CONSCIENCE.

Mr Sanderson would not allow Katie to sit up late. Indeed, she could not have kept awake, and would have been of little use if she could. She shared Nina’s bed in the room where the younger children slept, but lay awake thinking, long after that irresponsible little girl was asleep by her side. Everything seemed so strange. It was the first night she had ever spent away from her own home, and she could not help wondering how Tessa and the boys were getting along, and what they had for supper. She thought of her mother and of the anxiety which, when she heard where she was, she would feel about her; and she wondered if she should have the fever, and if she did if she should die, as one of the patients at the hospital had already done. Then she wondered if Bertie would die, and a strange sort of awe came over her at such a thought in connection with one who had been her playmate ever since she could remember. It made death seem very near, and she wondered if she were fit to die. But that thought did not trouble her much. Nothing, either in life or death, can really hurt those who love Jesus and trust in his protection. She asked him to make her ready to die when he chose, and then, being of a very hopeful, cheerful nature, began to think of other things.

How could Bertie have circulated those stories about her? And, what was more important, how could she set herself right in the eyes of the other girls, and especially in those of Miss Eunice and Miss Etta? She could not go and say to the latter: “I know Bertie called me a thief, but I am not one,” and then tell the story just as it was. They might not believe her, and if they did it would be betraying Bertie, and that would not be kind, particularly now that the latter was so ill. Or if she could have told the young ladies and, with the help of Mr. James, made it all straight with them, she could not go around to all the girls and explain what to them were half-defined suspicions. Even if she told the story of the fifty-dollar bill and her version of it were believed, they might very naturally think that there was something else, and that Bertie would scarcely have based her charge of theft on so slight and easily to be explained a circumstance as that. What should she do? It was dreadful to live under such a cloud; to have people consider you wicked when you are desiring and trying with all your might to be good, and not be able to right yourself at all. Again a feeling toward Bertie arose in the girl’s heart that would have been hatred but for her companion’s present condition, and which she felt to be wrong even as it was. For the thought of Jesus and how he forgave his enemies made her feel ashamed of herself, till she got out of bed and, kneeling down in the moonlight, prayed to be made more like him and to be willing to suffer wrongfully, if need be, with patience, rather than to feel wrong or to do anything unkind. And then, as she got into bed again, the scripture words with which she had commenced her factory life came back to her with new force:

“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” And then those others in the thirty-seventh Psalm: “Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass. He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light.”

That was the safest way. She might leave it to God to take care of her reputation. He could manage it though she could not, and some time everybody would understand just how it was, and know she was not a thief. Meantime she could afford to wait his time.

The next morning Mr. Sanderson promised to send word to the mill about Katie’s absence and its cause, and when he left for the bindery his wife came downstairs to see to things, and she took her place in the sick-room, while Nina went to sit with Alf. Mrs. Sanderson was surprised to see how much Katie had managed to do before breakfast and in the interim between, exciting in Nina quite an ambition to wash dishes and “clean up.” The little children had been nicely washed and dressed and were, when their mother went down, sitting on the kitchen doorstep with a kitten between them, over which, for a wonder, they were neither fretting nor quarreling. The breakfast things were all put away, the floor swept, and there was a general look of comfort which had not existed in that house for more than a week. The poor tired woman sank into a rocking-chair, saying to herself, “I don’t see how it is some people’s children are so handy. Mine don’t ever do anything they can help. It’s some people’s luck.” It never came into Mrs. Sanderson’s head that the “luck” of good, efficient children is largely dependent upon the sensible training given them by their mothers.

The doctor, when he came, found Bertie much easier, if not absolutely better. He could not tell quite yet if there were any likelihood of her recovery, but the quieter she could be kept, and the more sleep she could get, the more chance she would have. He told Katie she was a famous nurse, and he should trust her to keep the room still, dark, and cool, and to soothe her friend as much as she possibly could. He furthermore told her that he had seen her mother, who approved of her remaining where she was, though of course she was very anxious lest she should take the fever and very sorry that she had gone to the house in the first place.

“I promised to watch you closely,” said he, “and the moment I saw any symptoms, take you to her to be nursed. But I don’t believe you will have it if you take care of yourself. You are in the path of duty, and I have often observed that those who are there seldom come to any harm.”

It seemed a very long day to restless, active Katie, and yet in one sense it was a relief from the steady, monotonous work in the mill. Bertie was so quiet at first that she was able to wait upon her and Alf. both, and let Nina go down to help her mother get dinner. But after a while she began to toss and mutter, and then came those wild cries for Katie Robertson; that she had something to tell her; that she hadn’t told a lie, for Katie was a thief.

When or how the change came the watcher hardly knew, but all at once she became aware that Bertie lay looking directly at her, and that there was full recognition in her eyes. Neither girl spoke for a moment; then Bertie said with a kind of shudder:

“Am I dead?”

“No, indeed,” said the other, not without some effort to speak cheerfully. “You are going to get well now; only keep still and don’t tire yourself.”

“I am going to die,” said Bertie, slowly; “and I can’t die, I am so wicked. Katie, I said dreadful things about you. I made all the girls hate you, and Miss Etta, too; but it wasn’t quite a lie, for I did see you take the money.”

“Yes,” said Katie, quietly, “I did find a fifty-dollar bill in an old vest, and I suppose you saw me; but why didn’t you tell me you saw it, instead of telling the girls? Then I could have explained all about it?”

“I don’t know,” said Bertie, uneasily. “Yes, I do; that’s another lie, and I don’t mean to tell lies now, I didn’t want to have it explained. I wanted the girls to dislike you as much as I did.”

“Why?” said Katie, astonished.

“Oh, well, you preached to me, and pretended to be a saint, and Miss Etta and everybody thought you were so good, and”

“Shall I tell you about that bill now?”

“Yes, do!”

So Katie told her companion just how it happened, and it was all so simple that she wondered how she could have made such a story of it.

“I wonder you didn’t keep the bill, and not take it to Mr. James,” she said. “I should.”

“I did have a little fight about it,” said Katie, blushing. “It was a great temptation. I’m not so very good, but”

“But what?” said Bertie, eagerly, looking at her.

“I think the Lord Jesus helped me. I asked him, and he says he will help us to be good.”

“Do you think he would help me?”

“I am sure he would. O Bertie, do ask him! I am so glad!”

“Are you?” said the sick girl, dreamily. But the effort to talk or think longer in her weakened state was too great. She seemed to float away again, and by degrees the same wild look came into her eyes, the tossings began again, and the low mutterings and sharp cries. It was very painful both to see and hear, but Katie was glad to notice that her own name no longer mingled in the confused talk, and the consciousness of wrong-doing toward herself seemed to have passed away.

In the evening the doctor said that the patient had had a relapse, and questioned her young nurse very particularly as to whether she had shown any consciousness; and being told that she had seemed for a little while to be quite herself, he asked if she had spoken. Katie said that she had talked quite rationally about something that had distressed her for some time, but she did not say what that something was.

“Bad,” said he; “you should never let a fever patient talk, no matter how much she may try. But I mustn’t scold you, I suppose; you are too young for such a responsibility, and your friend there is extremely ill.”

Then he went downstairs and consulted Bertie’s parents, and the result was that a letter was written to the city aunt begging her to come and help take care of the two sick children. The doctor wrote it himself, stating as delicately as he could the extreme urgency of the case, the inefficiency of the mother, the dangerous illness of the children, and the impossibility of securing any assistance in the care of them except that of an inexperienced little girl, who was herself in constant danger of being added to the list of patients.

In answer to this appeal, after a couple of days, Mrs. Jamieson, who, if a silly, overindulgent mother, was a much more efficient woman than her sister, made her appearance in Squantown, and under her supervision matters were soon in a better condition, and Katie was no longer needed. She had made herself extremely useful, however, and all the family were unfeignedly obliged to her. The children could not bear to have her go, and Mr. Sanderson insisted upon giving her as much money as she would have earned during the days she had been absent from the mill. Dr. Bolen said she showed no signs of having taken the infection and it would be quite safe for her to go home if she would change all her clothes for those which Eric took to the bindery and Mr. Sanderson carried home, leaving everything she had worn in the sick-room behind her, and then would take a long walk, where the wind could blow her hair about and freshen her up thoroughly.

Tessa and Katie had a long, long talk that night. The former had many things to tell of what had happened both in the mill and at home during the absence of the latter; how the rag-room had been closed and fumigated, the foreign rags all burned, and the girls and Miss Peters enjoyed a three days’ holiday without having it deducted from their wages; how the old cat had presented the household with a lovely family of downy kittens, for which Alfred had made a little house in a box out in the yard; and how both boys had been very patient toward her cookery, laughing at her mistakes and helping her with their superior knowledge; and how they had stayed at home and played games with her every evening, thus preventing her from taking to novels again to cheer her loneliness, as she should otherwise have felt tempted to do.

Then Katie told Tessa all about the fifty-dollar bill, of which she had never heard before and Bertie’s unkindness in setting everybody against her; and Tessa said she had heard the rumors, and often tried to make the girls tell her what they meant, but the only thing she could find out was that Katie was dishonest.

“I wonder you were friends with me, then,” said Katie. “I should think you would have avoided me, just as all the other girls did. Weren’t you ashamed to associate with a thief?”

“Oh, Katie, you know I couldn’t believe such a thing of you! you who have been my best friend the only real friend I have ever had.”

“But why didn’t you tell me what you had heard, and ask me to explain it? You see how easily I could have done so.”

“Somehow I didn’t like to. It seemed like doubting you even to repeat the lies. I knew they were lies all the time, and I loved you better than anybody else in the world. What consequence was it to me what other people said about you?”

How to clear the matter up, neither of the girls knew. For it would be still more cruel and dishonorable, as they thought, to tell what Bertie had done, now that she had confessed it herself and was lying so low. But Katie had learned to “commit her way unto the Lord,” and she was not troubled any more about the matter.

“I should think you’d hate Bertie,” said Tessa, with Italian intensity. “I don’t see how you could bring yourself to stay there and take care of her when you knew how much she had injured you. I should have felt like putting poison into her drink or smothering her with the pillows.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” said the other, laughing, but immediately becoming grave again. “You couldn’t hate any one who was dying, and besides, it wouldn’t be like Jesus.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you see? Jesus gave up his life for sinners, for those who were his enemies. It makes me love him whenever I think of it, and I want to be like him. This was a good chance, and I think he helped me to overcome all kind of hard feeling. I only longed to do everything I could to make her more comfortable.”

“I wish I could love Jesus as you do. My father used to tell me religion was just the priests deceiving silly women, and reminded me how the robbers and beggars in Italy would kneel before the crucifixes, shed tears as they said their prayers, and then turn away and be just as wicked as before. But to you it all seems real, and it, or something, makes you just the best girl I ever saw. But I can’t feel so.”

“Yes, you can; our Lord Jesus says ’whosoever will, may take of the water of life freely,’ and ’him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.’ You must be one of the ‘whosoever.’ O Tessa, I only wish you’d come!”

But Tessa did not answer, and Katie, thinking her asleep, soon followed her example.