attendants moving about; noprivacy; no absolute stillness. I thought I could not; then Iknew I must; and then all other things faded intoinsignificance before the work Jesus came to do and had givenme to help. I knelt down, not without hands and face growingcold in the effort; but as soon as I was once fairly speakingto my Lord, I ceased to think or care who else was listeningto me. There was a deep stillness around; I knew that; theattendants paused in their movements, and words and work Ithink were suspended during the few minutes when I was on myknees. When I got up, the sick man's eyes were closed. I satdown with my face in my hands, feeling as if I had received agreat wrench; but presently Miss Yates came with a whisperedrequest that I would do something that was required just thenfor somebody. Work set me all right very soon. But when aftera while I came round to Preston again, I found him in a rage.
"What _has_ come over you?" he said, looking at me with acomplication of frowns. I was at a loss for the reason, andrequested him to explain himself.
"You are not Daisy!" he said. "I do not know you any more.What has happened to you?"
"What do you mean, Preston?"
"Mean!" said he with a fling. "What do _you_ mean? I don't knowyou."
I thought this paroxysm might as well pass off by itself, likeanother; and I kept quiet.
"What were you doing just now," said he savagely, "by thatsoldier's bedside?"
"That soldier? He is a dying man, Preston."
"Let him die!" he cried. "What is that to you? You are DaisyRandolph. Do you remember whose daughter you are? _You_ making aspectacle of yourself, for a hundred to look at!"
But this shot quite overreached its mark. Preston saw it hadnot touched me.
"You did not use to be so bold," he began again. "You weredelicate to an exquisite fault. I would never have believedthat _you_ would have done anything unwomanly. What has takenpossession of you?"
"I should like to take possession of you just now, Preston,and keep you quiet," I said. "Look here, - your tea is coming.Suppose you wait till you understand things a little better;and now - let me give you this. I am sure Dr. Sandford wouldbid you be quiet; and in his name, I do."
Preston fumed; but I managed to stop his mouth; and then Ileft him, to attend to other people. But when all was done,and the ward was quiet, I stood at the foot of the dying man'sbed, thinking, what could I do more for him? His face lookedweary and anxious; his eye rested, I saw, on me, but withoutcomfort in it. What could I say, that I had not said? or howcould I reach him? Then, I do not know how the thought struckme, but I knew what to do.
"My dear," said Miss Yates, touching my shoulder, "hadn't youbetter give up for to-night? You are a young hand; you ain'tseasoned to it yet; you'll give out if you don't look sharp.Suppose you quit for to- night."
"O no!" I said hastily - "Oh no, I cannot. I cannot."
"Well, sit down, any way, before you can't stand. It is justas cheap sittin' as standin'."
I sat down; she passed on her way; the place was quiet; onlythere were uneasy breaths that came and went near me. Then Iopened my mouth and sang -
"There is a fountain filled with blood,"Drawn from Immanuel's veins;"And sinners plunged beneath that flood,"Lose all their guilty stains."
"The dying thief rejoiced to see"That fountain in his day;"And there may I, as vile as he,"Wash all my sins away."
I sang it to a sweet simple air, in which the last lines arerepeated and repeated and drawn out in all their sweetness.The ward was as still as death. I never felt such joy that Icould sing; for I knew the words went to the furthest cornerand distinctly, though I was not raising my voice beyond avery soft pitch. The stillness lasted after I stopped; thensome one near spoke out -
"Oh, go on!"
And I thought the silence asked me. But what to sing? that wasthe difficulty. It had need be something so very simple in thewording, so very comprehensive in the sense; something to tellthe truth, and to tell it quick, and the whole truth; whatshould it be? Hymns came up to me, loved and sweet, but toopartial in their application, or presupposing too muchknowledge of religious things. My mind wandered; and then of asudden floated to me the refrain that I had heard and learnedwhen a child, long ago, from the lips of Mr. Dinwiddie, in thelittle chapel at Melbourne; and with all the tenderness of theold time and the new it sprung from my heart and lips now -
"In evil long I took delight,"Unawed by shame or fear;"Till a new object struck my sight,"And stopped my wild career."
"O the Lamb - the loving Lamb!"The Lamb on Calvary"The Lamb that was slain, but lives again,"To intercede for me."
How grand it was! But for the grandeur and the sweetness ofthe message I was bringing, I should have broken down a scoreof times.
As it was, I poured my tears into my song, and wept them intothe melody. But other tears, I knew, were not so contained; inintervals I heard low sobbing in more than one part of theroom. I had no time to sing another hymn before Dr. Sandfordcame in. I was very glad he had not been five minutes earlier.
I followed him round the ward, seeking to acquaint myself asfast as possible with whatever might help to make me usefulthere. Dr. Sandford attended only to business and not to me,till the whole round was gone through. Then he said, -
"You will let me take you home now, I hope."
"I am at home," I answered.
"Even so," said he smiling. "You will let me take you _from_home then, to the place my sister dwells in."
"No, Dr. Sandford; and you do not expect it."
"I have some reason to know what to expect, by this time. Willyou not do it at my earnest request? not for your sake, butfor mine? There is presumption for you!"
"No, Dr. Sandford; it is not presumption, and I thank you; butI cannot. I cannot, Dr. Sandford. I am wanted here."
"Yes, so you will be to-morrow."
"I will be here to-morrow."
"But, Daisy, this is unaccustomed work; and you cannot bearit, no one can, without intermission. Let me take you to thehotel to-night. You shall come again in the morning."
"I cannot. There is some one here who wants me."
"Your cousin, do you mean?"
"Oh no. Not he at all. There is one who is, I am afraid,dying."
"Morton," said the doctor. "Yes. You can do nothing for him."
But I thought of my hymn, and the tears rose to my eyes.
"I will do what I can, Dr. Sandford. I cannot leave him."
"There is a night nurse who will take charge. You must notwatch. You must not do that, Daisy. I command here."
"All but me," I said, putting my hand on his arm. "Trust me. Iwill try to do just the right thing."
There must have been more persuasion in my look than I knew;for Dr. Sandford quitted me without another word, and left meto my own will. I went softly down the room to the poor friendI was watching over. I found his eyes watching me; but fortalk there was no time just then; some services were calledfor in another part of the ward that drew me away from him;and when I came back he seemed to be asleep. I sat down at thebed foot and thought my hymn all over, then the war, my ownlife, and lastly the world. Miss Yates came to me and bentdown.
"Are you tired out, dear?"
"Not at all," I said. "Not at all - tired."
"They'd give their eyes if you'd sing again. It's better thandoctors and anodynes; and it's the first bit of anythingunearthly we've had in this place. Will you try?"
I was only too glad. I sang, "Jesus, lover of my soul" - "Rockof Ages" - and then, -
"Just as I am, without one plea,"But that Thy blood was shed for me,"And that Thou bidst me come to Thee,"O Lamb of God, I come."
And stillness, deep and peaceful seeming, brooded over all theplace in the pauses between the singing. There were restlessand weary and suffering people around me; patient indeed too,and uncomplaining, in the worst of times; but now even sighsseemed to be hushed. I looked at the man who was said to bedying. His wide open eyes were intently fixed upon me; veryintently; and I thought, less ruefully than a while ago. ThenI
sang, -
"Come to Jesus just now -"
As I sang, a voice from the further end of the room took itup, and bore me company in a somewhat rough but true and manlychorus, to the end of the singing. It rang sweet round theroom; it fell sweet on many ears, I know. And so I gave myLord's message.
I sang no more that night. The poor man for whose sake I hadbegun the singing, rapidly grew worse. I could not leave him;for ever and again, in the pauses of suffering, his eyessought mine. I answered the mute appeal as I best could, witha word now and a word then. Towards morning the