Chapter XII: Sorrowful Tidings

IN the morning following Ellen's first day in the hospital, the sun was shining brightly on her home, although the fields about it lay bare and hard, sparkling with hoar-frost. A bright fire was burning on the kitchen hearth, and Mrs. Mansfield, with her sleeves turned up to her elbows, and wearing a holland apron, was engaged in kneading the dough for the week's batch of bread.

Lucy's voice was heard in the room above, singing blithely as she went about her domestic tasks; the baby was crawling on the rug which lay in front of the fire, taking evident pride in his sturdy limbs, as he sprawled about and crowed with delight.

And in a large arm-chair beside the glowing hearth sat Jerry, no longer confined to his room, but able to join the family circle, though still weak and ailing. As he sat patiently teaching his little brothers, Johnny and Willy, to read from the sacred volume which lay open on his knee, his face wore a more hopeful look than when we last saw him, and seemed to promise the return of health.

"Oh, here comes the postman!" exclaimed their mother, looking up as she heard the gate swing on its hinges. "He's bringing us a letter from Ellen, no doubt. Run, Johnny, and take it from him."

Johnny needed no second bidding, but hastened to the door, and quickly returned with a letter for his mother.

"Why, it's from your Aunt Matilda!" said she, as she glanced at it. "It isn't often she writes. Dear me! I hope there's nothing the matter with Ellen. Read it to me, please, Jerry, for I can't take my hands out of the bread, or it will be spoiled."

Jerry took the letter Johnny handed him and opened it, his mother anxiously waiting to hear the contents.

The letter was worded in the abrupt style peculiar to Miss Mansfield's speech, and was as brief as the nature of the communication permitted.

"My dear sister," she wrote, "I am sorry to send you bad news, but you must be thankful it's no worse, as it might well have been. Yesterday evening, in my absence from home, Ellen and her fellow-apprentice disobeyed my express command, and carried a candle into the show-room, and in their carelessness managed to set fire to some expensive muslins which had been placed there. Ellen was well punished for her disobedience, and might have been burnt to death, if I had not come in just in time to help her. However, she was badly burnt, though not dangerously, and by the doctor's advice, I had her at once removed to the hospital, where everything has been done for her that could be, and she seems fairly comfortable, and in a way to recover soon. Hoping you will not let this distress you greatly, and assuring you that I will do all that I can for Ellen.

"I remain, yours affectionately,

"MATILDA MANSFIELD."

As Jerry, in faltering tones, read this letter, his mother was much dismayed.

Forgetful of her dough, she almost took the letter from his hand before he had finished, so anxious was she to ascertain its exact contents.

Her sister-in-law's injunction that she should not distress herself was of little use.

Ellen almost burned to death, and lying in a hospital—the idea suggested a picture of suffering far worse than the reality!

The mother's heart felt keenly the pain her child was enduring, and the loneliness of her position.

"Oh, my poor child!" she wailed. "Badly burnt, and away from her mother in a hospital! I cannot bear to think of it. But I must go to her. I cannot let her suffer so alone, with no one to care for her, for I know her aunt has little tenderness to give any one, though I dare say she means well. I must manage to go somehow. Willy and Johnny, run off as fast as you can and look for father, and ask him to come to me at once."

As the little boys ran away to do her bidding, Mrs. Mansfield sank on to the nearest chair and burst into tears.

"Oh, Jerry, this is a dreadful thing!" she sobbed. "I have no doubt your sister is in a most serious state. 'Badly burnt,' you see, your aunt says, and very likely would not tell me the worst. I dare say the poor dear has received injuries that may last for life."

"Oh, no, mother; I don't think she is so bad as that," replied Jerry, striving to comfort her, though tears were shining in his eyes as he spoke. "Aunt says she is in a way to recover soon. She would not say so, if there was any fear of her being always ill—like me."

"I don't know that," returned his mother, shaking her head despondingly. "She would not tell me all the truth at once, for fear of alarming me too much. I misdoubt there's more behind her words than you think."

Jerry's heart had already been lifted up in silent prayer to the Saviour on Ellen's behalf. He now ventured to say timidly,—

"Mother, don't you cry so. Jesus will take care of Ellen. I have asked Him to make her well; won't you ask Him too?"

"Oh, Jerry, I can't," she sighed; "I don't feel like praying now."

"If you were to pray, you would feel better able to bear it, mother," said the little invalid, wise beyond his years.

"I wish I had your faith, my boy," said his mother, as she knelt down beside him, and fondly kissed his cheek. "You pray, Jerry; I can't."

There was a moment's hesitation, and then the boy, folding his thin hands, simply but solemnly uttered the following prayer:

"O Lord Jesus, we know that Thou art the Great Physician, and can make people well, and art willing to help us in all troubles. Look upon dear Nelly, O Lord, we pray, and make her soon well again, and bless and comfort us, and give us more faith in Thee. Amen."

"Amen," murmured his mother, "amen."

And she rose up stronger in heart, and set about making preparations for her speedy departure. In these, her husband soon aided her, for he was as anxious as his wife that the "poor lass" should not be left alone in suffering any longer than could be helped. They had but vague notions of the arrangements of a hospital, and thought of it as an undesirable abode. Had they known the comforts and advantages which Ellen enjoyed, they might not have bewailed her situation as they did.

It was no easy matter for Mrs. Mansfield to leave her baby and little children, even to go to her eldest child, the thought of whose sufferings so excited her motherly love and pity. But she had full confidence in the elder ones, Tom and Lucy, to whose care she entrusted their young brothers and sisters. With many careful injunctions, and not without tears, she at length said good-bye to them all, and started to catch the train for Charmouth. The remembrance of Jerry's prayer went with her, and more than once on her journey thither, did her heart repeat its simple petitions.