The Monmouth inquirer., 1865-09-21

is, she's been what | depended on"
could well understand it. The girl
had one of those natures on which weaker
ones rest instinctively. She was thor
oughly reliable, with courage. a patient
hope, quiet strength, utterly out of pro
portion to her tiny frame. / could not
say anything to console her poor mother
for l knew too well what she was losing
and it seems so idle to talk about heav-
enly consolation TO ears deaf with misery
The soul is SO seldom ready to accept
th,m until after she blow has fallen. and
God himself speaks to the stricken one
through the darkness of desolation.
I'VE need not quite give up hope yet,
and we ought to think of her now----oi
making her as comfortable as we can"
Then | went out again into the March
twilight.
Every night after that found me at
Pleasant street. | could not stay away
Besides all my interest in her, an unac-
countable impression took possession of
me that she was in some wise associated
with my own fate. | was going, so it
seemed to me. straight toward my destiny
"a destiny in some dim, undreamed OF
way connected with " Brains" and her
little room.
/ have said that from the first | had
not much hope of her. My hope lessen
ed every day She would never come
back to the place | had engaged another
to fill till she got well ! should never
watch again her tidy little ways, or be
amused at her quaint womanliness had
not thought it was in me to care for her
so much, bnt my heart grew heavy as |
saw her fading away. She suffered terri
bly, with her rackng cough, and the con
stant wearing pain in the side and chest;
but she did not lose her bright cheerful
ness. For long time, too, she seemed
to make light of her Illness, and told me
that in little while she should be back
doing my errands as of old
The first time she said anything else
was one April night | went to her lit
tie later than usual, and found the doctor
with her. | had never seen him before,
this DR.. Sargent. His name seemed some
how strangely familiar. though I could
not recall at the moment where / had
heard it, He was bending over poor lit
tie Brains when | went in, but he raised
his head and met my eyes with his own,
so kind, SO pitiful. so serious, that / felt
drawn towards him at once. The child
put out her hand.
You'll have to keep her, Miss Mac
gregor," she said, with sad smile
| did not think at first who she meant,
and / asked her
The girl that took my place, You
know I've been asking DR.. Sargent, and
he doesn't think I'll ever be able to go
back any more"
She was so calm that for very shame
tried to be calm also, but the tears would
come, and | went out into the next room
without speaking.
Soon DR. Sargent joined me
ct is very sad," he said g have sell
dom been so much interested ia case
Such bright, patient little thing as she
is and so wonderfully womanly! She
asked me herself tonight, if there was
any hope, and / had to tell her. You see
how she bears it,
After he had gone went back to little
Susy | he'd bought her bunch of VIC
lets which l saw in shop window as |
came along, and her very pleasure in
them made my heart ache. How she low
ed all beautiful things! How much she
was capable of enjoying, and how little
she had to enjoy in this world, poor child!
And now she was going!
| think she guessed my thoughts, for
she touched my hand with timid, caress-
ing motion, and said, very softly:
There will be brighter flowers there,
Miss Macgregor. 1t hath not entered into
the heart of man to conceive, you know
1t is well for me; only it will be so hard
for mother and Jane. But their Father
will take care of them. You know what
its says about the widow and the father
less.D
How unconscously she reproyed my
lack of faith | bent over her and press
ed my lips to the little cheek where the
hectic burned. How many times | have
doubted God, and what faith she he'd.
She seemed to infuse into my soul new
strength. AS | went through the other
room to go home, found Mrs. Mory cry
ing very Silly, SO as not to disturb her
sick child, in very quiet. dreamy way,
inexpressibly pitiful. Poor Body was
kneeling, with her face buried in, her
mothers lap, fairly shaken by the vio-
lence of her suppressed sobbing. only
said, as | went by:
Don't grieve her by weeping. She
has been telling me that God will take
care Of YOU
When | reached home sat down and
tried to think what / had known before
of DR.. Sargent.
1t carried me back to Horace Weir.
John Sargent was his friend. | remember
ed-a class mate, and the tides Achates
of his early manhood Did they occupy
such a relation still / wondered Would
be mentioned between them But no,
DIR Sargent knew of me only as Miss