CHAPTER XIII.
SISTER JULIA.
The following morning, the fever had left her; but Mary was tired andlistless, refusing milk, broth, everything. When her uncle was with her,she clung to him, great tears running down her pale little face. Nothingthat he or Sister Julia could say comforted her. She was lonely, lonely,lonely! That day passed, as did the next, without any change. The Doctorfelt helpless; and when at noon, Thursday, the usual scene took place,he strode from the room, muttering, "I will send a wireless! They musttry to be transferred to the first homeward bound steamer that theymeet. 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 youa 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 reallyshould hear."
"Is it a long one, Sister? Please don't make it very long, because Idon't want to think of anything but my darling father and mother andlittle sisters."
"Very well, I shall make it as short as possible--this true story whichI am going to tell you.
"I once had a little patient suffering from the same illness which youhave just had. Like you, too, she was blessed with a very loving fatherand mother and a good, kind uncle. The doctor who attended her had toldme how much this uncle thought of the little girl; but it was not untilI was sent to take care of her that I saw just how matters stood. Therewere other children in the family; but before I was in the house onehour, I knew that the sick little girl had first place in her uncle'sheart as well as in the hearts of everyone in that home. And she welldeserved it; for in all my years of nursing, I have never met a morelovable child. Gentle, patient, obedient, always thinking ofothers--why, before the first day had passed, I think I loved her almostas dearly as those who had known her all her life. I was quite ready toagree with the doctor in his opinion of her.
"Well, not to make too long a story of it, the child grew steadilyworse. My heart ached more for the uncle than for her parents; becausethey had their other children, while he seemed too wrapped up in hislittle pet to think of anyone else. Then came a night when we thoughtthe little girl's soul was about to return to God. I shall never forgetthe 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 togo away and cry. Great drops stood on his forehead though the room wasreally 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 wasHis holy will, He would spare the child to that good man who had done somuch for Him in the persons of His poor, suffering, little ones----"
"Sister, you are telling about Uncle! I know you are! It is all comingback to me about that night--I had forgotten it. I remember that Ididn't know anything for a long time. Even the man with the knives wasgone--and the silly little birds. Then, I woke; but I didn't open myeyes right away. The pain was all gone, and everything was so quiet thatI thought I was alone; so I opened my eyes and saw Father at the foot ofthe bed looking straight at me. Then I saw Uncle, and he looked sostrange that I thought he must be sick, too. But his eyes smiled at meand I tried to smile back, but I was too tired; and before I knew it, Iwent 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 fullyfifteen minutes passed before we knew that God had answered ourprayers."
There was a long pause.
"But--but, Sister,--not all of your story is true. I was cross andcranky and screamed when the pain was bad; and I couldn't think ofanyone but that dreadful man with the long knives, or of those sillylittle birds with yellow ribbons around their necks. No wonder Uncleteases me about yellow."
"But, Mary, you were not yourself for many, many days. Do you rememberthe morning I told you that you must fight to get well? I had goodreason to regret that advice; for instead of fighting the illness, youused those little fists on everyone who came near you. When your uncletried to listen to your lungs, you struck out so well that your motherand 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'shead between your hands. My! what a boxing you gave his poor ears!"
"_Sister!--I--boxed--Uncle's--ears!--O Sister!_" and Mary buried herburning face in the pillow.
"But, darling, that is nothing to be ashamed of. You did not know whatyou were doing. We expected worse things than that."
"Worse than boxing poor, dear Uncle's ears? Could anything be worse thanthat?" came the muffled question.
"Indeed, yes, Mary."
"But, Sister," Mary sat up, "surely not when you think of how awful helooked that night. Poor Father looked oh, so tired! But Uncle--I didn'tknow 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 rightat his face----"
"I am quite sure that you did not, Mary, or you would never have let himgo away without trying to make him feel better. You are not a selfishlittle girl; and I am very sure that when you understand the harm youare 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 verywell, Sister, if you think I would harm Uncle for anything in the wholeworld!"
"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?" thechild 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 littlesisters, and to want Uncle to stay with me every minute he can? Am I abad girl to do that?"
"I did not mean for an instant that you have been a bad girl, dear. Itis weakness that makes you so tired; but unless you try to take foodeven 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 somuch, 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 strangelittle girl if you did _not_ think of them very, very often; but in theway 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 allseemed 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 wouldnot have caught them. That illness meant that you must be away from yourmother and little sisters; but you were so good and brave and patientabout it all that others would not have guessed how much that separationcost you until they saw how happy you were at the thought of being withthem soon again. I am sure that our dear Lord was very much pleased withyou, and you must have won many graces.
"Then, for His own wise reasons, He sent you greater suffering. Thereare some people who think that all pain and sorrow is a punishment fromGod; but this is not true. Our Lord often sends such trials so that wemay grow more like Him and merit a greater reward in heaven. We are toldthat suffering is a mark of God's love. Even when He sends it as apunishment, He does so in love; for it is far better to be punished forour sins in this world than in the next.
"In your second illness, I really think that those who love you sufferedmore 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 forHim--something that you found much harder than your first or secondtrial. In those you had no choice. The illness came, and you could notescape it. But you might have refused our Lord when He asked you to giveup 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
byhimself, you know."
"But has not our Lord said that whatever we do to even the least of Hislittle ones, we do it unto Him? And do you not make your MorningOffering every day?"
"Oh, yes, Sister, the very minute I wake in the morning, even though itisn't time to get up. I make it again when I say my morning prayers; butI 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 ofall your thoughts, words, and actions to God; and when the time came todecide whether you wished your mother to go with your father or to staywith you, you had already offered Him the thought and action andsuffering, 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 dreadfulthings, 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 saidthat 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 amI to do,' We were learning a hymn to her at school and that is the lastline 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 gaveyou 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 thinkthat it would be too bad to take back part of your gift, or to spoil itin any way? Would not that be a selfish thing to do? In sickness, wemust be very careful. It acts in two ways, making the patient eithermore selfish or more thoughtful of others. Until the last few days, Ithought it was having the good effect upon you; but now, I am just alittle afraid that you are forgetting others, especially that good, kinduncle, 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!"