Chapter III: The Home for the Sick

IN one of the main avenues in a large city stands a spacious building enclosed in garden. The edifice and its ornamental surroundings occupy an entire square. Lofty trees and low shrubs, parterres of flowers, picturesque arbors with rustic seats, gravelled walks winding in and out among the blossoms, prove to the passer-by that this is truly what the name indicates,—a "Home for the Sick."

A Russian nobleman, after a thorough examination of the building itself, its lofty ceilings and thorough ventilation, its conveniences for heating and cooking, its laundry department, its beautiful, sunny wards, with the well-trained nurses moving quietly from cot to cot for the relief of the sufferers, was asked,—

"What do you think of our hospital?"

With a burst of enthusiasm he exclaimed, "It isn't a hospital, it is a palace where the king receives his guests and takes care of them."

At this moment a carriage is drawn up before the principal entrance and a young woman is assisted to alight. Presently two men approach with a chair, in which she is seated, a young lady who has accompanied her walking by her side.

This is not her first visit to the hospital. For months together she lay prostrate, struggling for life, going away at last, not strong, certainly, but with a prospect of perfect recovery. Now she knew she had come home to die. Yes, it was home in the truest and sweetest sense of the word, for here she had been born of the Spirit. Old things had passed away and all things had become new. Here she had joined herself to the people of God, confessing Jesus Christ to be her only hope for pardon and peace. She no longer shuddered at the approach of the grim messenger; she was ready to welcome him whenever her Saviour called her to his immediate presence.

She was placed in her old bed, endeared by so many precious memories, where she could see the setting sun, and by his resplendent glories be reminded of the Sun of Righteousness in whose effulgent beams her soul would bask for ever and ever.

Oh, no! there was no terror in the thought of death; the language of her heart was, "Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly."

As she lay reposing on her spotless couch, her cheek rivalling the whiteness of her pillow, she clasped her hands, exclaiming,—

"How good God is! Think of my being allowed to come home, to have my own bed! You were so thoughtful, dear friend, to ask for that favor. This room has been like heaven to me. I am afraid I ought not to be so happy."

She glanced wistfully in her companion's face, who understood the appeal and answered, warmly,

"God has forgiven the past, dear. We are told to 'forget the things that are behind, and press forward.' You have given that burden to the Saviour; don't take it back again: it shows distrust of His loving care for those you have committed to Him."

"If I could only know before I die that he is safe—I mean that he has accepted Christ,—I would ask no more. Poverty, even want, I do not care for. Poverty brought me here, where I found my precious, waiting Saviour; but oh, if I could know that in his wanderings God's spirit has led him into the truth, how I would praise His name to all eternity!"

An expression of holy rapture beamed from every feature. Her friend gazed with glistening eyes. Softly laying her hand on the head of the dying girl, she repeated the words, "who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." Rising, she pressed her lips to the forehead of the sufferer, whispered, "I shall come again tomorrow," and left the room.

In the morning Stella found herself so much refreshed by sleep that when the chaplain came into the ward she requested the privilege of having private communion administered to her.

This gentleman, Rev. Mr. Owen, was not a stranger to her. It was his faithful words which had cut so deep into her heart that for weeks her soul writhed with self-inflicted torture. It was a sermon he preached one Sunday when she was in the chapel which brought her to the feet of Jesus, clothed and in her right mind. The text was this, "If ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." How quickly the gracious promise had been fulfilled in her case! Her heart, which had hardened to flint while cherishing anger toward one whom she believed had injured her, grew tender and loving under the softening influence of the spirit of forgiveness. No sooner did she cast away the vile serpent which had coiled itself so closely around her vitals as to crush out every vestige of affection, than the dove of peace flew down and nestled in her bosom.

To the chaplain Stella had related some facts in the history of her early life, with a mere hint at some events which had blasted her happiness. Only to the loved and trusted friend of her own age, one who had secured a place for her in this happy home, and brought her hither, had she confessed that her own temper, jealousy, and distrust had greatly aggravated her sufferings. Mr. Owen knew enough to understand that, whatever the past had been, she was now repentant, that she had listened to the invitation, "Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden," and that Jesus Christ had given her rest.

In an interview with the chaplain preparatory to her receiving the precious memorials of Christ's love, she once more announced her faith in Christ as her only hope for a poor sinner like herself, and her belief that He would answer her prayers for one long lost to her, that, if he were still living, he would be brought to love her Saviour, and to forgive her, as she had, from the heart, forgiven him.

The effect of this service was so refreshing that for several days she was quite free from the extreme suffering for breath which had so exhausted her. According to her request, her friend, in one of her daily calls, had brought her paper and pens, and, bolstered up in bed, she spent nearly an hour every day in writing.

The end came at last unexpectedly. She was sitting nearly upright listening to the last chapters in the Revelation, when, with a wave of her hand to stop the reading, she repeated in a full voice the words just read: "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things are passed away."

She paused, raised her eyes, a bright smile illumined her face; she pointed upward, then with a little gasp her spirit fled away to the Saviour in whom she trusted.

Waiting only to ask permission from the superintendent to pay all necessary expenses, and to learn when the funeral services would be attended, her friend gazed for the last time on the marble countenance, so peaceful in its calm repose, then, taking from the nurse a package directed to her care, passed quietly from the room.