Chapter VIII: A Lonely Sufferer

MISS GRAHAM did not forget her intention of visiting Mary and discovering the reason of her absence from the Bible-class.

Early in the week, she directed her steps to the narrow street in an obscure quarter of the town where Mary occupied a small room over a greengrocer's shop.

"Is Mary Nelson within?" Miss Graham inquired of an untidy-looking woman, with a face expressive of indolent good-humour, who stood behind the counter of the close little shop, redolent of many odours, that of onions being the most perceptible.

"Yes, miss, she's within certainly, for she can't leave her bed: she's very bad indeed."

"Oh! I am grieved to hear that," exclaimed Miss Graham. "I feared she must be ill. May I go up to her room?"

"Yes, if you please, miss. I'm sure she'll be very thankful to see you, for she's in great trouble, poor girl."

Anxious as the woman's words rendered Miss Graham, she was little prepared to find Mary so ill as she was. Of delicate constitution, and highly susceptible of cold, Mary had been unable to throw off a chill taken on a wet day which had been passed in going about from one place to another in search of employment, and severe inflammation of the lungs was the result. That she was most seriously ill, Miss Graham could not doubt as she looked upon her white, strangely-altered countenance, and met the excited gaze of those usually calm eyes.

"Oh! Miss Graham, is it you?" exclaimed the girl, in a hoarse whisper. "How kind of you to come! I am so glad to see you!"

"My dear girl, I am grieved to find you so ill," said her teacher, with difficulty concealing the alarm Mary's appearance caused her. "How long have you been thus?"

"I have been in bed nearly a week," replied Mary. "I tried to keep up as long as I could, and I was obliged to go out to see about getting work; but I gave in at last. The pain at my side has been dreadful."

"It is a pity that you did not give in sooner, I think," said Miss Graham. "But now, let me see what I can do for you. Being a doctor's daughter, I ought to have some notion how to treat sick folk. Have you had no advice?"

"Mrs. Jones got me some cough mixture at the chemist's, and some stuff to rub on my chest," replied Mary; "but they don't seem to have done me any good."

"When I go home, Mary, I will ask my father to come and look at you," said Miss Graham, as she gently raised the pillow and placed the sick girl in a more easy position. "He will be able to give you something to relieve you, I trust."

"You are very kind," murmured poor Mary, as she held her teacher's hand tightly in her own wasted one, and looked up into her face with eyes full of love. "You are very kind, Miss Graham, but I don't think it will be of any use for him to come."

"Why, have you such a poor opinion of his skill?" said her friend, trying to speak lightly, though her heart was heavy enough.

"No, you know I do not mean that," said Mary, speaking with difficulty. "But I feel so Ill, and I do not think that I shall ever be any better. Something seems to tell me that I shall not be here long. And I am not sorry that it should be so, for I feel weary of life."

"It is not strange that you should feel so," replied Miss Graham. "We are all apt to get sad and depressed when we are ill. But I hope you will soon be better, and live to see many and happy days, if it be God's will. But whatever may be the issue of this illness, I trust you know Him who is our best Friend, in life or death. Can you feel that the arms of His love are about you?"

A faint smile passed over Mary's face as she answered, "Yes, I have long trusted and loved Him. I often have wished to tell you so, but I did not like. I have been a poor Christian, so faithless and cowardly; but I don't know what I should have done all these years without Jesus. You don't know what a dreary life it is to sit sewing all day long, till one's side aches, and one feels ill all over. I used to think sometimes that if the ladies who wore the pretty dresses knew what it cost us poor girls to make them, they wouldn't care about them so much. Well, I don't think I shall ever make any more. You know Miss Mansfield would not let me work for her any longer, because I could not consent to work on Sunday. It has been such a trouble to me, for no one else would take me on, and my money is almost gone. Indeed, I could not pay Mrs. Jones my rent last week, but she was kind enough to say it did not matter till I was well again."

"Do not trouble about that, dear Mary," said Miss Graham gently. "It shall be made right."

"Thank you; you are so good to me. Before you came I was feeling so lonely and miserable, I thought it seemed as if God had forgotten me. But He hadn't, you see, for He sent you to comfort me."

"God never forgets His children, nor forsakes them in trouble," observed her teacher, adding, as she noticed the girl's excited appearance, "Now, I cannot let you talk any longer; you must keep quiet, or I shall be obliged to leave you."

"Oh, do not say that!" pleaded Mary, "For I have so much to tell you. I want to thank you for all your kindness to me at the Bible-class. You can't think what a comfort and help your lessons have been to me. If I am never at the class again, will you say good-bye to all the girls for me? And will you give my love to Ellen Mansfield and Julia Coleman, with whom I used to work, and say how much I hope they will both have Jesus for their Friend? You might give Julia my Bible; I don't think she has one of her own. I often longed to speak to them of the Saviour, yet I was afraid. But I feel so happy in His love now, that I could speak to any one of Him."

"Dear Mary, I hope yet to see you restored to health," said Miss Graham. "But should it please God to take you to Himself, I will carry out your wishes. Now do not exhaust yourself by speaking more."

But in vain, she tried to enforce silence.

Mary's usual timidity was gone. And although she drew every breath with difficulty, and could scarcely raise her voice above a whisper, she spoke with an eager rapidity, which was symptomatic of the fever which consumed her.

Fearing that her presence would prove too exciting if she stayed longer, Miss Graham thought it best to take her leave, promising to return in a short time, accompanied, if possible, by her father.