Daisy in the Field

was "What are these inbright array," with the chorus, "They have clean robes, whiterobes." "When I can read my title clear," was another.Sometimes a hymn starts up to me now, with a thrill ofknowledge that I sang it that night, which yet at other timesI cannot recall. I sang till the hour, and past it, when Imust go to my room and give place to the night watchers. Ilonged to stay, but it was impossible; so I went and badePreston good-night, who said to me never a word this time;spoke to one or two others; and then went to Mr. Thorold. Ilaid my hand on his. He grasped it immediately and looked upat me with a clear, sweet, bright look, which did me untoldgood; pulling me gently down. I bent over him, thinking hewished to speak; then I knew what he wished, and obeying theimpulse and the request, our lips met. I don't know if anybodysaw it; and I did not care. That kiss sent me to sleep.

  The next day I was myself again. Not relieved from theimpression which had seized me when I first saw Mr. Thorold;but quietly able to bear it; in a sort raised above it. To dothe moment's duty; to gather, and to give, every stray crumbof relief or pleasure that might be possible for either of us;better than that, to do the Lord's will and to bear it, wereall I sought for. All at least, of which I was fairlyconscious that I sought it; the heart has a way of carrying onunderground trains of feeling and action of its own, and sodid mine now. As I found afterwards. But I was perfectly ablefor all my work. When next I had an opportunity for privatetalk with Mr. Thorold, he asked me with a smile, if theresentment was all gone? I told him, "Oh, yes."

  "What was the 'self-will' about, Daisy?"

  "You remember too well," I said.

  "What?"

  "Me and my words."

  "Why?"

  "It is not easy to say why, just in this instance."

  "No. Well, Daisy, say the other thing. About the self-will."

  I hesitated.

  "Are you apt to be self-willed?" he asked, tenderly.

  "I do not know. I believe I did not use to think so. I amafraid it is very difficult to know oneself, Christian."

  "_I_ think you are self-willed," he said, smiling.

  "Did you use to see it in me?"

  "I think so. What is the present matter in hand, Daisy?"

  I did not want to tell him. But I could not run away. Andthose bright eyes were going over my face and reading in it, Iknew. I did not know what they read. I feared. He waited,smiling a little as he looked.

  "I ought not to be self-willed, - about anything," - I said atlast.

  "No, I suppose not. What has got a grip of your heart then,Daisy?"

  "I am unwilling to see you lying here," I said. It was saidwith great force upon myself, under the stress of necessity.

  "And unwilling that I should get any but one sort ofdischarge," - he added.

  "You do not fear it," I said, hastily.

  "I fear nothing. But a soldier, Daisy, - a soldier ought to beready for orders; and he must not choose. He does not knowwhere the service will call for him. He knows his Captain doesknow."

  I stood still, slowly fanning Mr. Thorold; my self-controlcould go no further than to keep, me outwardly quiet.

  "_You_ used to be a soldier," he said gently, after a pause."You are yet. Not ready for orders, Daisy?"

  "Christian - you know, -" I stammered forth.

  "I know, my beloved. And there is another that knows. He knowsall. Can't you leave the matter to him?"

  "I must."

  "Must is a hard word. Let Jesus appoint, and let you and meobey; because we love Him, and are His."

  He was silent, and so was I then; the words trooping in a sortof grand procession through some distant part of my brain -"All things are yours; whether life, or death, or the world,or things present, or things to come; all are yours; and yeare Christ's; and Christ is God's." I knew they swept bythere, in their sweetness and their majesty; I could not layhold of them to make them dwell with me then.

  A few days went past, filled with duty as usual; more filledwith a consuming desire which had taken possession of me, toknow really how Mr. Thorold was and what were the prospects ofhis recovery. His face always looked clear and well; I thoughthis wounds were not specially painful; I never saw any signthat they were; the dressing of them was always borne veryquietly. _That_ was not uncommon, but involuntary tokens of painwere sometimes wrung from the sufferers; a sigh, or a knitbrow, or a pale cheek, or a clinched hand, gave one sorrowfulknowledge often that the heroism of patient courage was moreseverely tested in the hospital than on the field. I never sawany of these signs in Mr. Thorold. In spite of myself, a hopebegan to spring and grow in my heart, which at the firstseeing of him in that place I had thought dead altogether. Andthen I could not rest short of certainty. But how to get anylight at all on the subject was a question. The other nursecould not tell me, for she knew no more than myself; not somuch, for she rarely nursed Mr. Thorold. Dr. Sandford nevertold how his patients were doing or likely to do; if he wereasked, he evaded the answer. What we were to do, he toldexplicitly, carefully; the issue of our cares he left it totime and fact to show. So what was I to do? Moreover, I didnot wish to let him see that I had any, the least, solicitudefor one case more than the rest. And another thing, I dreadedunspeakably to make the appeal and have my doubts solved. Withthe one difficulty and the other before me, I let day afterday go by; day after day; during which I saw as much of Mr.Thorold as I could, and watched him with intense eyes. But Iwas able to resolve nothing; only I thought his appetite grewpoorer than it had been, while that of many others wasimproving. We had some chance for talk during those days; bysnatches, I told him a good deal of the history of my Europeanlife; and he gave me details of his life in camp and field. Welived very close to each other all that time, though outwardcommunication was so restricted. Hearts have their own way ofcommunicating, - and spirits are not wholly shut in by fleshand blood. But as the days went by, my anxiety and suspensebegan to glow unendurable.

  So I followed Dr. Sandford one morning to his den, as hecalled it.

  "Are you getting tired of hospital life?" he asked me? with asmile. "I see you want to speak to me."

  "You know I am not tired."

  "I know you are not. There is something in a woman that likessuffering, I think, if only she can lay her hand on it andrelieve it."

  "That is making it a very selfish business, Dr. Sandford."

  "We are all selfish," said the doctor. "The difference is,that some are selfish for themselves, and some for otherpeople."

  "Now you are cynical."

  "I am nothing of the kind. What do you want with me?"

  "Preston is doing very well, is he not, Dr. Sandford."

  "Perfectly well. He will be out just as soon as in the natureof things it is possible. I suppose, or am I not to suppose,that then you will consider your work done?"

  "I do not think he wants me a quarter as much as other people,now."

  "He does not want you at all, in the sense of needing. In theother sense, I presume different people might put in a claimto be attended to."

  "But, Dr. Sandford, I wish I knew who of all these people inthe ward need me most."

  "You are doing all you can for all of them."

  "If I had that knowledge, though, I might serve them better -or with more judicious service."

  "No you could not," said the doctor. "You are twice asjudicious as Miss Yates now; though she is twice as old asyou. You do the right thing in the right place always."

  "I wish you would do this thing for me, nevertheless, Dr.Sandford. I wish it very much."

  "What thing?"

  "Let me know the various states of the patients, and theirprospect of recovery."

  "Most of them have a very fair prospect of recovery," said thedoctor.

  "Will you do it for me, Dr. Sandford? - I ask it as a greatfavour."

  "Gary's all right," he said, with a full look at me.

  "Yes, I know; but I would like to know how it is with theothers. I could better tell how to minister to them, and whatto do."

  "The thi
ng to be done would not vary at all with yourincreased knowledge, Daisy."

  "Not the things in your line, I know; but the things in mine."

  "You would know better how to sing, to wit?" said the doctor.

  "And to pray -" I said half under my breath.

  "Daisy, I haven't a schedule of the cases here; and if I toldyou, you might forget, among so many, which was which. Anyhow,I have not the schedule."

  "No, but you could do this for me. To-night, Dr. Sandford,when you go round, you could indicate to me what I want toknow, and nobody else be the wiser. When we come to any casethat is serious, but with hope, take