CHAPTER IX.

DR. RAY'S PRESCRIPTION.

ETHEL slept rather late, and woke the next morning with a confused feeling that something very unpleasant had happened. At first, she could not remember what it was, but presently it all came over her at once, and she turned over and hid her face with a groan.

"Oh, dear! I wish I had not woke up," was her first thought. "I wish I might stay in bed, and not see anybody." The second thought was a better one. "It must be late; and Matthew likes to have every one punctual at breakfast. I can do as much as that, any how."

This was a good beginning. Ethel dressed, and said her prayers; the latter sorrowfully enough.

"I have no right to expect Him to hear me, I am such a sinner," said she; and then the thought came into her mind that the very fact of her being a sinner gave her a right; for did not Jesus Christ come into the world to save sinners?

The bell rung just as she was ready, and she made haste down. She was actually the first person in the dining-room,—a thing which had never occurred before. Presently, Henry came in, and then Emily and the doctor. The doctor kissed her as usual; and, as he noticed the appealing glance she gave him, he repeated the kiss, and asked, kindly, "How is the side this morning?"

"I 'won't' cry," thought Ethel, as she felt a choking lump in her throat: she forced back the tears, and answered, "Better, thank you."

At family prayers, Dr. Ray read the prayer for "thy sick servant, for whom our prayers are desired;" and though it was nothing unusual, it made Ethel's heart beat, and she wondered if he were thinking of poor Mary.

"How did you find your patient last night?" asked Mr. Dalton, after they were seated at the table. He saw that Ethel longed, but did not dare to ask.

"I will tell you after breakfast," returned the doctor, glancing at Ethel.

"Please, brother, tell me now," said Ethel, imploringly.

"Well, keep yourself quiet," returned the doctor, kindly. "It may not be so bad, after all; but it is very uncomfortable. You see, Anna alone was unable to get poor Mary on the sofa, and she fell against the sharp corner of the bookcase. She has got an ugly cut on her head, and, I am afraid, a bad shake of the brain; but it is not easy to judge of these epileptic cases. She was insensible when I left her last night, and I presume I shall find her so this morning. Take care, Ethel; don't faint! Drink some hot coffee."

Ethel put out her hand blindly, to feel for the coffee cup she could not see. Some one held it to her lips. She made a brave effort to drink, and that was the last she knew, till she heard a voice say, "She is coming to herself."

Then she opened her eyes, and found herself lying on the sofa, with Emily bathing her face.

"There, that's better," said the doctor, kindly. "Lie still awhile, and you will be all right." He bent over her as he spoke, and Ethel whispered: "Indeed, brother, I did try not to faint."

"I saw you did, my dear. I understand all about it," returned Dr. Ray. "Never mind now. Lie still a little, and then you will be ready for your breakfast."

"You don't think the poor girl will die, do you, Matthew?" said Ethel, when Dr. Ray came in from his office to see, as he said, how she was getting on.

She was not getting on very comfortably. She had not been able to eat anything, though she tried hard, to please Emily; and her head felt too weak and giddy for any of her usual employments: so she was fain to content herself with lying back in the great chair and making tatting. She looked anxiously into Dr. Ray's face as she spoke.

"My child, I cannot possibly tell," answered the doctor gravely, but kindly. "Doctors may be mistaken like other folks, you know. It is a very unfortunate affair altogether, and I would give a great deal if it had not happened; but there is no use in wishing that now. The only thing is to make the best of it."

"I can't see any best to make of it," said Ethel, sadly. "I cannot see a ray of hope or comfort anywhere."

"There is where you make a mistake, my dear girl," replied Dr. Ray. "No human being ought ever to be in a place to say that. If you have committed a very great sin, (which I do not deny) that is no reason for despair. It is only a reason for repentance, asking forgiveness, and beginning again. Peter committed a great sin: his was a sin of cowardice, as well as yours; but if he had given up to despair, a great deal would have been lost, not only to himself, but to all the world."

"If it had been only this one sin: if I had merely been surprised into running away and leaving Anna, it would have been bad enough," said Ethel; "but that is not all, nor the worst. I have done wrong in every way. I have been cross and fretful with Emily. I have been selfish and self-indulgent about all sorts of things; and I have been deceitful, too," she added, with a great effort, determined to make a clean breast of it. "I have gone on letting you think I rode over to the West side when I went to take my lessons; and I have not been in the street-car once since you gave me those tickets."

"That accounts for the side-aches," said the doctor. "It is not necessary to suppose any heart disease. But, Ethel, it seems to me that you have done a little more than 'let me think,' haven't you?"

"Yes, indeed, I have," replied Ethel, colouring. "I have told more than one lie about it."

"I am very sorry to hear this, Ethel," said Dr. Ray. "I have always thought you one of the most sincere, truthful girls in the world, I was telling Henry so the other night."

"Yes, I heard you," replied Ethel. "I have always prided myself on being truthful."

"That is not the way to remain so," said Dr. Ray, as Ethel paused. "When we begin to pride ourselves on our good qualities, we find out pretty soon that they are not much to be proud of."

"I know that very well now," returned Ethel. "But it does not seem to me that I shall ever be proud again. I can see nothing in myself but sin and folly."

"Then, my dear, you have got to a very good place," said Dr. Ray, kindly. "In general, a man must be convinced that he is sick, before he can be cured. But you know, Ethel, there is medicine provided for such sickness as yours,—medicine far better than any of mine, for it never fails to suit every case. There is one remedy for all your troubles, and that is the cure of Christ. There is a prescription for you. I leave you to think it over; for there is a great deal contained in it, far more than appears at the first glance. Can I do anything for you before I go out?"

"Are you going over to Mrs. Burger's?" asked Ethel.

The doctor nodded.

"Can you wait till I write a little note to Anna?"

"I will wait, whether I can or not," replied the doctor: "only be short; for my list is a tremendous one; and I must get out this afternoon to look after my operation case. Some day I hope I shall see you show the spirit which that poor man's wife did. But write your note, dear, and make it as brief as you can."

"How good he is, and how wickedly unjust I have always been to him," thought Ethel, as she got out her desk. Perhaps it was well that she did not have much time to think over her note. It ran thus:

"DEAR ANNA:—I am not well enough to come and see you; and, besides, I am not sure you would wish to see me: so I write by Matthew. I was very wicked and mean to leave you so last night, and I feel as if I had murdered that poor girl. Do forgive me, if you can; and please, dear Anna, don't judge of religious people by me.

"As ever, your friend,

"ETHEL DALTON."

When she was left alone, Ethel began to think over the doctor's prescription. "I know that the blood of Christ cleanseth us from all sin," said she to herself, as she turned over the leaves of her Bible; "and that the greatest sinner need not despair of pardon. I have asked his forgiveness, and I suppose I ought to think that I have it; though I cannot feel as if I were forgiven: but after all, I want more than forgiveness. I want help and direction. I want to know what to do, and what to avoid."

At that moment, her eye fell on a text in the Gospel of Luke.

"And he said to them all, If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross 'daily,' and follow me."

"I wonder if that is what Matthew was thinking about?" she thought. "I wonder if that is the one I need? To deny myself 'daily'—to take up the cross 'daily'—what would that mean for me?"

Ethel lay back in her chair considering for a long time. She began to see wonderful meanings in that taking up of the cross.

"Why, I have never done it once, that I can see—never at least in this matter. I have indulged, instead of denying myself. I have encouraged and petted my own weakness; and I have always thought it a sufficient reason for not doing anything that it was disagreeable. I begin to see. I must take up the cross daily and hourly. I don't think I need seek for occasions. There will be plenty of them."

"How are you getting on, little sister?" said Henry, looking in, presently. "Are you feeling better?"

"I don't know. I don't feel very well, as far as that, goes," replied Ethel. "It seems very idle to sit here all the morning making tatting; but I cannot help it. My head is giddy the moment I try to go about to do anything which requires attention."

"Then it seems to be clear that sitting still and making tatting is your work for the present," replied Henry, smiling. "Would you rather be alone, or shall I give you the benefit of my brilliant society?"

"I wish you would come and sit with me, and let me tell you all I have been thinking about," said Ethel.

"With all the pleasure in life, my dear. I wonder whether I may venture to bring 'my' tatting—my whittling, as Mrs. Jones disrespectfully calls it—into this room?"

"Your wood-carving? Yes, I am sure you may," replied Ethel. "The shavings will be easily swept off the matting; and Emily is not a fussy housekeeper. She does not mind a little litter."

"Emily seems a very comfortable person to live with," said Mr. Dalton, as he sat himself down opposite Ethel, who had spread a large newspaper on the floor to receive the cuttings of his work.

"She is, indeed; and so is Dr. Ray," replied Ethel, somewhat earnestly. "Matthew has been so kind to me this morning."

"He is always kind, I think, though his manners are a little abrupt, sometimes," said Mr. Dalton. "Now, then, tell me all you have been thinking about, as you say. I can listen all the better for having my hands busy."

Ethel went over with all the thoughts which had been occupying her during the morning, concealing nothing and excusing nothing in her past conduct.

"I think you have followed at least a part of the depth of Matthew's prescription," said Mr. Dalton, after a little silence. "Tell me now, Ethel, what has lain at the root of all your troubles?"

"Selfishness!" replied Ethel, promptly.

"Do you believe selfishness was at the bottom of your cowardice?"

"Yes, I believe so, Henry. I was always thinking of myself. If I had had any spirit of self-sacrifice, I should have learned to control my fears, and to act in spite of them. The other day, when I made such a fool of myself about the dog, I never thought of his hurting 'you.' Just so it was last night. I never thought what might happen to Anna or poor Mary. It was all my wretched, miserable self. And so it has been all my life long. I thought it a good enough reason for refusing to sit up at Mrs. Merton's with Mary Rose the night her little girl died, that I could not bear to be in the house with a corpse. If I had not been selfish, I should have thought that it was no worse for me than Mary, and, that whether it was or not, somebody must do it. Yes, it has been self-indulgence all the time."

"I rather think you are right, though I did not expect that answer," said Mr. Dalton, thoughtfully. "I supposed you would say want of faith."

"Well, and that is selfishness, too," said Ethel. "I should have thought of what the Lord had promised to do for me, and what I had promised to do for him."

"True. I see your head has not been so giddy but that you could think to good purpose. Well, and now for the remedy."

"The remedy must be, as Matthew says, in the cross," said Ethel; "in taking up the cross daily, and denying myself."

"But how? You might deny yourself in many ways: such as in dress, and in eating nice things, and visiting."

"There would be no very heavy cross in that; because, really, I don't care so very much for any of those things. It seems to me that I must take up the real cross which God gives me, and not make one for myself, which will be light and pretty," said Ethel. "It would be no cross for me to fasten my collar with a common pin instead of a gold one. But it would be for me to see a caterpillar crawling on my frock and sit still, without screaming, till I could get rid of it. It would not be nearly so much of a cross for me to go without meat for dinner as it would be for me to go and do the marketing; because I dislike the sight and smell of the raw meat, and I am afraid of the butchers' dogs."

"Exactly so. Your illustrations are precisely to the point, my dear child. Here comes Matthew."

Ethel looked up in her brother-in-law's face with a glance of inquiry. He put a little note into her hand.

"That is from Anna," said he. "The girl is rather better, though not in a pleasant way. She Was unconscious last night, and now she is crazy; but even that state of things is an improvement."

"Then she may get well after all?" said Ethel, eagerly.

"She may, and that is all I can say," returned the doctor. "The state of her general health is against her. I am sorry to bring you such a bad report, dear; but I suppose you want to hear the truth."

"Yes, indeed," replied Ethel. "Oh how I do wish I could do something for her, or to help Mrs. Burgers!"

"You must try to get well yourself, child. That is the first thing. Then we shall see what can be done."

Ethel shut herself up in her own room to read Anna's note. It was short and to the point, as her own had been.

"DEAR ETHEL:—I thought last night I never could forgive you, or speak to you again; but I think I can now. Of course I must as long as you have asked me. I can't write any more now, but I will see you at Italian class.

"Truly yours,

"A. B."