CHAPTER XVI.

CATHY LEE.

THE next day, Aunt Dorinda had a headache.

"A very unusual thing," she remarked, "and wholly owing to the late dinner."

She never had any patience with other people's headaches, believing that the word headache was in most cases a convenient synonym for temper or laziness; but of course, her own was quite a different matter. She persisted, contrary to Dr. Ray's advice, in going to church in the morning; but after luncheon, she declared that she must lie down, instead of going up to the "Hill" with Ethel, as she had intended.

It is to be feared that Ethel was not quite so sorry for Aunt Dorinda's headache as Christian charity required. At any rate, it was with a light heart that she went into the drawing-room, dressed for walking, and carrying a beautiful bunch of flowers.

"Can I do anything for you before I go, Aunt Dorinda?"

Instead of answering the question, Miss Atwood looked Ethel over from head to foot.

"Now, 'Ethel!'" she exclaimed. "You are 'not' going up to your Sunday-school in such a dress as 'that!'"

"Why not, aunt?" asked Ethel, in surprise and surveying herself in the mirror. "I don't see anything wrong about my dress."

"'Well!'" said Miss Atwood. "If you don't see anything wrong in going among poor children with such a dress as 'that!' It looks like a fashion-plate!"

"But it is nothing but my marseilles suit, and striped petticoat, which I have worn ever so many times. Nobody ever found fault with it before; and I can't very well go and dress myself over now. Henry will be waiting for me."

"Do, at least, take off that wide blue sash and scarf, and put on a bonnet instead of that absurd hat. Ah, Ethel, if you were only thinking of the value of the souls you are going to teach, you would not spend so much time in dressing yourself in a way just calculated to take off the children's attention from their lessons. I am afraid, after all, you are thinking more of pleasing your own vanity, than you are of serving your Master."

"Come, Ethel, are you ready?" asked Mr. Dalton, opening the door. "We have no time to spare, if you mean to visit the sick woman before the school opens."

"I am sorry I cannot go with you," remarked Aunt Dorinda. "I have no doubt I could give you some valuable hints. Now, Mr. Dalton, in your address to the children, don't use long words and talk over their heads. Be simple, direct, and conversational in your manner, and use plenty of illustrations."

"Well, I declare," said Ethel, as Mr. Dalton smiled and closed the door, "you must be obliged to her. I believe, after all, the story is true about her advising the President. I dare say she did."

"She is quite capable of it," remarked Mr. Dalton, smiling.

"And the best of it is that she won't take the least bit of advice from any one herself," continued Ethel. "She is always offended if any one hints that she might do anything differently. She did not like it at all because Emily told her this morning that she would be more comfortable with a thinner dress. Do you think I am too much dressed, Henry?"

"Why, no; I see nothing wrong about you. You are dressed like other young ladies, are you not? Only rather more plainly than the most of them. Why?"

"Aunt Dorinda says I ought to take off my sash, and put on a bonnet."

"Never mind Aunt Dorinda," said Mr. Dalton, with some impatience. "We have no time to spare; for you want to call on your sick woman before school, and I want to see that the library is in proper order."

Mr. Dalton left Ethel at the house where Catherine Lee lived, and went on his way to the school-room.

Ethel stood hesitating for a moment or two. She was as shy of strangers as a little child, and it did seem a formidable undertaking to go up those outside stairs and knock at a door where she had never been before.

"But they can't do me any harm," she reflected; "and if they don't want to see me, I can come away. I must learn not to be afraid of everybody."

She mounted the stairs accordingly, and knocked at the door. It was opened by a somewhat hard-featured middle-aged woman, who looked at Ethel with an expression which said plainly enough, "Who are you, and what do you want here?"

"I beg your pardon," said Ethel, a little timidly; but thinking a straight-forward course was the best, "I am Ethel Dalton, sister of Mr. Dalton, the minister. I heard that your sister was sick, and I have brought her some flowers from our garden."

"Oh," said the woman, her face relaxing a little. "Come in, will you? I'll speak to my sister; I dare say she will like to see you. Take a chair."

Ethel took a chair, and sat down while the woman went into the next room. Presently she came out and asked Ethel to walk in.

"Cathy ain't quite so well as usual. She feels the changes in the weather; but she will be glad of the flowers."

The first thing which struck Ethel was the furniture of the room, which was in excellent taste, although very plain. Everything was as neat as hands could make it. The next was the eager, wasted face of the sick girl, with its bright, hollow eyes turned toward her. Ethel went up to the bed.

"I am afraid you will think me very unceremonious," she said, smiling; "but I heard you were fond of flowers, and so I have brought you some from our garden. I might have asked Mrs. Trim to come and introduce me; but I had only a few minutes to spare before Sunday-school, so I thought I would venture alone."

"I am sure it was very good in you," said the sick girl,—"wasn't it, Mary Anne? Oh, what lovely, lovely flowers!"

Ethel felt her eyes fill with tears as she saw the looks Catherine bestowed on the nosegay. "I am so glad you like them," she said, simply.

"Do sit down," said Mary Anne, handing her a chair,—"there, where she can look at you! 'T ain't often she sees anything so pretty. Them flowers in your hat's a'most as nice as the real ones!"

Never had a compliment pleased Ethel so much. "Your sister has been sick a long time," said she.

"Nigh upon two years, ain't it, Cathy?"

"Two years next month since I was first taken," said Cathy; "but I haven't been in bed all that time. I was able to sit up some till after we came here."

"Then you have not always lived here?"

"Oh, no! We lived out in Burnsville till after ma died. We had a real nice, pretty home out there,—not so very smart. 'Twas only a little brown house, but it was nice and comfortable, and oh, it was so lovely all round there! I could see the outlet from my window, and the mill, and the little church-steeple rising up against the trees; and then the great lilac-bushes, bigger than any I ever saw,—oh, 't was lovely!"

"There ain't no use in talking about it," observed Mary Anne. "It ain't ours now, and it won't be again!"

"You must find living here a great change," Ethel ventured to say; "though your windows are pleasant, too!"

"Yes, it might be a great deal worse," replied Cathy. "If I could only get up to the window, I wouldn't complain; but I do get awful tired, lying here alone day after day. You see, Mary Anne has to go down to the shop at seven, and she doesn't get home most days till almost seven again. The neighbours are very good, especially Mrs. Trim; but after all, it is pretty lonesome."

"Yes, indeed, it must be," said Ethel.

"There ain't no help for it, as I can see," said Mary Anne, abruptly. "I have got to earn bread end clothes, fire and house-rent, for both of us, and I can't make near so much at home as I can working down to the shop."

"Where do you work?" asked Ethel.

"At Smith & Robinson's. They make all sorts of lady's underwear. They have a hundred girls at work, and thirty machines running all the time. At first, it seemed as if I should go crazy with the noise, but I've got more used to it now. Still, I am glad enough when Sunday comes and I can sit down and be quiet."

"And I am disturbing your quiet," said Ethel, rising. "You must excuse me for coming on Sunday."

"There ain't any excuse needed," returned Mary Anne. "I ain't fond of having neighbours running in and gossiping about everything on Sunday. It ain't the way I was brought up; but coming to do one such a kindness is another thing. If you ever come up here on a week-day, and would look in on Cathy, I'm sure she would be pleased; wouldn't you, Cathy?"

"Yes, indeed," replied Cathy; "but, perhaps, the young lady wouldn't like it. You see, we can't receive you now as we once could have done," she added, in a tone of apology.

"I understand," said Ethel. "I shall like to come, if you like to have me. Are you able to read?" she asked, struck with a sudden thought.

"Oh, yes. I read a good deal when I am at my best,—and when I have anything to read."

"Because, I was thinking you might have a book from the Sunday-school library," explained Ethel. "We have some very good ones, and I can draw a volume for you, if you will tell me what you like."

"I like books of travels and stories best," said Cathy.

"Well, I will find you a nice book; and I will try to come and see you again very soon."

"I'm sure you are very good," said Cathy. "It will be something to look forward to."

"You won't disappoint her, will you?" asked Mary Anne, following Ethel to the door. "She'll be thinking of you all the time till you come. You just go into the shop and ask for the key, and they'll give it to you."

"I will come if I can, you may be sure," said Ethel. "Does your sister have any physician?"

"No; not lately. We had one for a while—Dr. Brown. They say he did wonderful cures on some, but he never did Cathy no good, and he said she couldn't be cured. We paid him more than a hundred dollars, all for nothing, and worse, for she has never been as well since he doctored her."

"Well, I must go, or I shall be too late for the school. Good-by, Miss Lee, I will be sure to come again."

Aunt Dorinda was on the veranda when Ethel went home.

"So, you did not change your dress, after all," said she, frowning ominously.

"I had no time, and Henry did not think it necessary," replied Ethel; "and I was glad I did not, for Miss Mary Anne Lee paid me a compliment," she added, smiling. "She said it was as good as a picture for Cathy to see me."

"No doubt such a compliment was very valuable," said Aunt Dorinda, sarcastically.

"It was not the compliment," said Ethel. "It was the feeling that poor Cathy was pleased and diverted. After all, it must be a pleasure to her to see anything fresh or pretty."

"Did you have any talk with her on religious subjects?"

"No," replied Ethel; "there did not seem to be any time. I only stayed a few minutes; and, then, I was a perfect stranger, you know."

"It appears you found time and confidence for idle remarks on dress," said Aunt Dorinda, severely. "Ethel, you are very wrong—very much to blame. Suppose that poor girl dies before you see her again—her blood may rest on your head."

Ethel was very sensitive to blame. She coloured, and the tears stood in her eyes. "But aunt, how could I? I had never seen her before, and I did not know at all what her feelings were."

"Couldn't you ask her if she were a Christian?"

"I should not have liked to do that."

"Liked to do it! As if liking had anything to do with it! What did you talk about?"

"We did not talk a great deal," said Ethel. "Cathy told me about the place where they used to live in the country; and Mary Anne about her work and her sister. I did not like to stay long. I thought they would rather have the Sunday to themselves. They seemed glad to see me, and I promised to call again soon. I sent her a book from the library by one of the children, as she said she was fond of reading."

"Well, there is no help for it now, but I must think you did very wrong,—'very' wrong, indeed," replied Aunt Dorinda, with emphasis, "gossiping about the country, and about work, and new hats, on this holy day, and when the salvation of an immortal soul was at stake. I thought you professed to be a Christian, Ethel; but if such be the fruits of your religion, I must say I think you need to examine the grounds of your hope, and see that you are not building on the sandy foundation of mistaken confidence. I must say, have seen nothing in you, as yet, which would make me think you sincere. A true Christian is humble and teachable, as well as ready on all occasions to say a word for her Master. Don't you know that if you are ashamed of him, he will be ashamed of you? And you must be ashamed of him, or you would not have denied him, as it seems you did this afternoon."

Ethel was naturally sensitive to blame, as I have said before. She was not very strong, and she was both tired and hungry, so it is perhaps no great wonder that she burst into tears and retreated to her room, feeling very much discouraged and very unhappy. She was sitting by her window in a very disconsolate frame of mind, when Emily came in and found her, and by degrees won from her the story of Aunt Dorinda's lecture.

"Never mind her," said Emily, soothingly; "it is only Aunt Dorinda, you know! I don't think you did anything wrong at all. You could not attack the poor thing all at once in that way; and if you had done it, it is ten to one she would have been disgusted, and would not have wished to see you again."

"That is what I thought," said Ethel; "but I don't know. I feel terribly discouraged somehow. I don't see why Aunt Dorinda should talk so to me, unless I were to blame!"

"Because you did not take her advice about your dress," answered Emily, shrewdly. "Depend upon it, if you had taken off that unlucky blue sash, Aunt Dorinda would have seen nothing wrong about your Christian character. I know her of old. Come, now, don't think any more about it. Lie down, and I will send up your dinner and a nice cup of coffee, and you can have a good time reading and resting."

"Where's the musician?" asked Dr. Ray, as dinner was announced.

"Lying down in her room. I told her I would send up her dinner. She is very tired, and not very well."

"I think she is doing too much on Sunday," said the doctor. "I shall have to take her in hand."

"I suppose she has been crying, and is ashamed to show herself!" said Miss Atwood.

"Well, Aunt Dorinda, I wish you would be careful how you talk to Ethel!" returned Emily. "She is easily discouraged, and you hurt her feelings very deeply!"

"For 'feelings' read 'temper'!" said Miss Atwood.

"When they are somebody else's feelings, and not your own!" interjected the doctor. "Well, come, here is the dinner. Send Ethel something nice, and I will go up and see her by-and-by."

By dint of a good long rest and a cup of coffee, Ethel was able to get up and dress herself for the evening service,—a full proof to Aunt Dorinda's mind that her agitation proceeded from temper, and deserved reproof and correction rather than sympathy.

"Oh dear! I 'am' tired!" said Ethel, throwing herself on the sofa after her return. "How hot it was!"

"Why did you go, then?" asked Miss Atwood, shortly.

"On account of playing the organ, Aunt Dorinda," replied Ethel. "I am organist, you know. Henry, did you notice that Mr. and Mrs. Begg were at chapel?"

"I should hope Mr. Dalton had something better to think of than looking to see who attended church!" said Miss Atwood, severely. "Though I know a great many clergymen do it."

"I don't think I am at all above it, Miss Atwood; and excuse me, but I don't see why I should be. I am naturally interested in seeing that my people attend church regularly, and that outsiders are drawn in. In this case, I am specially interested, because the Beggs are a Roman Catholic family, whose children come to Sunday-school. Are you sure they were there, Ethel?"

"Oh, yes. They came in late, and sat quite near the door. I should not have noticed them, I dare say, only for Mr. Begg's singing in the last hymn. I wish he would come all the time. He has such a superb bass voice, and we are weak in men's voices. I should think you would have noticed his singing."

"And is 'that' all you think of Ethel? Here is a poor sinner, come seeking for the truth, and all you think of is that you wish he would come all the time, not that he may hear and be saved, but because he has a fine bass voice."

Ethel did not know what to say. She was not used to being taken up in Aunt Dorinda's way. She had been very much delighted at seeing the good butcher and his wife in church, for many reasons; and it was not strange that, having the charge of the music, and feeling all the responsibility of a young organist, she should rejoice in any probable accession to her force.

"I have not had a chance to ask you how you found your sick girl," said Mr. Dalton, to nuke a diversion. "Was she glad to see you?"

"Oh, yes, and so much pleased with the flowers. I think her sister seemed a little shy at first, as if she suspected me of some design; but she thawed out, and asked me to come again. I am sure they have an interesting history, if one only knew it."

"You don't know what is the matter with her?" said Dr. Ray.

"No, I couldn't ask, of course—"

"I don't see why!" interrupted Miss Atwood.

Ethel thought she did, but she did not notice the interruption.

"Has the girl had any advice, do you know?" asked Dr. Ray.

"Mary Anne said they had paid over a hundred dollars to Dr. Brown, but he did her no good, and said she could not be cured."

"I dare say," returned the doctor, again. "I wonder how much money that impudent quack carries away from poor people in this city. If you go again, Ethel, you may tell the girl that I will come and see her, if she likes to have me. I might, at least, put her in the way of managing herself better, and making herself more comfortable. They need not mind about the expense. I shall not ask them anything,—at least, till I see that I can do her some good."

"I am sure you are very good, brother," said Ethel, gratefully.

"Not a bit," replied the doctor, perversely. "It is all scientific curiosity."

As the days went on, it became evident that Aunt Dorinda did not mean to forgive Ethel for disregarding her advice, or rather commands. In fact, it was an offence which Aunt Dorinda found it very hard to forgive. She professed great liberality of opinion on many subjects, and was in favour of freedom of thought and action; but practically, she considered that people ought to use their freedom to think and act in just the direction she thought proper to point out. She professed great contempt for prejudice; but if she took up a prejudice herself, nothing on earth could convince her that she was mistaken. She had made up her mind that Ethel was vain, worldly, and ill-tempered, and she meant, as she said, to cure her of these faults, and, if she were self-deceived, to make her know it.

Two or three days after that unlucky Sunday, she came into Ethel's room as she was preparing for bed, announced that she had come for some serious conversation, and began by asking Ethel, solemnly, whether she supposed she were a Christian.

"Why, yes, aunt, I hope so! Why do you ask?"

"Because, to tell you the truth, Ethel,—and I always speak truth without reference to people's so-called 'feelings,'" (a severe emphasis on the feelings,)—"I see very little in your conduct to lead me to think so. I want you to begin and tell me your experience from the beginning, that I may judge whether you have been truly converted."

"I don't think I could, Aunt Dorinda!" said Ethel, very much disturbed. "I never did tell my feelings to anybody, only to Juliet and Henry. I should not know how to begin."

"Just as I supposed!" returned Aunt Dorinda. "No clearness! No definiteness! Unwilling to speak a word on religious subjects, though you can talk fast enough about everything else."

"But, Aunt Dorinda—"

"Now let me put some practical 'tests' to you!" continued Miss Atwood. "Would you be willing to give up everything you value, if you were called upon to do so? For instance, do you think you have grace enough to be willing to be blind or helpless, if the Lord saw fit?"

"I don't know, Aunt Dorinda. I have never thought about it!"

"Or, to take another case, and one which comes still nearer home," continued Miss Atwood: "I see that you have an inordinate fondness for dress. Would you be willing to sacrifice all that, and to dress as plainly as I do?"

"I think I could, if I saw it was my duty," said Ethel; "but, Aunt Dorinda, I don't think I am very fond of dress."

"Of course you don't. That is a part of the self-deception which is blinding your eyes to your true condition!" returned Aunt Dorinda, triumphantly. "You love your dress better than you love the interests of your Master's kingdom, better than you love perishing souls, and yet you say you are not fond of it. Would you be willing to leave all that you have in this country, and go as a missionary to the heathen?"

We, who have followed Ethel through these pages, know that to be a missionary was the most earnest desire of her heart; but that desire was to her a most sacred thing, as yet only to be mentioned to that Friend who knew the inmost recesses of her soul. It did not seem to her a possible thing that she should talk the matter over with Aunt Dorinda, of all people in the world! She coloured, and was silent.

"There, you see you cannot meet one of these 'tests'!" said Miss Atwood. "I might give you many more; but I am sure you must see your true condition by this time. I have suspected it all along, and I am determined that I, at least, will be faithful to you. Don't you 'see' now, Ethel, that you are not a Christian? Answer me!"

"Aunt Dorinda, I wish you would please go away, and leave me to myself!" said Ethel, driven to desperation. "I don't understand you at all, and I don't think you understand me!"

"Of course you think I don't understand you," said Miss Atwood, rising. "That is always the cry. I am sorry to see you show such a temper and spirit, Ethel; but you may see in them another proof of the truth of what I have just told you. If your feelings were right, you would gladly accept reproof. You may deceive yourself by busying yourself with your Sunday-school, and such duties, but all that is worse than useless unless you are a true Christian. I will leave you now, but I shall not let the subject drop."

For several days Ethel was very unhappy.

Aunt Dorinda lost no opportunity of expressing by words and hints her opinion of Ethel's true state. Poor Ethel could do nothing right, and every opinion or sentiment she ventured to put forth was met with sarcasm or reproof, or a flat contradiction. It seemed to her that Miss Atwood took particular pleasure in bringing up disagreeable subjects, and in making slighting or contemptuous remarks upon everything she valued the most. Ethel's church, Ethel's friends, Ethel's pursuits, were all the subjects of animadversion; and if Ethel showed the least annoyance, it was taken as a new proof of her self-deception or hypocrisy.

Nor were these outside annoyances the worst part of her trial. She was always disposed to attach altogether too much weight to the opinions of others, and she really began seriously to doubt whether she had any right to the hope she had been cherishing. She scrutinized her conduct and feelings with the most anxious care. Would she really be willing to become blind, or lame, or suffer any of those trials of which Miss Atwood had spoken? Was her desire of being a missionary a genuine outgrowth of divine love, or was it only a desire to go with her brother? Would she be willing to go to some station away from her brother, among strangers? With many such questions she tormented herself, and the more she looked at herself, the more puzzled and bewildered she became.

If Henry had been at home, he might have helped her, but he had gone out of town for a few days. Emily was far from well, and Ethel knew that in her state of health her mind ought not to be disturbed. Dr. Ray was more than usually busy, and besides, Ethel felt that his own share of the annoyance arising from Aunt Dorinda's presence was enough for him to bear. So she went on in darkness as well as she could, very unhappy, and very much in doubt as to what she ought to do.

"Ethel, why don't you take this opportunity and go up and see your sick girl?" asked Emily, one pleasant afternoon. "Aunt Dorinda is out, so she will not offer to go with you."

Ethel smiled rather sadly.

"I know she is a trial, dear," said Emily, smoothing her sister's hand, and speaking in that peculiarly gentle voice which Ethel always found so soothing and comforting. "I see that she makes you very uncomfortable; but never mind,—she will not stay long, and we must just use her as a 'means of grace,' as your dear mother used to say,—that is all."

"I don't know exactly what you mean, Emily," said Ethel. "Is it right to look upon the faults of other people as sent for our improvement?"

"That is not precisely my idea—that they are sent for our improvement. But you will allow, my dear, that we must be affected in some way by the faults of those we live with. If we let them fret and worry us, and make us repining and impatient, we are the worse for them; while if we try to bear them with patience and gentleness, if we are careful to do nothing to provoke them, and, when we are vexed, to govern our tempers and examine whether we ourselves are not to blame,—why, then we are the better for them; and whatever makes us better is a means of grace, isn't it?"

"I see," replied Ethel; "but it does not seem very flattering to the person concerned."

"We may remember that others are, most likely, doing the same by us!" said Emily, smiling. "But do you think you will go to see Cathy this afternoon?"

"Yes, I believe so. I promised to go, and she seemed pleased at the idea of seeing me again."

"Then will you carry her this bottle of lavender-water, with my love? I got it on purpose for her."

"Oh, thank you ever so much!" exclaimed Ethel. "I thought of that very thing, but I had spent the last penny of my allowance on the cards and tickets for my infants. I will take her some flowers as well; she was so much pleased with those you sent her before."

"You might carry her one of those new geraniums, if you don't mind the load!" remarked Emily. "They are full of buds, and will blossom well in the house."

"And she has a nice east window," said Ethel. "May I take your big basket? That will hold everything, and the flowers will be fresher than if I carried them in my hand."

On her way, Ethel called on Mrs. Trim, to tell her that they had secured a teacher for the knitting class. Lion lay at the gate as usual, but Ethel had quite got over her fear of him, and he, on his part, had decided that she was a person to be trusted. Ethel found the windows closed and the door locked. Mrs. Trim was evidently not at home, and she went on her way to see Catherine Lee. She found the door locked; and then she remembered how Mary Anne had told her that she would find the key in the shop below. She went down, and asked a young girl, who was reading a yellow-covered pamphlet behind the counter, for the key to Miss Lee's room. The young person laid down her book, and scrutinized Ethel from head to foot before she condescended to answer.

"The key hangs behind the door there, close by you," she said, at last. "Are you a friend of the Lees?"

"Yes; Miss Lee knew I was coming," replied Ethel.

"I suppose you are one of the teachers in this new Sunday-school?" continued the young woman. "Well, you can take the key, and leave it here when you go away. I suppose Mary Anne Lee will be more stuck up than ever, now she has some one from the other side to visit her."

Ethel did not think this amiable remark called for any reply. She took the key and went up-stairs, the young woman remarking, as if to society in general, that she "didn't want any Sunday-school teachers poking round after 'her.'"

As Ethel opened the door, she heard a faint moaning from the bedroom, and a moment afterward Cathy's voice was heard asking, "Who is there? Oh, please get me some water!"

Ethel hastened to the bedside.

"Oh, Miss Milton, is it you? I thought it was Mrs. Trim!" said Cathy, who was evidently suffering great pain. "I tipped over my water-pitcher, and in trying to save it, I hurt my leg; and, oh dear, I am in such distress!"

"What can I do for you?" asked Ethel. "You want some water first, of course. Where do you get it?"

"At the well over there by the tavern,—you can see it from the window; but never mind. Perhaps Mrs. Trim or some one will come presently."

Ethel looked out of the window. The well was close to the tavern door, and several farmers and teamsters were standing about it, waiting for their turns to fill their pails. Ten minutes before, Ethel would have lacked courage to face them; and even now she was conscious of an inward sinking of heart; but then Cathy was suffering for the water.

"I will go and bring you some," said she; and taking a little pail, she descended the stairs, and crossed the road to the pump.

"Would you please pump me some water?" she asked, touching one of the men on the arm to attract his attention.

"'Miss!'" said the man, starting as he turned round, and looking at Ethel as if she had dropped from another planet.

[Illustration: _Ethel's Trial._ "Would you please pump me some water?"]

She was plainly enough dressed, but there was always something remarkably elegant in her appearance, and her little confusion made her look even prettier than usual.

"There is a poor sick girl in need of fresh water over there, and she had no one to bring it to her," explained Ethel, feeling that her appearance needed accounting for. "I shall be much obliged to you if you will pump it for me."

The teamster not only pumped the water, but insisted on carrying it across the road for her.

And as Ethel turned away, she heard some one say, "Well, if that ain't the prettiest girl I have seen for many a day!"

"And a real lady, too—anybody can see that," remarked another. "I wonder who she is?"

Cathy drank the water as if she had been three days in the desert; and Ethel began to consider what to do next, as she saw how distressed the poor thing looked.

"Can I do anything else for you? You seem in so much pain."

"It's my leg," said Cathy. "I twisted it and made it swell, and the bandages are too tight. If you would call Mrs. Trim, she will undo it, and put a wet cloth on it."

"Mrs. Trim is not at home," said Ethel. And then, with a great effort, "Cannot I do what is wanted? I have no experience, but you might tell me how."

"Oh my dear, if you could! But, no, I won't ask you. You ain't used to fixing such things, I guess I can stand it till Mrs. Trim comes."

But even as she spoke, a spasm passed across her face, which turned purple with pain, and she uttered an involuntary cry.

Never did a more earnest prayer ascend than the short one which went up from Ethel's heart that moment:

"Lord, help me to do what is right!"

Then she spoke decidedly:

"Cathy, you had better let me try what I can do. You can tell me, you know!"

Cathy made no more objection, and Ethel uncovered the leg and proceeded to unloosen the bandages. Her courage and strength almost gave way at the critical point; but she contrived to splash her own face with cold water in wetting the bandages, and at last the task was accomplished.

"There, I feel better already!" said Cathy, sinking back. "How shall I ever thank you? But oh, I am so faint!"

Ethel thought of the lavender-water, and getting it out, she bathed Cathy's face and hands, and had the pleasure of seeing her colour return after a few minutes.

"Oh, how nice and sweet that is! What is it?" asked Cathy.

"Lavender-water. My sister sent you a bottle full of it, with her love, and this geranium. She thought you would like to see it blossom."

"Set it in the window, please. I will look at it by-and-by," said Cathy. "I love flowers, but I can't do anything but rest just now."

Ethel saw that plainly enough. She wetted Cathy's handkerchief with the perfume, and then went quietly about, putting the flowers in water and arranging the room. She then came back and sat down by the bedside.

Cathy seemed to have sunk into a doze, but presently she opened her eyes and fixed them on Ethel.

"How nice you do look!" she said, with an air of languid pleasure. "All so fresh and neat. It was real good in you to come up here in the heat to see me!"

"I don't mind the heat very much," replied Ethel. "I am very glad I came. You feel easier, don't you?"

"Oh yes, ever so much,—but sleepy. Can you sing, Miss Dalton?"

"Yes," replied Ethel, anticipating the request. "Would you like to have me sing for you?"

"I'd be real glad if you would. I used to sing once, and so did mother; but Mary Anne can't."

Ethel hardly knew what induced her to make the choice, but she sang Topliff's "Consider the lilies."

Cathy lay listening, and when Ethel had finished, she saw that tears were on the sick girl's cheeks.

"I never heard that sung before, but I have said it to myself often enough, especially since you brought the flowers Sunday!" said she. "I wish Mary Anne could hear you. She is a real Christian, I do think, but she doesn't take so much comfort out of her religion as I do, and as I think she ought to; but I can tell you it 'is' real hard to have faith sometimes."

"Yes, indeed," said Ethel. "Even I know that; and of course it must be harder for you, because you have so much to bear."

"Well, I don't know about that," replied Cathy. "I think, when the Lord sends the burden, he sends the faith along to bear it, so that we shall not be utterly broken down. I used to be a regular wild girl,—wild, I mean, about running and taking walks and climbing. I used to be real glad of an excuse to walk miles at a time. I wouldn't have believed then that I could stand it to be shut up here as I am; and yet I do, you see."

"You think the help comes with the trial?" said Ethel, thinking of Aunt Dorinda's tests and her own perplexity. "A lady asked me the other day if I had faith enough to be willing to be blind, and it troubled me that I was not able to answer her."

"I call that borrowing trouble," remarked Cathy. "So long as you have faith enough to be willing to do and bear what comes along every day, why should you worry about what may never happen? The grace will come when it is needed. When the Lord gave his people the manna for one day's food, he did not mean them to be worrying for fear they should not have it the next."

"I might have thought of that," said Ethel. "I am so glad, Cathy, that you feel so; it does me good to hear. Shall I sing again?"

"Do, if you ain't tired. Do you know an old Methodist hymn beginning:

"'Come, my brethren, let us try For a little season'?

"I don't suppose you do, though: mother used to sing it, and I should love to hear it again."

Ethel did know the quaint, sad melody and rugged words of the old hymn, and she sang it through.

"That is the way to do, I think," remarked Cathy,—"to look at the Lord, and not too much at ourselves. I've heard folks, and ministers too, talk about our being humbled by a sight of our own sins; but it does seem to me that one real sight of the Lord's love for us does more to make us really humble and faithful than looking at our own sins forever. Is not that some one coming up the stairs?"

Ethel went into the outer room, and met Dr. Ray at the door.

"So I have found you?" said he. "Emily told me you were up here, and I thought I would call and take you home. How is your patient?"

"She has been suffering very much, but she is better," said Ethel. "Shall I ask her if she will see you?"

"If you like."

"My brother, Dr. Ray, is here," said Ethel, re-entering Cathy's room; "he has called for me: and he wishes to know if you would like to see him."

"I should like it," replied Cathy, evidently embarrassed; "but his time is worth a good deal, I expect!"

"Never mind that," said the doctor himself, overhearing the remark. "We'll call it a friendly visit."

Dr. Ray's manner, in spite of its occasional bluntness, was one to inspire confidence and trust. Cathy was easily won to give the whole history of her illness. Her trouble had come from an injury in the first place.

"It was never so bad till that Dr. Brown doctored it. He was sure he could cure it, and he hurt me dreadfully with the things he put on; but it grew worse all the time, and finally, when we had no more money, he said there was no use in trying any more. For my part, I wished he hadn't begun; but then, as I tell Mary Anne, we acted for the best, and that is all we could do."

"Exactly," said Dr. Ray. "Shall I look at your leg? Ethel, my dear, go into the other room."

"It has been real bad this afternoon," observed Cathy, as Ethel went out. "I was 'most crazy with the pain when your sister first came, but she put a wet cloth on it, and did it all up new for me; so it is quite easy now. I hated to trouble her, but it was a comfort to get it done, I can tell you."

The doctor gave vent to a whistle of surprise, but said nothing. He looked at the leg, and did it up again. Cathy looked eagerly at him.

"Well, I must see you again, and talk with your sister about you, before I can say certainly; but I think it can be cured. Of one thing I am sure: you can be made very much more comfortable very soon, and one of your worst annoyances can be removed directly. I will send up something for a dressing, this evening, with proper directions; and, as I may not be able to come when she is at home, I wish your sister would step into my office at noon to-morrow."

Cathy's thanks were murmured in a very confused manner, but they were understood and accepted.

"Don't dwell too much on what I said about your being cured," said Dr. Ray, at parting. "Helped you may be, I am quite sure. As for the rest, you must hope and pray: you know how to do both, I dare say. Ethel will come and see you again. You may do one another a deal of good. Come, Ethel, my dear, it is time we were going home. Emily will be waiting for us."