_REPENTANCE._
THE next day Annie did not get up, but in the course of a week, she was
playing about as lively as ever. But Sarah still lay on her sick-bed,
and it seemed doubtful whether she would ever rise from it again. The
chill she had received on the mountain resulted in an attack of acute
rheumatism, which chained her hand and foot, and was accompanied by a
severe cough.
It was well for her that she was at Mrs. Lilly's instead of at home.
Mrs. Lilly put her into the best bedroom down stairs, and she and Oney
waited on her night and day, while Mrs. Cassell and Mrs. Brandon made
her up a set of nice underclothes, and nobody thought anything too
much to do for the girl who had risked her own life to save little
Annie. Sarah's mother came to see her, and would fain have established
herself at the red house altogether, but she was nothing of a nurse,
and it seemed as if she could not come near Sarah without hurting her.
Besides, as Oney said, she needed twice as much waiting on as Sarah
herself. And so Mrs. Lilly, who was not a woman to be imposed upon,
soon gave her to understand that Sarah did not need her, and that she
had better go home and take care of her own house and family.
Mrs. Leyman departed, shaking off the dust from her feet, and declaring
that she would never enter the house again, whatever happened. They had
got Sarah away from her, she said, and now they might take care of her
till they were tired of it. They were a set of Pharisees, anyhow, who
never would do anything for poor folks except in their own way; and if
Sarah was going to join them and turn against her, she (Mrs. Leyman)
would have no more to do with her.
For three or four weeks Sarah lay very sick, and Dr. Perkins came every
day to see her. She was wonderfully patient and grateful for all that
was done for her, and Mrs. Lilly said it was surprising to see the
wild girl so tamed. One day, when Sarah was able to talk a little, she
called the old lady to her bedside.
"Mrs. Lilly," said she, "do you think I shall ever get well?"
"I don't know, my dear," answered Mrs. Lilly, frankly. "I hope so, but
nobody can say for certain."
"Did Willy tell you what I told him that day—I mean about the pie and
the gingerbread?" asked Sarah.
"Yes; he told me that you got them, and that you were sorry. Did you
ever take anything else?"
"No," replied Sarah; "only I have sometimes picked an apple when I was
going through the orchard. I got the pie more in fun than for anything
else."
"So I supposed," said Mrs. Lilly. "Did Fanny know about it?"
"I don't want to say anything about Fanny," replied Sarah. Then, after
a pause: "Mrs. Lilly, did you and Oney really make fun of me for coming
to the meeting that night, and say you should think I would be ashamed
to come looking so?"
"Of course not," answered Mrs. Lilly. "I was very glad to see you
there, as I told you at the time. Who could have told you such a story?"
"Never mind," said Sarah. "Somebody did, and I was just fool enough
to believe it. It almost killed me, I can tell you. I made up my mind
that night that I would try to be good, and I was going to ask you to
give me a Bible or Testament, and then Fanny—" Sarah stopped short and
looked very much vexed.
"Go on," said Mrs. Lilly, quietly. "'And then Fanny—'"
"I didn't mean to tell," said Sarah, "but it is out now. Well, Fanny
told me how you made fun of me for coming, and said you meant to shut
me up in the asylum. That almost broke my heart, for I always thought
you were so good—like Aunt Sally. And when I heard that, it made me
feel as if there was nothing real or true in heaven or earth, and I
might as well do one thing as another."
"Poor child! I don't wonder. But now tell me, Sarah—for it is very
important that I should know the true story—did Fanny have anything to
do with stealing the pie?"
"Well, I suppose I may as well, though I never meant to say a word
about it," said Sarah. And she went on to give the whole history of
that unlucky Sunday afternoon.
"I felt sorry enough afterward," she concluded, "and I wanted to tell
you so, and to make it up somehow, but Fanny seemed afraid to have me
say a word, and I thought it would be mean to get her into a scrape
after I had eaten my share of the pie. I sent you the raspberries,
though, to make up. And afterward, when the bull chased us—I don't know
whether you heard about that—"
"Yes, Willy told me."
"Well, then I wanted to tell you again, but Fanny wouldn't consent. She
said afterward that you were very angry with me for letting the bull
out of his pasture, but indeed I didn't do it."
"He did not get out of the pasture," said Mrs. Lilly. "He was in
his stable, and I don't know to this day how he got loose. I always
supposed it was some of Pat's carelessness, and never thought of
blaming you."
"Well, there is no use in going over it all," said Sarah, wearily.
"Only that night when I was up on the mountain with Annie, I heard her
say her little prayers and verses before she went to sleep. And she
told me some things in her innocent way that encouraged me, and I made
up my mind that if I got down alive, I would try to be a Christian like
Aunt Sally. And I want you to tell me how, for I don't know any more
about it than a wild Indian or a heathen."
"I am sure I will tell you all I know, my dear child," said Mrs. Lilly,
much affected. "The way is very plain and easy, as the Scripture says,
'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved'—believe
that he came to save all of us, and you in particular; that he died to
redeem you, and that he now lives in heaven to intercede for you."
"Do you mean that he really cares about 'me'—me in particular?" asked
Sarah, with eyes full of wonder.
"I mean just that, Sarah. You are one of the lost sheep that, he came
to seek and to save. If you will but believe on him, your sins will
be forgiven and washed away, and God will give you the Holy Spirit to
dwell in your heart and help you to do right."
"It seems too good to be true," said Sarah. "Is it in the Bible? Read
it to me, please, will you?"
Mrs. Lilly brought her old Bible and read, and Sarah lay and listened
till a look of sweet peace and contentment stole over her face. But
presently she grew troubled again.
"I have been so wicked," said she. "I never really knew before how bad
I have been. It doesn't seem as if he could ever forgive 'me'."
"'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow,'"
repeated Mrs. Lilly. "Scarlet is the hardest colour to get out. The
paper-makers say so, and they have to use the red rags to make that
reddish blotting-paper that you have seen. When God forgives us, he
washes away our sins and makes our souls clean and white again. And so
he will do by you, if you ask him to do it for his dear Son's sake."
"I am sure I 'am' sorry," murmured Sarah. "Mrs. Lilly, please ask him
for me."
Mrs. Lilly prayed with Sarah, and Sarah joined in the prayer with her
whole heart.
"Now you have talked enough for once," said Mrs. Lilly, after a little
silence. "Another time we will take the subject up again."
"I want to say one thing more," said Sarah, eagerly—"only one thing,
because I may not be able to talk another time. Please sit down and let
me tell you, and then my mind will be quite easy."
Mrs. Lilly sat down again, wisely thinking it better to let Sarah free
her mind, and Sarah went over her plan for seeing her Aunt Caroline and
persuading her to take Ally.
"Was that what you wanted Fanny to give you the money for?" asked Mrs.
Lilly.
"Yes, but I never asked her to give it to me. I only wanted to borrow
it till I could earn something. But won't you write to Aunt Caroline
yourself, and tell her the story and ask her to take Ally and bring her
up? She may have her all to herself, and I won't even come near her if
Aunt Caroline doesn't want me to. Ally is real clever and good, though
she isn't pretty, and I am sure Aunt Caroline would like her and do
well by her. Won't you ask her, please?"
"I will write this very day," said Mrs. Lilly. "I think your plan is
an excellent one. But now you must rest, and try to sleep before the
doctor comes, or he will scold us all round for letting you talk so
much."
Mrs. Lilly wrote that day, as she had promised, and read the letter to
Sarah, but she added a postscript which she did not think it necessary
to show.
The result was that Aunt Caroline came over to see the state of things
for herself. She made acquaintance with the girls and talked matters
over with Mrs. Lilly, and finally she carried Ally home to live with
her, taking the precaution to have her legally bound till she came of
age.
Mr. Leyman demurred at first, but certain little matters in the line
of stealing lumber and iron from the quarries having come to Squire
Holden's ears, it was hinted to Mr. Leyman that unless he consented to
do what was deemed best for his children, the place would speedily be
made too hot to hold him. Mr. Leyman sold his place not long afterward,
and he and his wife, accompanied by Miss Clarke, went off to Utah,
regretted by nobody in Hillsborough.
And where was Fanny all this time? Fanny was more unhappy and more
ashamed than she had ever been before in all her life. She had made up
her mind that as Annie was found, and, as she expressed it, no great
harm was done, after all, things would go on just as usual.
She had come down to the breakfast table next morning prepared to be
very amiable, and even expecting to be something of a heroine for her
share in the adventure. She was astounded when Mrs. Lilly ordered her
back to her room with an admonition not to leave it again till she had
permission, which, she added, would not be very soon. In vain Fanny
cried and protested that she didn't mean to and she couldn't help it.
Mrs. Lilly was deaf to all such excuses. She saw that Fanny needed a
severe lesson, and she meant that it should not be wanting.
For a whole week Fanny stayed in her room, with nobody to speak to,
and no other recreation than a very short walk every day with her
grandmother or Oney. When she was at last permitted to come down
stairs, she found that her troubles were by no means at an end. Nobody
took any notice of her. Nobody asked her any questions or listened when
she spoke, her grandmother only saying,—
"I don't want to hear anything from you, Fanny. You have told so many
lies that nobody can believe a word you say, and so I prefer that you
should say nothing."
Fanny was not allowed to go out of sight of the door, and she was
made in every way to feel that nobody trusted her. At first she tried
to harden herself and think that she did not care, and then that she
was terribly abused, but all did not answer. She was very miserable,
and began to wish in earnest to be a good girl. The first sign of
improvement was seen in her beginning to wait upon Sarah, who was now
able to sit up and to use her hands a little, though she could not walk
or even bear her weight at all. Fanny had begun by keeping entirely out
of her way, and putting on a very injured look whenever Sarah's name
was mentioned before her. But now she began to do little offices for
the invalid—to bring her fresh water and set flowers on the table by
her side, at first without speaking a word. One day she rather timidly
asked Sarah if she should read for her.
"Oh yes, please," said Sarah, eagerly. "My eyes are so soon tired, and
it hurts me to hold the book."
"I will read to you every day if you want me to," said Fanny. "I love
to read aloud."
"I am sure I shall be glad to have you," said Sarah. "Fanny, are you
angry with me now?"
"No," replied Fanny, sadly, "but I did not know whether you would care
to have me talk to you. Nobody does, nowadays."
Sarah did not exactly know what to say, so she bent forward and kissed
Fanny. Fanny returned the kiss and burst into tears.
"Don't cry," said Sarah, tenderly.
"I can't help it," sobbed Fanny, "I am so very unhappy. But I won't
bother you with my crying. I have made trouble enough already."
"Fanny," said Sarah, detaining her as Fanny was about to go away, "why
don't you tell Grandma Lilly all about it, and ask her to forgive you?
I am sure she would if you asked her. She did me."
"You were not half so bad as I have been," said Fanny. "Oh, Sarah, I
was so mean to you. I told you grandma made fun of you, and it wasn't
true. And all the time I used to play with you, I felt so above you."
"I know you did," answered Sarah. "I never could understand why;
though, of course, your folks were rich and respectable, and all that,
but that was no merit of yours. But never mind now. Come, Fanny, tell
grandma all about it. I am sure you will feel better, and that she will
forgive you, and it will be all right again."
Fanny shook her head sadly. "I don't feel as if it would ever be right
again," said she. "Don't you want a hot brick for your feet?"
"Yes, please. They are cold nearly all the time."
The next day Oney was going over to R—, and Fanny timidly asked if she
might send for some worsted.
"Yes, if you choose," said Mrs. Lilly. "Why do you want it?"
"I want to crochet some thick, warm slippers for Sarah. She says her
feet are cold all the time."
"Very well," said Mrs. Lilly, evidently pleased. "Tell Oney what you
want, and she will buy it for you."
"I would rather buy it with my own money, please," said Fanny.
"Oh, very well. If you want to make Sarah a pretty present, I have no
objection, my dear."
It was the first time Mrs. Lilly had said "my dear" since that unlucky
day, and the words brought the tears into Fanny's eyes. She had begun
to feel the value of that kindness and affection which she had always
accepted as her just due.
"I am sure I should like to do something for somebody," said she.
"You can do a great deal for everybody, Fanny, but then you must begin
in the right way."
Oney bought the worsted, and Fanny began the slippers. She was rather
apt to grow tired of work and throw it aside when it was half done, but
she persevered with the slippers, and Sarah was delighted with them.
"I never saw anything so pretty, and how soft and warm they are!" said
she. "If I had some wool, I would try making a pair for Grandma Lilly.
I know how to crochet a little."
Now, Fanny had decided in her own mind to use the rest of the wool for
a pair of slippers for herself. But as Sarah said this, a thought came
into her mind, and she acted on it immediately.
"You may have this wool if you want it, Sarah; then the present will be
partly yours and partly mine."
"Oh, thank you," said Sarah. "But suppose you make one and I the other?"
"Well, just as you like," answered Fanny. And this was almost the first
time in her life that she had ever sacrificed her own pleasure or
convenience to another person.
"Fanny," said Sarah as she laid down her work to rest her hands—"Fanny,
have you made it right with Grandma Lilly yet?"
"No," returned Fanny, sighing. "I don't see that things are any nearer
to coming round than ever."
"Things don't 'come' round, Fanny. You have got to cut them round or
roll them round, or something."
"Maybe so. But, you see, the trouble is, I don't know how to begin.
Grandma don't believe a word I say, and no wonder," said Fanny,
sighing. "I have been such a liar all my life. I don't know how to
believe myself when I say I am sorry. I hate myself, and I wish I was
somebody else. However, I believe I will tell her. Things can't be much
worse than they are."
"Do," said Sarah. "Tell her to-night when you are going to the
schoolhouse:" for it was Thursday night, and some sort of religious
service was always held in the schoolhouse on that evening.
Fanny was as good as her word. That night, coming home from the
Corners, she confessed everything without reserve, telling her
grandmother of many acts of disobedience which she had never suspected.
"I don't know whether you will believe me or not, grandma," she
concluded, "but indeed I am telling the truth now."
"I believe you, Fanny," said Mrs. Lilly.
"I shouldn't blame you if you didn't," continued Fanny, "I have told
so many lies. Grandma," she added, in a low, frightened voice, "I told
lies to God when I said my prayers. I said I was sorry when I wasn't,
and when I meant all the time to do the very same things again. Do you
think he will ever forgive me?"
"Certainly, my child. He will not only forgive you, but will help you
to do better another time. Now, Fanny, can you tell me what has been
the root of all your troubles?—What has made you disobey me so many
times?"
"I wanted my own way," said Fanny, after a little consideration.
"Exactly; and when you had done so very wrong that Sunday, and Sarah
wanted to come and confess, as I know she did, why did you hinder
her? Why did you take so much pains to prevent her from going to the
meetings and from coming to talk to me, as she intended doing?"
"I thought you would find out all about me and punish me. I wanted you
to think I was a good girl when I wasn't."
"Then, my dear, it has been your love of self which has been at the
bottom of all the mischief. Don't you see that it is so?"
"I know it," said Fanny, promptly. "It has always been just so. I never
could bear to give up to anybody or do anything for anybody unless
it was something that I liked myself, and yet I thought people ought
always to give up to me. And everybody did give up to me at home,
till Arthur came. Mamma used to say it made children deceitful to be
contradicted."
"Do you think that excuses you now, Fanny?" asked Mrs. Lilly, thinking,
however, that the tree had borne such fruit as might have been expected.
"No, grandma, but you don't know how hard it is for me to give up the
least little thing that I want. It seems as if I couldn't. That day on
the mountain, Sarah didn't want to leave Annie alone. After we started
to go away, she wanted to come back, and I wouldn't let her, because I
wanted to know what she had to say. And, after all, I would not lend
her the money."
"There was nothing wrong in that," observed Mrs. Lilly. "It would not
have been proper for you to lend such a large sum without asking me.
Sarah herself sees that now."
Fanny shook her head. "That was not the reason," said she. "I was ready
enough to spend the money in other ways—to buy candy and 'dime novels,'
such as I knew you wouldn't want me to have. And then I told so many
lies about Annie. She might have been found directly and Sarah might
have been well this minute. Do you think Sarah will ever be well again?"
"I don't know, my dear. Her state is very discouraging. I do not see
that she gains the use of her feet in the least. But, Fanny, how is it
to be with you hereafter? Do you mean to go on in the same way, living
for self and nothing else?"
"Not if I can help it, grandma. I have tried not to be selfish lately,
and I have asked God to help me, too, but it is hard work."
"Yes, I dare say—much harder than if you had been trained to give up
for others when you were young."
"I don't want you to blame mamma, grandma," said Fanny, flushing a
little. "It wasn't her fault at all. I am sure she meant to do just
right."
"We won't blame anybody, dear," said Mrs. Lilly, not displeased by this
little outbreak. "We will only try to do better in future. I will give
you a verse, Fanny, which I think may help you: 'Whosoever will come
after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.'
Do you know who said that?"
"The Lord Jesus."
"Yes, and he says again: 'Whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come
after me, cannot be my disciple.' You must try as much as you can to
deny 'yourself'—to put yourself out of the question and live for other
people. You must think about yourself as little as possible, and never
lose a chance of putting yourself aside when you can do good or even
give pleasure by it."
"It doesn't seem as though it was in me to do that," said Fanny,
shaking her head. "Grandma, I should just like to be made new, to be
made over altogether."
"Well, dear, that is just what your heavenly Father is ready to do for
you—to 'create a clean heart and renew a right spirit' within you,
as the Psalm says. If you ask him, he will so change your heart and
disposition that you will love to do his will. You will love him, and
because you love him, you will want to be like him and to make your
whole life one sacrifice to him. I do not say that you will not do
wrong a great many times, but whenever you do, you will be sorry and
not rest till God has forgiven you. If you persevere in this course,
you will grow more and more like him every day. Your life will be a
blessing to all around you and the beginning of eternal happiness to
yourself."
All the rest of the summer Sarah sat helpless in her arm-chair, unable
to stand for a moment. One bright day in September, Mrs. Cassell came
up to see Mrs. Lilly and consult her about a plan for the sick girl's
benefit. Mrs. Cassell had a friend at the head of a great institution
where some wonderful cures had been performed on rheumatic patients.
Doctor Henry was to be at Mrs. Cassell's house on a certain day, and
Mrs. Cassell proposed to bring him up to examine Sarah and see if
anything could be done for her. Mrs. Lilly consented, but thought Sarah
had better not know anything about the matter, and to this Mrs. Cassell
agreed. Mrs. Lilly herself was not at all hopeful about Sarah, and she
did not think it best to excite the child's own hopes of recovery.
Doctor Henry came at the appointed day, and examined Sarah very
carefully before pronouncing an opinion. He thought she might be cured,
but she would need a long course of treatment and great care.
"I should like to take her home with me and see what can be done," said
the doctor. "Has she any friends?"
"Plenty," said Mrs. Lilly. "If you will undertake the case, I will pay
her expenses. My children do not need my help, and I have more money
than I know what to do with."
"With your permission, Mrs. Lilly, that is our part of the business,"
said Mrs. Cassell, smiling. "My son-in-law has written to me to spare
no expense."
"Well, we won't quarrel about it," said Mrs. Lilly. "When would you
like to have her go, doctor?"
"I shall be here again in two weeks, and will take her home with me,"
answered the doctor.
And so it was settled. Sarah was to return with the doctor, and Oney
was to go with her and see her settled. Sarah did not know whether to
be pleased or sorry. She had been happier since her illness than ever
before in her life, and she dreaded to leave Mrs. Lilly and Fanny, whom
she loved more than ever. But then she was very anxious to get well and
be able to earn her own living as well as to do something for Ally, now
happily domesticated with Aunt Caroline.
"I can't make up my mind whether I like it or not," she said, in answer
to Oney's question. "I am glad it has been all settled for me; for if I
had to choose, I should not know what to say."
"Well, it is all settled, you see, so you needn't say anything at all,"
remarked Oney. "Fanny, if you sew so steadily all day, you will have a
headache again. Run out to the barn and hunt up some fresh eggs, that
is a good girl."
"How she has worked making my things!" remarked Sarah, after Fanny
had left the room. "She used to say that she hated sewing. It seems a
shame that every one should be working so hard for me, and I can't do
anything."
"It has been a very good thing for Fanny, though," said Oney, "and has
given me more hopes of her than anything else. I believe she will turn
out a good girl yet, and that is more than I would have said of her six
months ago—or of you, either, for that matter," added Oney to herself.
Sarah went away to "The Cure," and, contrary to her expectation, she
found herself very happy there. Every one was kind to her, and after
she once began to amend, her health improved rapidly.
A lady who was staying in the house undertook to teach her in the
things she so much wanted to know. And very happy was Sarah when she
succeeded in writing a letter to Fanny without one misspelled word.
But Sarah found something else beside her health at the Spring. She
found her business and place in life. As she grew better and able to
go about the house, she showed a remarkable aptitude for nursing and
waiting on the sick. Doctor Henry, who saw most things that went on
around him, one day called Sarah into his office.
"You are almost well now," said he, after he had asked her several
questions about her health. "What are you going to do with yourself?"
"I must go to work at something," answered Sarah. "There is no use in
my living on Grandma Lilly any more. I don't know enough to teach, so I
suppose I must go out to work."
"The world is running over with teachers," remarked the doctor, "and
there are plenty of other things to be done."
And then he proceeded to open his plan, which was that Sarah should be
regularly educated for a nurse. "You seem to have a natural talent for
that sort of thing, and it is a pity it should be wasted. I have been
surprised to see how handily you adapt yourself to the work. Have you
ever had any experience?"
"Only what I have gained in waiting on Ally," said Sarah.
"However you learned it, you certainly have it," said the doctor.
"A skilful nurse is sure to have plenty of practice, and that of a
profitable kind, and there is no place in which a good woman can make
herself more useful. To be sure, it is hard work."
"Everything worth doing is hard work sometimes," remarked Sarah, "but I
think doing nothing is the hardest work of all."
"Very true," said Doctor Henry. "Well, take time to think and pray
over it, and write to your friends. If you decide to undertake the
profession, I will find a place in the house for you, and will see that
you have all needful instruction."
Sarah did think and pray over the matter, and finally concluded to
accept the doctor's offer.
"Well, I must say I did wonder at your choice of a profession when I
heard of it," said Fanny, on one of their meetings at the red house,
which Sarah still called home, and whither she always came to spend her
vacations. "I think I should rather do almost anything else. And you
know, Sarah, grandma and Mrs. Cassell both offered to educate you for
a teacher. How did it happen that you decided to take up nursing for a
business?"
"I can't pretend to tell you all about it," replied Sarah, "only when I
began to go about, I wanted something to do, and I began to wait on a
sick lady whose room was next mine. So one thing led to another, and I
seemed just to have found my place. I did not so much choose it as it
chose me. Besides, I like to be a person of consequence," she added,
smiling. "Teachers go begging nowadays, but people come begging for
nurses. There are twice too many of the one and not half enough of the
other."
"So it seems. I wonder how many letters you have had since you came
here? Grandma says you work a great deal too hard."
"I don't mean to work so hard another year," said Sarah. "I am going to
rest and study and have a nice time with Ally, and in order to do that,
I must lay up some money. And now, Fanny, what do you mean to be?"
"To be Fanny, I guess," returned Fanny, smiling. "I shall never be
anything great or grand in the world. I shall just go on filling up
the chinks and rounding the corners, threading needles for other folks
to sew with, and carrying bricks for other people's houses. I used to
think that I should like to go into a convent or a sisterhood, but I
can tell you I find there are plenty of ways to be useful in every-day
life, and that one can be just as self-denying and work just as hard in
a gypsy hat as in a cambric cap or a black serge veil."
"Annie has found her vocation, too, with all those little brothers and
sisters of hers," said Sarah. "You don't know what a grave, motherly
little thing she is, though her face isn't a day older than when she
was lost on the mountain."