GOOD FOR EVIL.

“Bertie Sanderson has not been in the mill for a week,” said Tessa to Katie, as the two friends walked home together one hot afternoon. “One of the rag-room girls said so. I wonder if she has the fever!”

“That’s not likely; the girls are all getting better,” said her companion.

“Yes; but she’s been absent for more than a week,” persisted Tessa. “Let’s go round that way and inquire.”

But Katie, somehow, shrank from this. While she knew nothing with absolute certainty, she could not help feeling that Bertie was in some way connected with the general avoidance of herself by the girls of the Sunday-school class, and the evident suspicion with which both Miss Eunice and Miss Etta regarded her. What her former companion could have said or done, she had no idea; but the sense of an undefined something had made her of late keep as far as possible from Bertie. She was about to say with her usual impulsiveness:

“No; I hate Bertie! Don’t let’s go near her,” when she remembered all her purposes of doing Tessa good and setting her a Christian example. Is it Christian to cherish a dislike of another because one has reason to suppose that other has done one an injury? Katie’s enlightened conscience knew it was not. It was not like him who said:

“Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you;” and who, by acting in strict accordance with his own teachings, “left us an example that we should follow in his steps.”

For a few moments the little girl said nothing as she walked silently by the side of her companion; then, having during those silent moments sent up an earnest prayer that the hateful feelings might be taken away from her heart, that so she might become more like Christ, she answered by turning her steps in the other direction.

The two girls found, as Tessa had suggested, that Bertie had indeed taken the fever, and was very ill in her own comfortable home. Dr. Bolen had suggested her being removed to the temporary hospital, and being cared for by the competent nurses there; but her mother would not hear of it. She was always a very foolish woman, had been very much opposed to her daughter’s going into the mill, and now told her husband that this fever was all the result of his obstinacy, and she hoped he enjoyed having murdered his own child. Now, however, she meant to have her own way. Her Bertie, who was every bit as good as the city young ladies, her cousins, was not to go to an empty house and be nursed with a lot of common mill-girls. If her mother couldn’t take care of her, she should like to know who could which would have been unanswerable if Mrs. Sanderson had known how to nurse anybody a thing of which she was profoundly ignorant. So poor Bertie had a hard time of it, and daily grew worse instead of better; and as if this were not enough, Mrs. Sanderson never thought of isolating the patient, or of keeping the other children from her, and before long the third child, a boy of six years old, was taken down with the fever also, and the incompetent mother had her hands more than full with the care of her house, the two patients, and two fretful, badly trained little children, with only Nina, who had never been taught to do anything in the world, to help her.

Matters were in this state on the evening when the girls called, and poor Mrs. Sanderson, coming to the door, without an atom of prudence or caution, insisted on dragging in Katie at least, because in her wild delirium Bertie had been incessantly shouting her name. Katie was impulsive, not very old or experienced, and had, moreover, been always taught to obey grown people, so without a thought of possible danger to herself, she followed the woman into the house, while Tessa waited for her outside, and was soon standing by the bedside of her old acquaintance.

She would never have known Bertie Sanderson. The long, disorderly hair, as well as the disfiguring “bangs,” had, by the doctor’s orders, all been shaved off; the round, rosy cheeks were pallid and sunken; the solid frame was wasted almost to a skeleton, and there was a fierce, wild look in the eyes alternated with an expression of intense fear.

Katie stood aghast, and even as she looked the wasted lips suddenly shrieked out:

“Katie, Katie Robertson! Send her here. I want to tell her something.”

“I am here,” said Katie, as soothingly as she could, for her fright.

But Bertie took no sort of notice of her; evidently did not recognize her at all, and went on:

“It wasn’t a lie! I did see her find it and put it in her pocket. That’s being a thief, isn’t it? It was money a great deal of money. I saw a five and a nought. It wasn’t a lie, I tell you! She did steal it! Katie’s a thief, for all she’s so saintly.”

Katie started. This, then, was the mystery; this was the secret thing that had been setting so many against her. She had never in all her speculations concerning the general avoidance thought of this as a cause. Bertie must have seen her find that fifty-dollar bill and put it in her pocket. But even if, from mere idleness, she had repeated the story to her companions, had she told simply what she really saw, could it be called stealing? And if Miss Eunice or Miss Etta had heard it they would naturally have spoken of it to their brother; he would have told the facts as he knew them, and that would have made matters all straight.

Bertie must have altered her tale in some way, exaggerated it, or suppressed a part. What for? Could her companion be so malicious as simply to desire to make her unpopular and to prevent the young ladies from looking upon her with approbation? She could not understand it. Of course she could not, for malice and jealousy were entirely foreign to Katie’s nature, even if she had not been striving “in all her ways to acknowledge” her Saviour. She did wish, however, that she had thought of mentioning her good fortune and Mr. James’s kindness at the time, that all this trouble might have been avoided.

Meanwhile Bertie began to moan and cry and call for Katie; and the latter, after speaking in vain again and again, turned to go.

“Oh, don’t go away!” said Mrs. Sanderson, imperatively. “She’ll know you by-and-by; and I can’t stand her calling for you; besides, if you can just stay with Bertie and give her the medicine and drink, I might get a chance to see to Alf., who is most as bad as she is, and see what Nina’s doing with those children; they’ve been screaming this half-hour. I don’t believe she’s given ’em a mite of dinner, and I guess there ain’t anything in the house for supper. You just stay where you are.”

Not a thought had selfish Mrs. Sanderson for the fact that she was exposing a neighbor’s child to the same evil which had overtaken her own. Nor in Katie’s inexperience did she think of it either; but she did feel very indignant at the tone of command and very much inclined to rebel.

Moreover, she did not want to stay and take care of a girl who had behaved so shamefully toward herself. One by one the bitter things she had been forced to endure through this girl’s treachery and deceitfulness came to her remembrance the avoidance of her companions, the disapprobation and suspicion of the overseer, the changed manner of her Sunday-school teacher, the tears she had shed in secret, and the discouragement she had felt in her efforts to be good; and a sense of indignation possessed her which for a moment made her feel almost glad that the girl had thus got her deserts.

But this feeling was not of long continuance. The Good Spirit, who was leading Katie along the paths of righteousness, would not allow her to turn aside from them because for the moment the way seemed unpleasant and opposed to her natural inclinations. Unheard by outward ears, but heard quite plainly in her heart, he whispered words that made the little girl pause and think a second time before she refused to do as she was commanded. Here was a good opportunity of being like Christ. He forgave his enemies. He was kind to the unthankful and the evil. He gave up his life that those who hated and persecuted and finally killed Him might be saved. This thought decided her.

“Let me speak a word to Tessa first,” she said; “then I’ll stay.”

She then told her waiting companion how ill Bertie was, and how Mrs. Sanderson was overwhelmed with so many to see to, and wanted her to stay and help. She asked Tessa to get tea for the boys and send one of them for her at bedtime, all of which her friend promised faithfully to attend to, and went her way.

When Katie returned to the sick-room, Mrs. Sanderson actually thanked her, and then went off, glad to attend to other responsibilities, and the young nurse was left with the excited, tossing patient. Strangely to herself, she did not feel the least anger or bitterness toward her now, in spite of all her unkindness to herself. The words which had been in a recent Sunday-school lesson, “I was sick and ye visited me,” came again and again to her mind, and it hardly seemed to be Bertie to whom she was called to minister. She had no experience in sickness, but to some people nursing is an intuitive gift, and Katie inherited it from her mother. Her touch was cool and light. She seemed to know by instinct when the patient needed drink or change of position. She smoothed the disordered bed, shook up the pillows, turned the cool side uppermost, closed the open blind through which the western sun was blazing into the sick girl’s eyes, and finding a large newspaper lying on the floor, made a fan of it, keeping off the flies and creating a current of air, till by degrees the tossings and cries ceased, the wildly staring eyes closed, and Bertie fell into a light, though restless, sleep.

Meanwhile, Mr. Sanderson had come home from the bindery, and seemed surprised to find Katie sitting so quietly by his sick child. He remonstrated with his wife in another room for exposing a stranger to such danger of infection; but when she asked him what she was to do with two sick children and three well ones on her hands, and who was to get the meals for them all, he had no answer to give, only he set about making the fire and getting supper himself, holding the baby on one arm and telling Nina what to do about setting the table. When all was ready he sent Katie down to her supper and himself watched the two sick children, which, now that one of them slept, was quite possible, resuming his watch after he had had his own. Mrs. Sanderson declared that she was completely “beat out,” as well she might be, poor woman, and dropping on the lounge in the sitting-room was asleep in a moment, while Katie coaxed Nina to help her wash the dishes, clear up the room, and put the two younger children to bed.

By this time Dr. Bolen came in, looked at his patients, and said that, though Bertie was certainly not better, sleep was the best thing for her and should be encouraged as much as possible. Alf., he thought, would do well. Then seeing Katie and not recognizing her, he asked where that other girl came from and what she was doing there. Mrs. Sanderson explained, dwelling emphatically upon Bertie’s cries for her friend and the soothing influence her presence had exerted.

“That’s all very well,” said the doctor; “but how am I going to excuse it to her mother if she gets the fever, and what am I going to do with another patient upon my hands and no one to nurse her?”

“Oh, well, there’s no harm done. She’s only been here a little while, and her brother’s coming to take her home before long.”

“Not quite so fast, my good lady. She has been exposed to the fever already, and if she goes home now, may communicate it to her two brothers or the other girl that boards with them. Then her mother would be sure to go home to take care of them, and there would be an end of my hospital and my quarantine. No; she must either go to her mother and take her chance there, or she must stay here till we see whether she has escaped the contagion.”

“Please, let me stay here,” said Katie, who had overheard this conversation. “I don’t think I shall have the fever, but I am sure I can be of use to them all.”

“Wouldn’t you like to go and be with your mother?”

“Yes, sir, I’d like to, but I’d rather stay here; because, because they need me, and” the rest of the sentence was spoken low as if without being intended for any one to hear, but both the doctor and Mr. Sanderson heard it and marveled at the words. They were:

“Even Christ pleased not himself.”