Mildred Keith - Complete 7 Book Collection. Finley Martha

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      "Yes, Ada, quick, quick! the bottle of smelling salts! it's on the stand by father's bedside. O, mother, mother! you too! what's to become of us? O, Rupert, she's just killed with nursing! and I couldn't help it."

      "Of course you couldn't; you are nearly killed yourself," he said, his tears falling almost as fast as hers, while between them they half carried, half dragged the insensible form into the adjoining room and laid it tenderly down upon a lounge.

      Poor children! so utterly overwhelmed were they by their mother's helpless condition, superadded to all the other causes for anxiety, perplexity and distress, so taken up with efforts for her restoration to consciousness, that they scarcely heard the cries of the sick little ones, who could not understand why they were thus left alone, or the calls of their father who had roused from sleep and missed his gentle nurse; nor did they notice who it was that came in through the open kitchen door and silently assisted them, raising the window blind and sprinkling water on the still white face.

      At last Mrs. Keith's eyes unclosed and she started up asking faintly "What is it? have I been ill?" then fell back again completely exhausted.

      "You were faint, mother dear," said Mildred, vainly striving to steady her voice, "but lie still for a while and I hope you will get over it. You have been doing too much and must rest now."

      "Rest, child! how can I? There is your father calling me. And the children are crying."

      She started up again but with the same result as before.

      "My poor sick husband! my little ailing children! what is to become of you?" she sighed, tears stealing from beneath the closed eyelids and trickling down the pale cheeks.

      "Mother, I will do my best," sobbed Mildred; "only lie and rest yourself."

      "And I am here to assist, and able to do it," said a somewhat harsh, discordant voice, though there was in it a tone of kindness too.

      Then they looked up and saw standing near, the stiff, angular figure of Damaris Drybread.

      "You?" Mildred exclaimed in utter surprise.

      "Yes, I, Miss Keith. Did you think there was none of the milk of human kindness in me? My school's broke up by this pestilence, and only one of our family has took the fever yet; so when I heard that you were nearly all down sick here, and your girl had gone off and left you, I said to myself, 'There's a duty for you there, Damaris Drybread; go right away and do it,' And I came."

      "And it was very, very kind in you," Mildred said, extending her hand. "I have hardly deserved it from you, for I've judged you, harshly."

      "Well, I shouldn't wonder if I'd done the same to you," Damaris answered coldly, taking the offered hand only to drop it again instantly. "But that's neither here nor there; and I don't ask no thanks. I'm only tryin' to be a good Samaritan to you, because we're told, 'Go, and do thou likewise.'"

      The cries of the children had become so piteous and importunate that Mildred rushed away to attend to them.

      Her father's calls had ceased and as the little ones quieted down she could hear a manly voice speaking to him in gentle soothing tones.

      "It is the doctor," she thought, with an emotion somewhat akin to pleasure; he was so sorely needed and had not called since the previous night; but on going in she found Mr. Lord by the bedside.

      He turned, showing a face full of sympathy and concern, and held out his hand.

      "This is kind," she said, putting hers into it.

      "My poor child!" he responded feelingly, raising the hand to his lips in his absent way, "my heart aches for you. And there are many others in like affliction; many others! all round the country people are sick, dying; many of them simply for lack of suitable nourishment."

      The tears rolled down his manly cheeks as he spoke, and the sight of them did not lower him in the girl's esteem.

      "And what can I do?" he went on. "I know nothing of cooking; I can only carry them crackers to sustain their poor bodies, and try to feed their souls with the bread of life. I feel for them all; but for you—O, Mildred, dear girl, what can I do to help and comfort you in this extremity?"

      "We have need of nurses. Mother—"

      But with that word she broke into uncontrollable weeping; suppressed, for fear of disturbing her father, who had fallen into a doze—but shaking her whole frame with its violence.

      It distressed her listener. He made a step toward her, a gesture as if he would fold her in his arms, but drew hastily back, blushing and confused as the door opened and Dr. Grange came in.

      Chapter Twenty-Fifth

       Table of Contents

      "All love is sweet,

       Given or returned. Common as light is love,

       And its familiar voice wearies not ever."

       —Shelley.

      "Ah, good morning, my dear child! Good morning, sir," the doctor said in an undertone, giving his hand to Mildred and the minister in turn. Then with an anxious glance at the bed "How is he? sleeping now, I see. How did he rest through the night?"

      "Not very well, and—"

      "Your mother? where is she? not down too?" with almost a groan, as he read the truth in the young girl's face.

      Mildred led him to her. She lay on the lounge still, with closed eyes and face of deathly pallor, her cheek resting against the dark curls of Rupert, who had thrown himself on the floor by her side, and laid his head on the same pillow, while he held one of her hands, caressing it tenderly.

      His cheeks were burning, his eyes sparkling with fever.

      The doctor glanced from one to the other. "Ought to be in bed; both of you. Go my boy, at once; you are not fit to be here."

      "I can't, sir, indeed; I'm needed to take care of the others."

      "You will help most by giving up at once," said the doctor; "otherwise you will make yourself so sick as to need a great deal of attention."

      "Yes, go, my dear boy," whispered Mrs. Keith.

      "I will, since you bid me, darling mother," he answered, pressing his hot lips to her cheek, then tottering from the room.

      She looked after him with sad, pitying eyes, "So sick, and your mother not able to nurse you! Mildred, my poor dear child, how are you to stand it?" she sighed, turning them upon her daughter's face as she bent over her.

      "Try not to be troubled and anxious, my dear madam," said the doctor, "the more quiet and free from care you can keep your mind, the better for you. Trust the Lord that all will come out right."

      "I will; he is all my hope and trust for myself and for my dear ones," she answered, with almost her accustomed cheerfulness. "Things look very dark but 'behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened that it cannot save; СКАЧАТЬ