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Mildred Keith

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<h2>Chapter Twenty-Fourth.</h2> <div class='center'> "Calamity is man's true touch stone." </div> It was to Mildred Celestia Ann's parting words were spoken, Mildred sitting in dumb despair beside the bed, where Cyril and Don lay tossing and moaning in a burning fever. Her heart sank like lead in her bosom, as she listened to the rumbling of the wheels of the wagon that was bearing away her late efficient helper. "What could they do without her?" A quiet step crossed the room, a soft hand was laid caressingly on Mildred's bowed head, and looking up she saw her mother's sweet, pale face bending over her; a worn and weary face, but with a strange peacefulness shining through its care and sorrow. "O mother, mother, whatever shall we do?" cried the girl in a broken whisper, and with a burst of tears. Mrs. Keith had a small Bible in her hand, her finger between the leaves. She laid it open before Mildred, pointed to a passage in the[323] sixty-second psalm, and just touching her lips to her daughter's forehead, turned away to the little sufferers on the bed. "Mother's darlings! mother's poor little men! Try to be very patient and good like the dear Lord Jesus when he was in pain, and mother hopes you will soon be well again. She is asking Jesus to make you well." "I wish he would," moaned Cyril, while; Don uttered some incoherent words, showing that his mind wandered. "I'se better, mamma," piped the baby voice of Annis from another bed. "Fan and me's better. I dess Dod will make us well, 'tause we asked him to." "Yes, mother, don't fret about us," joined in Fan and Zillah patiently. She went over and kissed all three, calling them "dear good children," then passed on into the kitchen. Rupert was there trying to make a custard; Ada washing dishes. "You see you're not entirely without help in this department yet, mother," the lad said laughingly. "No," she answered with a smile that he felt was ample reward for his efforts, "how are you succeeding?" [324] "Bravely; at least it looks nice. Please come and tell me if 'tis ready to be taken off." "It will be in a moment. Run out and get me a handful of leaves from that young peach tree, to flavor it with." He obeyed, she stirring the custard and commending Ada's industry, while he was gone. "Here they are, mother; is this enough?" he asked, coming back. "Quite," she said taking them from him; then as her hand touched his, "Rupert," she cried with anguish in her tones, "you are sick! burning up with fever!" "Heated over the stove, mother," he said, trying to laugh it off, as he lifted the kettle from the fire and poured its contents into a bowl. "No, I am not to be deceived," she answered in a choking voice, "you ought to be in bed now." He shook his head. "Somebody must keep up; several somebodies to take anything like proper care of the sick ones. And, mother, I'm as able as you are; you look dreadfully worn and ill." She was all that; she felt the chills creeping over her at that moment, and her head seemed ready to burst; her heart also. [325] Oh, she had need of all the comfort and support of the words she had pointed out to Mildred, and of the exhortation contained therein. "My soul, wait thou only upon God; for my expectation is from him. He only is my rock and my salvation; he is my defense, I shall not be moved. In God is my salvation and my glory; the rock of my strength and my refuge is in God." She whispered them to herself, as with clasped hands and closed eyes, she sank heavily into a chair, half unconscious of what she was doing. Rupert sprang to her side, thinking she was about to faint, and Ada, with the same thought in her mind, set down the plate she was wiping and hurried to her also. They caught the last words. "'The rock of my strength and my refuge is in God.'" "Yes, mother, dear," sobbed the lad, putting his arms around her, "and oh, you know it's a refuge that will never fail. 'Therefore will we not fear though the earth be removed and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.' 'Man's extremity is God's opportunity,' and He will help us through this strait somehow." [326] "Yes," she whispered, "and though it should be by death, what is that but going, home? To those of us who love the Lord and trust in His imputed righteousness," she added, looking earnestly, questioningly into his face. "Mother, I believe I do," he said, "though I have never told you so before." "Now I can bear it," she whispered, closing her eyes again, while a sweet smile played about her lips. Her head dropped heavily on her son's shoulder. "Oh," shrieked Ada, "she's dying! mother's dying!" "Hush!" cried Rupert sternly, thinking of the mischief her cry might work should it reach the ears of the sick ones, "she has only fainted. A tumbler of water; quick, quick, Ada!" As the terrified child hastened to do his bidding, Mildred came flying from the inner room, her face pale, her whole frame trembling with affright. "Mother!" the word came in tones of agony from her pale, quivering lips. "It's only a faint," said Rupert hoarsely. "Help me to lay her down and loosen her clothes. And haven't you hartshorn or something! whatever there is. [327] "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. [328] "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[329] 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. [330] "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. <hr class="chap" />[331] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i016.jpg" width-obs="242" height-obs="48" alt="decoration" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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