News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1893-04-20

waited IOF Jne woman ana the medl-
cine. Ever and anon my glance
would wander around the miserable
room. Here was a poor, hard-work-
ing woman who carried charcoal on
the street while her child lay in want
and sickness, yet she loved the child
tenderly.
Suddenly the thoughtshot through
me that had been called too late.
had not resolution enough to try any
doubtful energetic effort to save her,
to snatch her from the arms of death.
My heart was heavy. / sprang to
the door and listened for the foot
slept of the mother. She came final
ly; my reproachful eye met her down
cast one. There were so many peo-
pie in the store. A woman like nv
self does not dare to press forward" "
An hour of torment went by. The
medicine availed nothing Little
Marie could not swallow it. An oper-
alton on the throat was of no use.
The child died-died before my eyes
on the bosom of the mother, bowed
down by her grief
She finally looked up in a terrified
manner; a tear had fallen on her
hand, but she had not wept.
"You are weeping, DOCTOR" she
said softly. "Ah, don't weep, sir;
you will stand before many sick
bed as you have here, where the Lord
will not help you"
She looked fixedly at the little one.
81 have loved her very dearly. have
done for her what could in my pow
erty. Whenever | came home from
my work | found her so pretty, so
charming. For hours she would lie
in bed or on the floor and play with
almost nothing and she laughed for
Joy when | came home. God has
taken her from me. He loves her
more than ] do, but, oh, shall be SO
lonesome"
1 pressed the woman's hand, but
could not speak. l dropped some
money on the table and silently went
out. At home laid my instrument
case away and sat down dishearten-
ed. | could eat no supper. | went
to bed and tried to get sleep. But
the picture of the gloomy attic-of
the dead child-Of the submissive and
patient woman, kept me less from
sleep than the tormenting self-re-
proach with which | thought over
everything that l had done. My first
patient! l groaned, and then the
words of the poor woman came to
me again: Don't weep doctor, you
will stand before many sick bed as
you have stood here where the Lord
will not help"
| had been summoned too late; |
had not been able to save the child.
"1ou will stand before many a sick
bed as you have stood here" | hid
my face in the pillow. 1t was a ter
rible night; the torturing thoughts
which made me so restless were very
different from the pleasant dreams
which had encouraged me in both my
waking and sleeping hours.
Early on the following morning an
old college friend came who had
sought me on his way through the
city. He dragged me over the crowd
ed streets, into the museums, into all
sorts of restaurants. He complained
of my taciturnity. l feigned u head
ache and escaped the necessity of
having to see a sensational play at
the Court theatre. Tired and worn
out / went at last alone to my room.
On my way there Ipassed the window
of brightly lighted flower shop. /
walked in and bought costly white
camelia and some sweet smelling vio-
lets. went up the five flights to the
room of the poor woman. found
the door unlocked. 1t was family
lighted and little coffin stood in the
middle of the room. In it lay the
child, dressed in a white gown. The
ribbon on the hat on the wall had
been made into two little bows, the
myrtle wreath lay on the blonde hair
and the geranium was laid upon her
breast. On the table stood a lamp,
and the open song book lay near it.
laid the beautiful white flowers in
the little motionless hand and put
the bouquet of violets on the quiet
| breast; then | looked at the open
book. The page was turned at an
old song which Ihad learned at school
and had soon forgotten.
laid the book away signing. The
words which | had read, the awful
stiffness, the peacefully resting child,
oppressed my heart; | went home,
after asking in the housefor the hour
of the interment.
l went to bed early. | was very
tired and all disquiet left me. And as
if called by a strange power, the
words of an ardent prayer flowed
over my lips; the prayer that God
might bless me in my difficult posi-
ton, and might change my conceited
assurance in my own skill into a sub
missive trust in His protection, what
ever my little knowledge and my
earnest wishes would not avail; chat
| might hope for Coos comfort at
all sick beds, where must, as on yes
terday, 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 a thankful look
when she saw that l joined the pro-
cession. The way was not long; the
streets were almost empty; the air
was very mild for November. AS the
iron gate of the burial ground opened
the weeping woman dropped her head
| upon her breast. Beside the open
grave stood a clergyman.
81 have made it my duty, as long
as my strength lasts, to give last
blessing to all the dead of my parish" "
said he, softy, as my astonished look
met his.
Dear, kind priest, you did not sus-
pect how the plain homely words of
blessing which you spoke over the
little coffin gave comfort to the poor
woman and to myself as well.
-"In Gods hand everlasting rest is
found"
81 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 /
went to my relatives. All the older
members of the family were absent.
Only cousin Marie was at home to
receive me. We sat by the window
and let the moonlight shine upon us,
and then told her how had visited
my first patient and what | learned
thereby of alue to my calling. Marie
said nothing during my confession,
but suddenly l felt myself embraced
by her arms. She looked at me with
moist eyes.