“For true charity,
Though ne’er so secret, finds a just reward.”
—MAY.
A PART of the winter’s amusement at Mr. Keith’s was the making of plans for a house to be built the next summer for Dr. and Mrs. Landreth. The doctor had bought an acre of ground adjoining Mildred’s lot, and intended putting on it a large, handsome residence with every modern convenience that was attainable in that region of country.
As soon as the frost was out of the ground the work of cellar-digging and laying the foundation was begun. At that time the doctor hoped the house might be ready for occupancy the next fall; but as the weeks and months glided by that hope grew fainter under the dilatory conduct of workmen and those who supplied material, until the most he allowed himself to anticipate was that the walls would be up and the roof on, so that work upon the inside might be carried forward during the winter.
The delay was somewhat trying to both himself and Mildred, for they had a strong desire to be in a home of their own, though it was a very pleasant life they led in that of her parents.
Mildred kept up her church work; her Sunday-school teaching, attendance upon the weekly prayer-meetings, the sewing society, etc., and also her visits to the sick and the poor.
And now she had the happiness of being able to provide these last with medical attendance gratis, her husband joining her, heart and soul, in her kindly ministrations.
The two were entirely congenial, and their love deepened and strengthened with every day they lived together.
One bright April day the doctor invited his wife to take a drive with him a few miles into the country, on the farther side of the river, whither he was going to see a patient.
He always liked to have her company on such expeditions, when good roads and fine weather made the drive a pleasure; and she never let anything but sickness hinder her from going. She never wearied of his society or grudged the sacrifice of her own plans and purposes to add to his comfort or pleasure.
The intended call had been made, and they turned their faces homeward. The sun was still some two or three hours high, the air pure and bracing; not too cool for those who were well wrapped up; the delicate yellow green of the newly-opened buds was on the forest trees, while at their feet the blue violet, the purple anemone, and other lovely wildwood flowers peeped up here and there among the blades of newly springing grass, or showed their pretty heads half hidden by the carpet of last year’s fallen leaves lying brown and dry upon the ground.
The doctor several times stopped his horse and alighted to gather a handful of the delicate blossoms for Mildred.
She thanked him with appreciative words and smiles, yet half absently, as though her thoughts were intent upon something else. “Charlie,” she said at length, “I should like to call on Mrs. Selby. It is a little out of our way, but I think we have time; and it is strongly impressed upon me that, for some reason, we are needed there.”
“Very well, dearest,” he answered, stepping into the buggy again, and taking the reins from her hands, “then we will drive there at once. There can be no harm in doing so, whether your impression be correct or not.”
The horse was urged into a brisk canter, there were no more pauses for flower-gathering, and presently they drew up before the Selby dwelling—a plain, square log-house, two rooms below and two above.
As they did so, Mrs. Selby appeared at the door, drawn thither by the welcome sound of wheels.
“Oh, how glad I am to see you!” she exclaimed with tears in her eyes. “I was just asking the Lord to send me help somehow, for mother is very sick, and none of the children are old enough to go to town for a doctor. How good He is to send me just what I need!”
“Doctor and nurse both, dear Mrs. Selby,” Mildred said, pressing her hand in heartfelt sympathy, for they had already alighted, and the doctor was fastening his horse preparatory to entering the house.
He found the old lady very seriously ill, but fortunately had the needed remedies with him.
The sun was setting when he went away, leaving Mildred, reluctantly enough, too, but there were medicines to be given at regular intervals during the night, and she was quite resolved to assist in the nursing; while he could not stay, other patients claiming his attention; he left her therefore, promising to return for her at an early hour next morning.
Mildred followed him to the door.
“My darling, I can hardly bear to go without you,” he said, taking her hand in his and bending his head to press a parting kiss upon her sweet lips, his eyes full of wistful tenderness. “’Tis a lonely spot,” he added, with an uneasy glance around upon the woods that enclosed the little clearing on every side; “no man about and not another house within half a mile; none on this side of the river within two miles.”
“No, my dear husband,” she answered, looking up into his face with a sweet, trustful smile, “but you leave me in safe keeping nevertheless. ‘Man is distant, but God is near.’”
“That is true,” he said; “and the path of duty is the safest; you do seem to be needed here. So good-by for a few hours, my precious little wife. ‘The Lord bless thee and keep thee, and cause His face to shine upon thee.’”
“And may He keep my husband also, and bring him safely back to me,” she whispered, putting her arms about his neck, her lips to his.
She watched him till a turn of the road hid him from sight, then went in, and with a serene, cheerful face entered upon her gentle ministrations about the sick-bed, while Mrs. Selby was busied with her children and household cares.
At length all these duties had been carefully attended to, doors and window-shutters bolted and barred, the children put to bed, where they were presently soundly sleeping.
The invalid too had fallen into a heavy slumber under the influence of an opiate, and the two ladies sat down together for a little chat, in the neat outer room, which served as kitchen, sitting-room, and parlor.
The evening was chilly, but a bright wood fire burned and crackled in the large open fireplace. They drew their chairs near to it and to each other and conversed in low tones, for the door into the inner apartment where the sleepers were stood open, and while they talked their ears were intent to catch the slightest sound from the sick-bed.
“It was so kind in you to stay with me to-night, and in the doctor to leave you,” Mrs. Selby said, with a grateful pressure of Mildred’s hand.
“I am sure you would have done the same for me in like circumstances,” returned Mildred, “and who that loves the Master could do otherwise, remembering His words, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me’?”
“I am sure He sent you and the doctor here to-day in answer to prayer,” Mrs. Selby went on, her eyes filling with grateful tears. “I think mother would have died before morning without better help than I could give her.”
“We will give Him all the praise,” Mildred said with emotion. “He sent us, and I feel it very sweet to be sent on His errands.” Her eyes shone as she spoke.
“Yes,” was the reply, “I have found it so when He has sent me, as I am sure He sometimes has, to minister to the troubled in heart, the sick and dying. I often feel thankful, Mrs. Landreth, that money isn’t always the only thing we can serve Him with; because that would shut me off almost entirely.”
“No, it is not always even the best or most acceptable,” Mildred said, with her sweet cheery smile.
“Yet there are times when it is more welcome than almost anything else, it being unfortunately so very necessary in this world of ours. Ah! Mrs. Landreth, even at the risk of seeming to talk a great deal about myself, I must tell you what happened to me last fall. I was walking into town one cold day in November, feeling so sad at heart thinking over our many necessities and how impossible it seemed to supply them; mother needed flannel badly and my little boys had no shoes. I was praying silently for help all the way and trying to stay myself upon God and those precious verses in the sixth chapter of Matthew about the fowls of the air and the lilies of the field, and the sweet words, ‘Your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.’ They did comfort me a good deal, but my faith wasn’t strong enough to quite lift the burden off me—the need was so very pressing and no sign of help at hand.”
“They would trust me at the stores, I knew, but to buy on credit, or borrow money when you can see no way of paying it back, is, I think, no better than stealing, so I couldn’t do that. Just as that thought was in my mind I looked up and saw that I was in front of the post-office. I hadn’t thought of going there, because I had no reason to expect anything by mail, but I stepped in and asked if there was a letter for me; and you can’t think how surprised I was when they handed me one, and I tore it open and found a ten-dollar bill in it. Nothing else, not a word of writing to say where it came from. But I knew my heavenly Father had sent it, and I cried for very joy and thankfulness—behind my veil—as I walked along the street.”
Mildred’s heart and eyes were full as she listened. Ah, how sweet it was to have been made the blessed Master’s almoner to one of His dear children! But her face was half averted lest it should betray her secret, and Mrs. Selby’s own emotion assisted in the desired concealment.
“I thought I should never again doubt the love and care of my heavenly Father,” the latter went on after a moment’s pause in which Mildred’s hand sought hers and pressed it in loving sympathy. “I went to Chetwood & Mocker’s and bought the flannel and the shoes. (Mr. Chetwood waited on me himself, and I felt sure he put the goods down to me, probably at cost.) And such a rejoicing as there was when I got home! I really believe, Mrs. Landreth, that those who have but little of this world’s goods enjoy them all the more; and so things are more evenly divided among us all than most people think.”
The clock struck nine, and Mildred begged Mrs. Selby to lie down and try to sleep. “You know,” she said with an arch smile, “the doctor’s orders were that we should take turns in watching and sleeping, so that each should have half a night’s rest.”
“Yes; and you mean to obey, like a good little wife,” returned her friend with playful look and tone. “But won’t you take the first turn at sleeping?”
“No, no; I feel quite fresh, and you are looking sadly tired.”
Mrs. Selby yielded, stretched herself upon a lounge, saying, “Please be sure to call me at twelve, or sooner if you feel like lying down,” and fell asleep almost before Mildred had finished covering her carefully with a heavy blanket shawl.
Mildred sat musing by the fire for a little, then seeing it was the hour for giving the medicine, administered it—the invalid just rousing sufficiently to take it, and falling off into a heavy sleep again immediately—then returning to the outer room, found a book, seated herself near the light, and began to read.
She paused presently, and sat for a moment noting the death-like quiet that reigned within and without the dwelling, broken only by a faint sound of breathing from the next room and the ticking of the little wooden clock on the mantel.
But the fire needed replenishing. She attended to it with as little noise as possible, and returned to her book.