SISTER JULIA.
The following morning, the fever had left her; but Mary was tired and
listless, refusing milk, broth, everything. When her uncle was with her,
she clung to him, great tears running down her pale little face. Nothing
that he or Sister Julia could say comforted her. She was lonely, lonely,
lonely! That day passed, as did the next, without any change. The Doctor
felt helpless; and when at noon, Thursday, the usual scene took place,
he strode from the room, muttering, "I will send a wireless! They must
try to be transferred to the first homeward bound steamer that they
meet. To Halifax with the business!"
Then Sister Julia made up her mind to take matters into her own hands.
Drawing a low chair to the bedside, she began, "I think I shall tell you
a story, Mary."
"I--don't seem to care very much about stories any more, Sister."
"I have noticed that, dear; but this is one that I think you really
should hear."
"Is it a long one, Sister? Please don't make it very long, because I
don't want to think of anything but my darling father and mother and
little sisters."
"Very well, I shall make it as short as possible--this true story which
I am going to tell you.
"I once had a little patient suffering from the same illness which you
have just had. Like you, too, she was blessed with a very loving father
and mother and a good, kind uncle. The doctor who attended her had told
me how much this uncle thought of the little girl; but it was not until
I was sent to take care of her that I saw just how matters stood. There
were other children in the family; but before I was in the house one
hour, I knew that the sick little girl had first place in her uncle's
heart as well as in the hearts of everyone in that home. And she well
deserved it; for in all my years of nursing, I have never met a more
lovable child. Gentle, patient, obedient, always thinking of
others--why, before the first day had passed, I think I loved her almost
as dearly as those who had known her all her life. I was quite ready to
agree with the doctor in his opinion of her.
"Well, not to make too long a story of it, the child grew steadily
worse. My heart ached more for the uncle than for her parents; because
they had their other children, while he seemed too wrapped up in his
little pet to think of anyone else. Then came a night when we thought
the little girl's soul was about to return to God. I shall never forget
the face of that poor uncle as he knelt at the bedside. It was gray,
Mary, positively _gray_, and the pain in his kind eyes made me long to
go away and cry. Great drops stood on his forehead though the room was
really chilly, for the doctor had ordered me to keep it very cool.
"Oh, how I prayed to the loving Heart of our Divine Lord that, if it was
His holy will, He would spare the child to that good man who had done so
much for Him in the persons of His poor, suffering, little ones----"
"Sister, you are telling about Uncle! I know you are! It is all coming
back to me about that night--I had forgotten it. I remember that I
didn't know anything for a long time. Even the man with the knives was
gone--and the silly little birds. Then, I woke; but I didn't open my
eyes right away. The pain was all gone, and everything was so quiet that
I thought I was alone; so I opened my eyes and saw Father at the foot of
the bed looking straight at me. Then I saw Uncle, and he looked so
strange that I thought he must be sick, too. But his eyes smiled at me
and I tried to smile back, but I was too tired; and before I knew it, I
went to sleep again."
"Yes, dear, it all happened just as you say, only that you did smile.
But even then, we thought you were slipping away from us, and fully
fifteen minutes passed before we knew that God had answered our
prayers."
There was a long pause.
"But--but, Sister,--not all of your story is true. I was cross and
cranky and screamed when the pain was bad; and I couldn't think of
anyone but that dreadful man with the long knives, or of those silly
little birds with yellow ribbons around their necks. No wonder Uncle
teases me about yellow."
"But, Mary, you were not yourself for many, many days. Do you remember
the morning I told you that you must fight to get well? I had good
reason to regret that advice; for instead of fighting the illness, you
used those little fists on everyone who came near you. When your uncle
tried to listen to your lungs, you struck out so well that your mother
and I had to hold your hands----"
"Why, _Sister_, you don't mean _that_!"
"Indeed I do! I shall not soon forget the time you caught the Doctor's
head between your hands. My! what a boxing you gave his poor ears!"
"_Sister!--I--boxed--Uncle's--ears!--O Sister!_" and Mary buried her
burning face in the pillow.
"But, darling, that is nothing to be ashamed of. You did not know what
you were doing. We expected worse things than that."
"Worse than boxing poor, dear Uncle's ears? Could anything be worse than
that?" came the muffled question.
"Indeed, yes, Mary."
"But, Sister," Mary sat up, "surely not when you think of how awful he
looked that night. Poor Father looked oh, so tired! But Uncle--I didn't
know him until he smiled in his eyes."
"Did you know him when he was in here a few minutes ago, dear?"
"Why--why of course I knew him. I don't remember whether I looked right
at his face----"
"I am quite sure that you did not, Mary, or you would never have let him
go away without trying to make him feel better. You are not a selfish
little girl; and I am very sure that when you understand the harm you
are doing to your good, kind uncle, you will try to put an end to it."
"The _harm--I--am--doing--to--Uncle_! You surely don't know me very
well, Sister, if you think I would harm Uncle for anything in the whole
world!"
"I am very, very sure, Mary, that you would not intend to harm him."
"But what _is_ it, Sister? Won't you please tell me? Am I bad?" the
child asked piteously. "Is it bad to be so tired, and not to be hungry,
and to like just to think of my darling father and mother and little
sisters, and to want Uncle to stay with me every minute he can? Am I a
bad girl to do that?"
"I did not mean for an instant that you have been a bad girl, dear. It
is weakness that makes you so tired; but unless you try to take food
even though you are not hungry, you cannot expect to grow stronger.
Surely, since the good God did not take you from those who love you so
much, He must wish you to do everything you can to grow well and strong.
As for your father and mother and the babies, you would be a strange
little girl if you did _not_ think of them very, very often; but in the
way you have been doing it, dear child, you have, without knowing it,
been harming yourself and others. Let me tell you just how it has all
seemed to me. First, our dear Lord sent you the measles----"
"Oh, did He, Sister? I thought I caught them at school."
"But if it had not been His will that you should have them, you would
not have caught them. That illness meant that you must be away from your
mother and little sisters; but you were so good and brave and patient
about it all that others would not have guessed how much that separation
cost you until they saw how happy you were at the thought of being with
them soon again. I am sure that our dear Lord was very much pleased with
you, and you must have won many graces.
"Then, for His own wise reasons, He sent you greater suffering. There
are some people who think that all pain and sorrow is a punishment from
God; but this is not true. Our Lord often sends such trials so that we
may grow more like Him and merit a greater reward in heaven. We are told
that suffering is a mark of God's love. Even when He sends it as a
punishment, He does so in love; for it is far better to be punished for
our sins in this world than in the next.
"In your second illness, I really think that those who love you suffered
more from the fear of losing you than you did even from the great pain.
However that may be, our dear Lord wished you to do something more for
Him--something that you found much harder than your first or second
trial. In those you had no choice. The illness came, and you could not
escape it. But you might have refused our Lord when He asked you to give
up your mother----"
"But--but, Sister, our Lord didn't ask me to do that--nobody really
_asked_ me. I just couldn't think of letting poor Father go away by
himself, you know."
"But has not our Lord said that whatever we do to even the least of His
little ones, we do it unto Him? And do you not make your Morning
Offering every day?"
"Oh, yes, Sister, the very minute I wake in the morning, even though it
isn't time to get up. I make it again when I say my morning prayers; but
I have _thoughts_ even though I may not _do_ anything before I say them;
and they ought to be offered up, I think."
"Surely, dear. So last Saturday you had made your Morning Offering of
all your thoughts, words, and actions to God; and when the time came to
decide whether you wished your mother to go with your father or to stay
with you, you had already offered Him the thought and action and
suffering, even though you did not think of it that way at the time."
"N--no, Sister, I didn't. I was so--I don't like to say s'prised,
because I think a s'prise ought to be something to make someone happy."
"Perhaps _shocked_ is the better word."
"That's just exactly it, Sister. I was so shocked that I said dreadful
things, and--and--oh, I was horrid! And while Mother was talking to me,
I didn't know what to do. Then I remembered that Sister Florian said
that when we had to decide something we must ask our Lord to help us,
and she told us to say to our Blessed Mother, 'Mother, tell me what am
I to do,' We were learning a hymn to her at school and that is the last
line of every verse. I remember the first verse:
"'O Virgin Mother, Lady of Good Counsel,
Sweetest picture artist ever drew,
In all doubts I fly to thee for guidance,
Mother! tell me, what am I to do?'"
"And our Blessed Lady did tell you what to do, and her Divine Son gave
you the grace to do it, and you gave Him the gift He was asking of you.
Indeed, dear, what you have done is no small thing, but don't you think
that it would be too bad to take back part of your gift, or to spoil it
in any way? Would not that be a selfish thing to do? In sickness, we
must be very careful. It acts in two ways, making the patient either
more selfish or more thoughtful of others. Until the last few days, I
thought it was having the good effect upon you; but now, I am just a
little afraid that you are forgetting others, especially that good, kind
uncle, who is trying to make you well and happy."
There was a moment's silence; then, "Sister, please ring for Liza----Oh,
why _doesn't_ she hurry!"