he was trying to please her, and she
was the more ready to forgive him.
In the trying scenes by Harty's bedside Dr. Vale had been brought
near in heart to his children. Now there was no subject on which he
could not talk freely to them. He spoke to them of their mother, and
told them anecdotes of her blameless life that were treasured up in
their young hearts for loving imitation.
The blessed Saviour and the heaven He purchased for His faithful ones
were often subjects for conversation in that happy family circle, and
the doctor felt, as he looked into the faces of his children, that
God had blessed their mother's prayers.
Uncle Gillette's letters were always welcomed with joy, and never
read without cheering the young Christians in the path of duty.
Lucy had now nothing to fear: the sorrows of her timid childhood were
over. Loving and cheerful, she made all happy around her. She had
found a comfort for all sorrow, a Friend ever-present, a support for
life and death, in Him who saith to the children of His love, "Fear
not, little flock; for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you
the kingdom."
LONDON: R. K. BURT, PRINTER, HOLBORN HILL.