Saint Mary's beacon. [volume] (Leonard Town, Md.) 1867-1983, 1892-11-24

quiet breast; then looked at the
open book. The page vas turued
at an old song which | had learned
at school, and had soon forgotten.
| ! laid the book away signing.
The words which l had read. the
awful stiffness, the peacefully rest
ing child, oppressed my heart /: |
went home, after asking in the
house the hour of the interment.
went to bed early. was very
tired and all disquiet left me. And
as il called forth by strange pow
er, the words of an ardent PRAYER
flowed over my lips /; the prayer
that God might bless me in nv diff
ficult position. aud might change
my conceited assurance in my own
skill into a submissive trust in HIS
protection, whenever my little
knowledge and my earnest wishes
would not avail that l might hope
for Gods comfort at all sick beds,
where L musts as on yesterday,
stand helpless.
Early in the morning. awaited
the little coffin in the courtyard.
A man bore it; the mother in her
poor, black clothing followed. She
pressed my hand, and gave me
thankful look when she saw that I
Joined the little procession. The
way was not long the streets we're
almost empty; the air was very
mild for November. As the iron
gate of the battle-ground opened,
the weeping woman dropped her
head upon her breast. Beside the
OPEN grave stood a clergyman.
Il have made it my duty, as long
as my strength lasts. to give last
blessing to all the dead Of my par
ish, said he softly, as my astonished
look met his.
Dear, kind priest, you did not
suspect how the plain, homcly words
of blessing which you spoke over
the little coffin gave comfort to the
poor woman and to myself MS well
In Gods hand everlasting rest
is found
Il know it, / know it, sobbed
the woman, and she bent her pale
face over the hand of the young
priest.
On the evening of the same day,
l went to my relatives. All the
older members of the family were
absent. Only cousin Marie was mt
home to receive me. We sat at the
window and let the moonlight shine
upon us, and then ! told her how !
had visited my first patient and
what ] had learned thereby of value
to my calling. Marie said nothing
during my confession, but sudden
ly | felt myself embraced by her
arms. She looked at me with moist
eyes.
Look, Max y she said. Now
You know well in what respect You
failed in your profession. Thank
God that you have gained this
knowledge through your first pa
tient ! Now think that you will
become an able physician, who will
always do good, even when his own
skill shall not avail
/ kissed my cousin.
'And now, what do you mean 2
Have you the courage to become
the wife of such i docter? p
She smiled in the midst of her
tears and were betrothed at last.
Fortune willed it that on the next
day | should again be called to at
tend a child, who was very sick
with the Group. was also fortu-
nate enough to be able to save it.
Much grace has God since then al
lowed to be bestowed though my
hands to the sick and the poverty
stricken. Ny profession became
dearer and dearer to me. The
mother Of the child who had been
my first patient soon moved into
my house to attend TO the manage
ment ef my house until my dearest
one became my wife. She then
stayed with us as cook, until later
she became nurse to our first-born
daughter, Marie. She wept over
the child for joy, and in thankful
remembrance OF the little blonde
girl who had shown me what it is
to be physician.
4 -e . e@
Many ueonIe sufTer for vaara from,