HARRISON IN AFFLICTION.
"Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep."
IT was nothing unusual for Harrison to see a company of men standing
idly at the door of the block in which his father hired three rooms;
but as he ran joyfully up the steps he thought their manner strangely
subdued, as they stood solemnly aside to let him pass. On the first
floor a woman who had always been kind to him suddenly came out
of her apartment and pulled him in.
"Poor child!" said she, "trouble has come to your mother. I couldn't
bear to let you go by and not speak a word to comfort your dear
heart."
"What is it? where is mother?" he asked, wildly rushing up the
stairs.
Oh, what a sad sight presented itself to his view! Stretched on the
cherry table, at which he had so often eaten, lay the insensible body
of his father, bloated and disfigured so as scarcely to be
recognized, except by those who loved him so well.
With one dreadful shriek of agony Harrison sprang past the lifeless
form, and sank down at his mother's feet.
Who shall dare to describe the anguish of that torn and bleeding
heart? She sat there alone with her dead, her form rigid, her eyes
strained and fixed upon that poor remnant of humanity. She caught
her breath at long intervals, and with great effort; while her hands
were still clutching the papers which had been the means of informing
the authorities of the name and residence of the deceased.
The entrance of her son slightly roused her. She turned her eyes
upon him with, oh! so sorrowful a glance, and taking his head between
her hands as he sat on the floor before her, moaned piteously.
"O God! forgive me that I scarce know how to pray for myself,
when prayer for him can no longer avail. Be present with me in this
dreadful hour. Support me, Lord, or I shall sink under my heavy load
of grief." She then burst out, "Oh that I could have seen him once
more! Oh that I could have entreated him to prepare to meet his God!"
Here her sobs convulsed her whole body and Harrison becoming
frightened at the violence of her grief, started to his feet, crying,
"Mother, dear mother, don't cry so!" Just then the door opened, and
the clergyman of whose church she was a member entered.
The good man afterwards described the hour which followed as one of
the most trying of his life. But I must not linger upon this
afflicting scene. By the liberality of the church to which
she belonged, all the arrangements were made for a decent funeral
of the deceased; and the poor widow buried her dead out of her sight,
forever.
The same charitable hands also provided a suit of plain mourning
for Mrs. Danforth and for her son, and promised to be responsible
for her rent until she could decide upon her future course of life
and make arrangements for their support.
As it was now some time since her husband had aided in the support
of the family, Mrs. Danforth thought it no risk to retain the rooms
she at present hired, and, with the aid of her son, to endeavor
to meet her expenses by vest-making.
The affliction with which she had been visited had brought her
into connection with some of the church, hitherto unknown, and their
ready sympathy was a cordial to her sorrowing heart.
Harrison returned to his work at the hotel, but found that Mr. Haven
had gone, with his family, to the country.
Month after month glided away, until it was nearly time for the fall
term of the city schools to commence. Our little hero intended
to present himself among the earliest pupils. He longed for the time
when he should again be busy with his books and slate. During the
summer Mrs. Danforth found it difficult to obtain work, so many
persons were out of the city, and at length consented to the wishes
of one of her new friends that she should go into a family as nurse.
Her only objection to this was that it would deprive her son of a
home, which she considered of the first importance to him at his
tender age. But, as she was able to obtain permission for him to pass
his evenings in the family of one of the neighbors in whom she had
confidence, the difficulty was relieved. He had, for some time, been
considered a regular boarder at the hotel, where, since his father's
death, he had been more than ever a favorite.
At this period Mrs. Danforth had been in three families, had given
entire satisfaction, and now her services were eagerly sought.
She still retained one room in the tenement she formerly occupied,
and had returned to it only the previous day, when Harrison came home
in the middle of the afternoon to inform her that Mr. Haven had
returned from the country, and that Ella was dangerously ill.
The poor boy was very much excited by the sad news, and had prevailed
upon one of the chamber-girls to go and recommend his mother
as nurse, hearing they had difficulty in obtaining one. Harrison was
accordingly summoned to the chamber, and on being questioned
gave references to the places where she had nursed, and now he
expected they would come for her.
Mrs. Danforth told him she had no immediate engagement, but thought
it doubtful whether she should be summoned. Indeed, she hoped not.
She dreaded exceedingly the publicity of a hotel.
When Mr. Haven called, however, she could not resist his pleading
for her to go and take care of his darling child, nor the silent
entreaty of Harrison's glistening eyes; and in another hour she was
an inmate of the large public house.
Poor little Ella had been seriously ill only three days, but her
flesh was all wasted away, and her large, earnest eyes were so
protruded that they formed the prominent features of her face.
Her fever ran very high, and rendered her delirious when she first
awoke. At other times she was conscious of all that occurred
around her.
Mrs. Haven took advantage of a moment when she was free from pain,
and introduced the new nurse, knowing it would give the child so much
pleasure.
Ella smiled a faint, wan smile, and presently whispered, "Is your boy
sorry I'm sick?"
"Yes, indeed," answered nurse. "He could not rest until I came
to take care of you."
"He came to the door, my darling," added the lady, "and begged us
to send for his mother."
The child smiled again, and seemed satisfied, and soon sunk into a
quiet sleep.
Two days more and there seemed scarcely a hope that the dear little
girl could recover. Her parents, worn out with their previous
watching and with the corroding care which filled their breasts grew
more and more desponding every time the physician called. Nurse
alone maintained her belief that the disease had abated, and that
only nourishment and tender care were needed, to restore her
to health. She pointed out the favorable symptoms to the physician,
who allowed her to try the effect of a spoonful of chicken tea.
She went to the kitchen, being unwilling to trust any one but herself
to make it. The experiment was attended with perfect success; and the
grateful parents could not sufficiently express their thanks. From
this time the emaciated form began to resume some faint resemblance
to its former self. In three weeks from Mrs. Danforth's entrance
to the sick-chamber, the doctor said they had no more need of him;
adding, as he gave his hand, at parting, to the faithful nurse,
"Under God, the child owes her life to your watchful care. If there
were more nurses like you, fewer doctors would be required."
"It is pleasant to cooperate with a true man," was her smiling reply.
After this, whenever Dr.— was asked to recommend a nurse, he had
but one reply: "Get Mrs. Danforth, if you can."
All this time poor Harrison had embraced every opportunity to steal
softly up stairs and wait at the door of number five until some one
came out from whom he could learn about the patient. Now he often
caught a glimpse of his mother as she passed through the kitchen, and
one day she told him if he would come up to the door of the
sick-room, she would invite him in to see his young favorite.
Ella was seated in a large chair, pillows being placed around her
to keep her upright, when he entered. His mother had told him she was
very much better, almost well; but when he saw her pale, thin face,
resting upon her little hand, in which every vein was clearly
visible, he stood motionless with surprise and disappointment.
The little girl gazed earnestly in his face, and then, after waiting
a moment for him to speak, Ella said, "Why, Harrison I thought you'd
be glad to see me; but you seem real sorry."
"I didn't know you'd been so very sick," faltered the boy.
"I'm afraid you never will be well enough to go out on the shed."
Ella laughed right merrily. It was a happy sound for her mother
to hear. She had not laughed audibly before since she was ill.
"I'm going to school next week," rejoined Harrison.
"Alfred has gone to school again," she said.
"Has he? Well, I must bid you goodbye."
"Will you come again?"
"If mother thinks it won't hurt you; and I'll bring you a little mite
of a top, that you can spin in your fingers right in your chair."