 CHAPTER XIII Suspense and Bewilderment Even should she live to be a very old woman, I do not think that Rebecca will forget the night which followed. She had been too much frightened by Mrs. Payne's manner to resent her words or to ask questions. And the next moment she had heard Lillian's voice in the hall calling her, and had been obliged to go to her charge. But she knew by many indications for the next few hours that there was unusual anxiety in the household. The bell which communicated with Mrs. McKenzie's room rang sharply again and again, and servants ran hither and thither executing Mrs. Payne's orders. Rebecca knew that the physician had been sent for in haste, and that Lillian had been interviewed by Rogers to learn, if possible, where her Papa had driven when he set her down at home. Something very serious was undoubtedly the matter. Even Nancy was subdued, and volunteered the information that it was believed downstairs that Mrs. Payne thought Mistress was going to die, and was that scared and flurried, and had told them to bring Dr. Carruthers, or some other doctor, that very minute. And nobody knew where Mr. McKenzie was, for all he had said to Miss Lillian was that she was to go directly to her nurse, as he would have to hasten to make up for the time he had spent with her. And wouldn't it be dreadful if she should die before they found him? Rebecca, in her misery, answered Nancy so sharply that the girl repented her friendliness. Then she went back to Lillian, and held herself rigidly in check while she attended to her once as usual, and tried to respond to her prattle about Papa and her drive, and how he had promised to take Mama next time if she was well enough. Meantime she listened, with ears strained to unnatural quickness, for the sound of the husband's voice, for the outgoing of the doctor whom she knew had arrived, and wondered how she should live through the next hour, unless she could herself ask him if the woman was going to die, and if she had helped to kill her. Apparently Mrs. Payne had kept her own counsel, no word of the soothing drops having reached even Nancy's ears, and Nancy was a person who heard all that was said. Rebecca did not know whether to be glad or sorry for this. I shall tell them, she said to her troubled heart, I shall tell everybody, I have nothing to hide. I may have done wrong, and it is dreadful to have helped such a thing, but I surely thought it was right to do. They are all to blame as much as I. There should not have been medicine left in the charge of a suffering woman who did not know just how to use it, and I should have been warned of such a possibility. Well, I was warned, or rather ordered, not to give her any medicine, but nothing was explained to me. Still, I suppose I was to blame. What shall I do if she dies? What shall I do? How can I tell that dreadful man that I helped to kill her? If he would care it would be less horrible than to almost know that he will be glad to have her gone. Convinced by such wild thoughts that she was not capable of thinking intelligently, and that if she was to take proper care of Lillian she must cease to think as much as possible, she struggled through the time as best she could. For the last hour she had heard nothing save that which the opening and closing of doors and the hurrying of feet through the halls had told her. Whether the doctor was still in the house, whether Mr. Mackenzie had been found, whether there was hope or whether all was over, she could not determine. She had nerfed herself to believe that the soothing potion was a poison, and that enough had perhaps been taken to cause death. She had even, in imagination, been all through the scenes which she knew must follow. The investigation, the examining of herself as a witness, her father's bewilderment and dismay when he should be summoned to her aid and hear the story. Meantime Lillian, with a premonition of something unusual in the air, asked painfully searching questions. Had she stayed with Mama that afternoon? Was Mama pity well to-night? Why did she not send for her to kiss her good night? Why did not Papa come for his kisses? Would Mama want her early in the morning? Would Mama be all well some day and take care of her like Claire Benedict's Mama did? Would the child never fall asleep and leave her miserable nurse to indulge her misery? At last she was at liberty to steal out into the hall in search of news. No one was visible in the now quiet house saved Dr. Carter, who sat in one of the hall chairs below as if himself waiting for news. Yet he must have heard something since she had, and Rebecca went down and stood before him, white-faced and trembling, trying to make her lips form a question. They quivered so she could hardly control them to whisper. Did she—is she dead? Oh, no! he said quickly. The immediate danger is now over, but it was a very narrow escape. Poor woman, she cannot hope to come so close to death another time and not go beyond human aid. Did you think she was gone? It must have been a shock to you. You have been with the poor little one, I suppose? I almost said the motherless little one. My heart aches for her. I can only hope with trembling that she will grow up to be a comfort to her father. I was waiting in the hope of seeing him, but I do not know that I ought to attempt it tonight. He is still in his wife's room. I ought to go. Perhaps I may leave a message with you to the effect that if there is anything I can do for him, if he needs me in any way or would like to see me, he is not to hesitate to send for me at any hour of the night. Rebecca, in the sudden revulsion of feeling which had come to her with the blessed news, could scarcely repress an exclamation of contempt for the man who could at such a time think only of the husband and think in that strain. Congratulations, of course, were supposed to be in order, but surely he could wait until morning for them. Dr. Carter had spoken almost as though he thought the husband might be disappointed in the result and in need of sympathy. However, she promised to see that his message reached the housekeeper, and waited to see him from the door before she went slowly back toward the stairs, so spent with her hours of intense excitement as to feel dizzy and almost as if she were going to faint. Also, she felt half angry. Why could not somebody have come to tell her that the danger was over? Then she reflected that nobody, unless it were Mrs. Payne and possibly Dr. Carothers, knew why she should be in direst need of information for her own sake. Yes, probably Mr. McKenzie knew by this time all about it. Suddenly there flashed over her the thought that she had not only done contrary to Mrs. Payne's directions, but to his. Then the probability was that she would be discharged. Almost a groan escaped her at this thought. So completely had Lillian wound herself about this girl's hungry heart that the idea of giving her up to the care of another was almost like parting with I. Lee over again. Moreover, there was Mrs. McKenzie, who she felt had wanted her, though to be sure she might feel differently after this. But she would not, said the poor girl. She would forgive me. If I helped her to make a terrible mistake, she would know that it was because I loved her and wanted to help, not hurt her. It is only that cold heartless man who would never forgive or overlook. At this point in her thoughts, she became conscious that there were voices at the head of the stairs, or a voice. She recognized it as Mrs. Payne's. Now, if she were less dizzy and could quicken her steps, she might hear from headquarters just how the sick one was. But she could not hasten. The stairs seemed whirling past her. Yet she could hear. You must tell her yourself, Mr. McKenzie. I can't, and that's the whole of it. She didn't understand, of course, and that is the way the blunder came. And it hasn't been the way to do, according to my thinking, and it can't be that way any more, of course. But it is your plain duty, I think, to tell her just what you want her to know, and the sooner it is done, the better. The listener had made no attempt at reply, but had turned and walked down the long hall to the back stairs, as though he meant to avoid meeting any person. And as fast as she could make her trembling limbs move, Rebecca climbed to the rest of the stairs and sought her own room, where she threw the window wide and leaned out into the night air, and tried to bring her will to bear upon the faintness and dizziness which possessed her. Without reasoning about it, she felt as certain as though she had heard her name, that she was the person who was to be told that evening something. What could it be but that her services were no longer needed in that house? The angry nurse was not even willing that she should wait until morning for her dismissal. She had probably instantly demanded thus much as the condition of her own stay. Rebecca told herself hotly that she could go. There were people who would be only too glad to secure her services. For that matter she could go home. Only she knew in her heart that this would be a last resort, but the home was open to her. So were other places. She even thought in that strange way in which one will think of absurd things in moments of great excitement, of Fred Pearson's willingness to place her at the head of society. Then she looked over at the sleeping Lillian, and the tears came thick and fast. For her sake she would humiliate herself before the angry husband, and agreed to almost any demand of his, if only he would let her stay and care for Lillian. Yet she knew that he would not. She assured herself that he would be in haste to get her out of the house. It was not that she had periled the life of his wife, she had disobeyed his orders. Then there was a soft tap on her door, and she dried her eyes hastily to confront Rogers, who told her that Mr. McKenzie wanted to see her at once in the library. She went downstairs asking herself whether he would want her to go that night, or if he would be willing to have her wait until daylight. She was angry again before she had knocked at the library door. There was in response a sound which she interpreted as an invitation to enter, but she must have been mistaken. Mr. McKenzie was seated before his table, his head bowed in his hands, and groans such as Rebecca had never heard before were issuing from him. She stood still, appalled before such evident agony. Could Dr. Carter have been misinformed? Was Mrs. McKenzie gone, and was this the agony of remorse? What ought she to do? Retire from a place where she had nothing to say and evidently was not wanted, or wait until he should remember that he had summoned her? She had not long to wait. She took a step backward, meaning to take it very quietly, but she jostled against the door, and it closed with a slam. Mr. McKenzie sat upright and turned toward her a perfectly tearless face, the pallid misery of which roused a throb of pity. Then he rose at once. I beg your pardon. He said, his voice sounding hollow and unnatural, I did not hear you enter. I knocked and thought you asked me in. Rogers said you wanted me. Yes, I must see you. I have things to say to you. The sentence ended with one of those indescribable groans. Rebecca spoke hurriedly, hardly knowing what she was saying. Dr. Carter told me she was better, was out of danger. Is it not true? Is she gone? No, thank God she is out of danger, I think, for this time. I could not have her die so. Oh, my God, I could not! The agony on his face was something awful to behold. He covered it again with his hands, and his whole body shook under the violence of his grief. What Rebecca felt can be better imagined than described. The strongest sensation, perhaps, was one of utter bewilderment. But Mr. McKenzie was, by education, a self-controlled man. In a very few moments he raised his head again. I ought to beg your pardon. He said, I do not often lose control of myself, but this has been a terrible strain. Sit down, Rebecca. There are some things which I ought to say to you. The time has come when they must be said. Perhaps I should have said them before, but it seemed to me that I could not. You have been very kind to my wife, and have been much with her of late. Have you no knowledge of the character of her illness? Rebecca shook her head, while a thousand bewildered thoughts ran riot through her brain. What could he mean? How should she have knowledge of a case which seemed to baffle the skill of the physicians? Was it possible that there was truth in her old theory of insanity? No, she could not believe it. She had seen something of insane persons. There had been nothing in Mrs. McKenzie's words or manner during the many hours she had spent with her to make such a thought possible. Mr. McKenzie waited, as if to give her time to decide. Then he said, and yet you are a physician's daughter. Have you never heard of the habit induced by the curse called opium? Like a revelation it flashed upon her, the key to all the mysteries which this house had contained. Its mistress was an opium user. Yes, she had heard of such, but not often. The knowledge of such a curse had not touched her nearly enough to have caused a suspicion of its presence here. But once suggested everything was clear. This explained the humiliating surveillance which had surrounded the poor woman, and which she had resented for her. That soothing potion which she helped to administer must have been the drug in some form. What must they think of her? What could she say to the waiting husband? She turned toward him, her cheeks aflame. Mr. McKenzie, to say that I bitterly regret my share in this evening's terror and pain seems almost insulting. But indeed I had not the remotest suspicion that the drops she wanted were other than some harmless nerve-in which she was in the habit of taking. Yet I ought not to have done it. I cannot expect you to forgive me. You did what you thought was right, he said gravely. I am myself to blame for guarding my terrible secret with such jealous care. I can see now that it would have been better to have confided in you before. But for the child's sake, as well as for my own, I longed to shield her mother. She told you the truth about the drops from her standpoint. She is a victim of a physician's prescription given years ago. She made a brave struggle, until her whole system was so diseased that she could not struggle. For years it has been a living death. There are times when I cry to a merciful God that I can bear no more. Again the deathly pallor overspread his face, and he sank once more into the chair from which he had risen, and buried his face in his hands. Rebecca stood for a moment regarding him with a look of unutterable pity, then turned and went softly and silently away. What had she to say that would not be a mockery before such sorrow as this? CHAPTER XIV Mrs. Payne had more to tell her. I see you found out what is going on in this house, she said, scanning Rebecca's face closely. And high time, too. I've been that put out at times, seeing how entirely off you were in your calculations, that I found it hard work to hold my tongue. I don't talk about the poor thing where it ain't necessary, but I told Mr. Mackenzie months ago that he ought to let you know what was what. But he couldn't bear to do it, and you can't blame him for that. Only Mrs. Payne was another whom Rebecca had wronged. She thought of it, but put it away for a more convenient hour, and asked the questions which were pressing upon her. Were the soothing drops she spoke of? She hesitated, and Mrs. Payne finished the question. Ladnum, of course. You might have known, though I don't know how you should. I'd have left a wild tiger shut up in the room with her rather than that if I had known she had it. When she slipped it into her secretary and locked it up without our knowing about it, beats me. She said it had been there for some time, but she had lost the key and only found it this morning. Oh, yes. With a wise nod of her head. She can account for things, she is good at it. The only trouble is it isn't true. She had her desk, key and all, day before yesterday, and there wasn't any Ladnum hidden away in it. You can trust me for that. It was just one of her get-ups. I'm used to them. Then, seeing Rebecca's look of horror, she hastened to explain. It is the disease it gives them, child, don't you know? They aren't capable of telling the truth and are no more to be believed, nor to be blamed for that matter, than a crazy person. I know all about it. I've been with worse patients than she is. Though I never saw one who suffered more with it, poor thing. I thought to-night she was going, sure, and I was half glad, as well as awfully scared and sorry. What is the use of her living any more? She has no comfort to herself and a daily misery to him. Mrs. Payne, how does she get the Ladnum or whatever it is? may well ask that, but it will take Satan to answer you. If he doesn't help her, I don't know who does. I've spent the best part of my life, and so has he," the last pronoun referred to Mr. Mackenzie, trying to outwit her, and every once in a while she has been too cunning for both of us. He couldn't quite shut her up like an insane person, because there are days and weeks at a time when she is as sane as I am, and it would make talk, you know. He has sat up night's poor man to contrive ways to keep folks from talking about her. You see, she has some friends who listen to her plaintive little stories, and believe them, of course, and are sorry for her, and think he is hard and cold, and all but cruel to her now. These friends take delight in doing little errands for her, because she is neglected, you know, and is cute enough to send them to some out-of-the-way drugist who will fill any prescription for money and no questions asked. In that way, and dozens of others, she has contrived to get what she wanted. When poor Carol was at home, it was easier managed. He could not understand why he should not do his mother's errands, and his father would not tell him. He said it was better to keep him away and let him think he had a mother. But I don't agree with him there, either. I think the boy might have been trusted. I'll tell you what it is, Rebecca. The man has his faults, I dare say, but take him all in all, through the seventeen trying years that I've lived in the same house with him, and worked at the same job, you may say. I never saw one who came up to my notion of what a man ought to be any better than he does. The things he has borne for her, and the ways he has contrived to help her and shield her in all that, would make a stone cry sometimes. Mercy, I could tell you things if it would do any good. Knights, when he hasn't closed his eyes nor sat down, just spent the time wandering about the streets in search of her, and getting her home quietly so nobody would be the wiser for her slipping away. Knights! repeated Rebecca, in wide-eyed horror. Yes, knights, lots of them. That was years ago before he made up his mind that he must just fix things at night so that she could knock it out of those three rooms of which she has the range. She used to manage to get away from us, and wander around the streets. I've seen him dash out of this house like a crazy man when he found it out. But he always got her back, and was just as kind and patient with her as though she had been out visiting the sick or something of that kind. Oh, he is a man in a thousand. But he had to come to it and fix things at night so that there was no getting out. I wouldn't have stayed alone if he hadn't. And to have two nurses for a woman who was able to make calls and receive company wouldn't have looked well, you know. He has thought of every little thing and tried to save her name in every way. And he has succeeded so well that I believe half the people who come here think she is an angel of light, and he is a cold-blooded villain of some sort. Sometimes it makes my blood boil, though I'm fond of her poor lady, and realize that she is no more to blame than a creature who has lost her senses is. You would better go to bed. You look fit to drop, and I don't wonder. I was scared myself, and I've seen her in these dead sleeps. I was going to say a thousand times. But everyone is more dangerous than the last you know, and she did come very near it this time. I could see that in the doctor's eyes if I hadn't been able to tell for myself. If I had been a praying woman I should have asked the Lord to spare her to say goodbye to her children, though she hasn't been much of a mother to them. Not but what she thinks enough of them, too, after her fashion. It has given me the heartache many a time to say no to her when she was coaxing for Lillian. There's another of his trials, poor man, had to force the mother away from her baby, you may say. You see, she was just possessed to give the child some of her soothing drops. She liked them so well herself that when the baby was fretful or troublesome in any way she couldn't seem to keep herself from pouring something of the kind down her throat. The last time the father caught her at it he looked just like death. It was the next day that he made a law that the child shouldn't be left alone with her for a single minute. Oh, he has had a life of it, and Mercy only knows how it will end. And then, Rebecca having heard all, and more than it seemed to her she could endure, made her escape and sought her own room, every nerve quivering with pain. What had she not learned since she left it but a half hour before? Strangely enough, it seemed to her that the most startling revelations had been about herself. She had so prided herself upon her powers of discrimination, upon her excellent judgment, upon her ability to read character almost at a glance. Now she stood revealed to herself as a woman who had daily wrunged in her thought of him a man who was staggering under a weight of trouble so peculiar and so heavy that she wondered it had not crushed him. What she had named hardness of heart was, it appeared, almost infinite self-control. In the light of her present knowledge she recalled looks and words of his which revealed him as one who could suffer cruel injustice in silence and continue his patient care and kindness all the while. Almost she felt as though she must go down to him and beg his pardon for every unworthy thought she had had concerning him. Nor did herself accusing spirit stop here. How sure she had been that Mrs. Payne was unworthy of the trust imposed upon her. And in her own superior judgment she knew it had been only her low opinion of Mr. Mackenzie which had held her from going to him with a story which would surely have added much to his burden. Now it seemed to her that Mrs. Payne's life of patient endurance and forbearance with a woman who had brought her illness upon herself was little short of sublime. The more carefully she went over the story of her life in this house the more humiliating became her estimate of herself. Even poor Nancy giving her sympathy or her indignation indiscriminately to master and mistress, according as passing events vexed her or touched her heart, seemed more reasonable and durable than herself. Not a person in the house had she judged worthy of her sympathy or respect, save the woman who was the deliberate cause of all their sorrow. Nor had her sweeping condemnations been confined to the dwellers in the house. Had she not pronounced Dr. Carter a money-serving hypocrite because he was always trying to sympathize with the husband and gave little thought to the wife, probably Dr. Carter knew the whole story. She felt her cheeks burn with shame when she thought of how she had answered his appeals for help from her. But she went farther back in her self-accusations. Was it not just possible that she had even wronged Mrs. Meredith? She went over in her memory her treatment of that lady and of her father since he had brought home his new wife, and this strangely awakened conscience of hers could not exonerate her even here. It persisted in assuring her that her father certainly had a right to marry again if he chose, and did not deserve punishment at her hands for the deed. It reminded her that Mrs. Meredith had made persistent and kindly attempts to regard her as one of them, and that she had on every such occasion held aloof. It even hinted that she had been jealously afraid of I. Lee lest the stranger should steal a portion of her love and had held her away from the new mother as much as possible. Getting over the ground carefully, she could not find any accusation to bring against the woman who occupied her mother's place that was at all satisfactory to her now. Yet she had lived for months in the belief that she was a desolate wronged girl, almost of necessity and exile from her father's house, and with no one to love or care for her. Had she not even of late yielded to the feeling that Hervey in India was absorbed with his work and indifferent as to whether or not he heard from her regularly? As for Fred Pearson, for even his name came in for a share of the sweeping self-denunciation. Had not time proved conclusively that she was no judge of character, even when she had daily opportunity for years of studying it? Would one who had within him in those early days the elements of true manhood have developed as he did? Would one who deserved her love have been guilty of the despicable sin of marrying for position, and of coming back in after years to insult her with the humiliating story? Yet what was she that she should speak so severely even of him? Had she not herself been a hypocrite all these years? She shrank from the word. She trembled under the horror of it, yet felt its truth. Had she not been for half her lifetime a member of the church? Was not her name at this moment on the church-roll in the old home? Yet for months and years it had been only a name. It was not enough that I should be deceived in everybody else, her soul cried out within her. But I must even be deceived in myself. I have no belief in a God who pities and loves and directs, else I should have found comfort and joy in serving him. Not even when Eileen died were her tears as bitter as they were that night over the revelation of her unlovely self. The night drew on, and still this poor self-accusing spirit sat and gazed at her wasted past. She used that word wasted about it after a while. She admitted to herself that many, perhaps most of her sorrows which had in them an element of bitterness, were the outgrowth of her own proud and self-sufficient spirit. Gradually there came to her, like a whisper from some other country, a realization that she was thinking about the past and that there was a present and a future. She was young yet, it was mere sentiment to talk about a wasted life. A good deal of it had been wasted. Search where she would she could not find anything entirely satisfactory in its story. Her love for Eileen had been fierce and exacting. Its spirit would certainly have hurt the little girl had she been left to infuse it into hers. Even her love for Lillian was growing selfish. She knew that she had grudged the father those five o'clock hours in which he had had the child all to himself. She knew that she had thought almost with horror of that second mother who would come some time and rob her of her darling. So there really was no use in trying to secure comfort out of the past. But the future, could she not make it utterly different? Then she did that best thing perhaps for a soul wrought upon as hers had been. When she stood downstairs appalled before that awful weight of pain, and powerless to say a word of comfort, there had come to her the feeling, so strung that she had almost put it into words, that the man needed God. Human help was vain for any such sorrow. He needed such a God as her mother used to worship and as her brother Hervey knew and loved. Even more than he did the poor wretched wife need God. She was dying. She had come almost to the verge of life that night. She would come closer to it some day soon. It needed no physician to tell that the end was near. "'And I must help her,' said Rebekah, speaking the words out plainly on the still night air. I must tell her what God can be to a soul, what I know he can be. Did I not know my mother?' The thought quieted her, illumined her mind as it were with other thoughts. She would change utterly her way of life. She would not think about herself or her happiness or trials any more. She would live for other people. She would serve God with her whole heart. She knew him and believed him. She could point him out to others, and she would. Because she had no happiness in his service it did not follow that others would not have, nor did it follow that she was released from the obligations of service. If I did not love my father, she told herself, I would still be bound to honour him. And then she winced as she remembered how far short she had come of the honour due. It was not strange, she assured herself, that she had no love for the service of God. She had dishonoured him, held aloof from him, acted a lie in his presence, called herself by his name, and refused him the ordinary outward service of even respect. How could he do other than turn coldly away from her recent efforts to find him? He was not bound now to reveal himself to her as a God of love, but she would give herself to him all the same, and having been well taught she knew he would not despise the offering. I have not been sincere, she told herself. I have been looking for comfort, for happiness, not for service. I do not believe, now that I come to think of it, that I ever had the right feeling even for a little while. I joined the church because the others were going to, because Fred did, and it was the right thing to do, not because I had given myself to Christ to do as he told me whatever happened. Now I will begin again. There are those in this house who need him and they do not know him. I can speak of what he was to mother, to my brother in heaven, even to little Ily. I can speak of what he would have been to me if I had let him. I am going to do it. I will give myself to him now and from this time forth for service. I am his to obey whether he gives me any joy in his service or not. I do not expect joy. I have wasted that part of my life. By which you will see how little she knew about God. But she went on her knees and spoke aloud and solemnly the word of consecration. God in Christ I ask thee to forgive the past and to take me as I am, a sinner like unto few, for I have sinned against much light. Yet I dare to come and give myself to thee fully and forever, and I know that thou wilt accept me. Now I am a soldier ready for service. Use me as thou wilt. Amen. CHAPTER XIV Do any who are acquainted with God need to be told that following the prayer of entire surrender there came into this tossed and worried heart a sense of that peace which passeth understanding. It always seems to me especially well that inspiration formed for us the phrase with which to describe, as much as we may, that sudden positive change which comes into the heart when the Holy Spirit takes possession. I do not wonder that skeptics sneer and honest doubters look troubled and doubtful when an attempt is made to explain this mystery. For we have his word that, quote, the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him, and he cannot know them because they are spiritually judged. End quote. Afterwards it struck Rebecca as a wonderful thing that she who had been in search of happiness all her life and had it elude her just when she gave up the idea of rest and consecrated herself fully to service should have such a sense of peace flow in upon her as she had never imagined could be felt. At the time she did not even recognize it. I am actually too tired, she said, when she arose from her knees, to think any more. I believe I could go to sleep, and when I came into the room it did not seem to me that I could ever sleep again. In ten minutes thereafter she was asleep. Thus quietly, without manifestation that human beings recognize, had the mighty Spirit of God taken full possession of a soul. Whether Rebecca Meredith had never before felt his power, whether the experience of her girlhood had been only emotional, I will not undertake to say. One thing is certain. She had never of deliberate choice surrendered her will utterly into his keeping until this night. She may have had here to fore what has been described as religion enough to make one miserable, but the joy of service was certainly to be hers for the first time, and so new was the sense of peace in her heart that she named it weariness and expected to take up the old unrest with the coming morning. After that nothing anywhere was quite as it had been before. For a time Rebecca thought that it was everybody else who had changed. Nancy, for instance, was much less disagreeable than usual. It might have been because she had the face ache and a misery in her bones. Rebecca noticed the heavy eyes and flushed cheeks when she met her in the hall. You have taken cold, she said, after Nancy had, in an astonished sort of way, answered her kindly put questions. Have you finished all the rooms but mine? Then go up to your room and lie down, and I will attend to my own work. Miss Lillian is with her father, so I shall have time, and I will fill the hot water-bake for your face ache. You will find it very soothing. Blessings save us! ejaculated Nancy, even before Rebecca was out of hearing. What has come over her? She do have a heart and feelings for somebody besides Miss Lillian, I believe. It is to be feared that the peculiar ejaculation with which Nancy began was as near an approach to prayer as she ever made. Rebecca, overhearing the sentence, thought of this, while she blushed in remembrance of the impression her life must have made, when so small an act of kindness could so overwhelm Nancy. She told herself that the girl was good-hearted and well-meaning. Perhaps she even did as well as she knew how. What a wonderful difference it would have made with her own life if the same could have been said of her! Mrs. Payne noticed the change. I thought you would be all tuckered out this morning, she said, when they met in the hall. And here you are as bright as the day. I must say I'm not. My nerves got such a shaking up last night that I won't get over it in a week. You can't take care of a body for years just as if she were a child, worse than a child for that matter, and not grow fond of her even though you feel sometimes as though you would like to shake her. She was terribly weak all night, and she is just like a rag this morning. And for that matter so am I. I never slept a wink. I didn't dare, and I couldn't somehow if I had dared. What a hard life Mrs. Payne's had been! Rebecca remembered pitifully that sentence, if I had been a praying woman. It had never before seemed so important to her that women should know how to pray. In the course of the day Mrs. Barnett confided to Rogers the belief that Rebecca had had something come over her she was less cranky like and acted more as if there were other folks in the world. Although every word which had passed between the two had been when they met for a moment at the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Barnett with a large basket of freshly ironed clothes on her arm. Rebecca had said, Let me carry that up for you, Mrs. Barnett, I am younger than you and you look tired. So small an act that it ought to have made her blush to think that it could surprise anyone to have her offer it. Yet Mrs. Barnett was surprised and showed it, making Rebecca realize again that she had been selfish at every point. Having deliberately resolved to live for others she was discovering that there were constant little opportunities for doing so. There were other quiet ways in which the difference between Rebecca of today and the one who was there yesterday was emphasized. She wrote to Hervey that evening, a long, cheery letter, almost like the one she used to write when he first went to India. She did better than that. She began a letter to her father. Dear father, wrote five lines, stopped, held her pen in uncertainty for several minutes, then tore the sheet in two and began again. Dear father and mother. She brushed away the tears as she wrote that last name, but she said to her newly awakened heart, Why not? Father will like it and it harms no one. She fills the position of mother in my father's house, and I suppose I should like it myself if I were in her place, which I never would be. Then she continued her letter, a pleasant home like one, such as had not reached the old home since she went away. There were certainly radical changes in Rebecca Meredith, though they were all so small as to be hardly worthy of notice, unless one were watching one's self at the dangerous points. Truth to tell, Rebecca was somewhat astonished over them. I never knew I was a selfish woman, she said to herself, But I must have been all my life, else these little common places would not require thought and actual effort on my part. Yet she was not selfish in great things, or in anything where those she dearly loved were concerned. It was only that the people she loved were very few, and she had not cared to interest herself in any others. Outwardly, life went on very much as before. The Tuesday lunches were continued, Lillian being on good behavior and her father appearing in every respect as usual. Looking at his cold, grave face, Rebecca found herself sometimes wondering if the scene in the library were not all a dream. But the vivid experiences through which she herself had passed were certainly no dream. Perhaps the most marked difference of the change in her life as regarded others was found in Mrs. McKenzie's room. For several days after that lady's alarming attack, Rebecca saw nothing of her. Then, one morning she was sent for, and found Mrs. McKenzie dressed in the most becoming of morning robes, seated in her easy chair by the window, and looking much as usual, save that the dark lines under her eyes were more pronounced, and the eyes themselves were dull. How long it is since I have seen you, she said, extending her hand. They think I have been too ill for company, but a look at you would have refreshed me. How well you look, better even than usual! What a comfort it must be to feel strong and ready for life! I suppose I frightened you by my ill turn. Mrs. Payne said you were with me when it came on. I was worse than usual, they say. Poor child, it was hard on you to have me get sick while nurse was away. It was wrong in me to help you to the drops which made you ill. Rebecca replied, with quiet firmness. She had carefully considered what she should say if she had opportunity, and so spoke without hesitation. Mrs. McKenzie laughed lightly, although at the same time she regarded her with a keen, questioning gaze. Do you lay all the trouble to the poor drops? she said. I assure you they were innocent enough. I did not take them in time to ward off the headache which is liable to proceed one of these attacks. But you were not to blame for that, so do not let any of the blame fall on your shoulders. Mrs. McKenzie, said Rebecca, looking the frail lady fully in the face, I know what the drops were, and I know the effect they had upon you, and you and I both know that they ought not to have been taken. Really! said Mrs. McKenzie, looking at her attendant with a sort of wonder. Can this be Rebecca? One might almost suppose you to be a daughter of Mrs. Payne. I think you are forgetting yourself. No, ma'am, I mean to be perfectly respectful, but I mean to speak the truth. Whether you know anything about the subject or not, what do you in your wisdom suppose the drops to have been? I know that the bottle contained ladenum, and I know that it is opium in some form which is killing you. Dear Mrs. McKenzie, forgive me, I am not saying it to hurt you, but indeed you are very near to death, and I know that you cannot long bear such a strain. It is false! said the invalid, sitting erect, with her eyes glaring like a maniacs. I never touch a drop of opium in any form. Who has told you such horrid tales? If it was Mrs. Payne she shall go to-day, and you shall follow her. It was not Mrs. Payne who told me, ma'am, and you are not saying what you mean. It is of no use to speak in this way to me. I am only too sure of what I am saying. I am speaking from my very soul to you, not because I want to hurt, but to help you. Who has told you to get off such an extraordinary statement to me? If this is some of Dean's work I shall never forgive him. You do not dare to tell me that you are not acting under orders. No, said Rebecca, I will not tell you that. I am acting under orders. I promised the Lord Jesus Christ on my knees this morning that I should be true to him and to you. I have not been true to him in the past. I have been silent about him when I knew you sorely needed his help. But he has forgiven me, and I am pledged to him. Oh, dear Mrs. McKenzie, let him save you! She was unprepared for the effect of this appeal. The wild look went out of the sick woman's eyes, and dropping her face in her hands she burst into a passion of tears. But the words which she sobbed out with the tears were not such as Rebecca had hoped to hear. Instead of a cry for help to the only one who could help her, they were a passionate wail to the effect that she had no friend in the world. Everybody had turned against her and believed evil things of her. First Dean had been prejudiced and had torn her children from her. Then Mrs. Payne had come there to watch her like a spy, and now Rebecca, on whom she had hoped to lean, had turned from her and believed what her enemies said against her. It was all too terrible. She wished she could die. She had nothing to live for and did not want to live. She wished the drops had been ladenum, and she had taken enough of them to kill her. Through it all, Rebecca knelt pale and quiet by the lady's chair, where she had dropped when she made her earnest appeal. She was bitterly disappointed. All the morning, since receiving Mrs. Mackenzie's message to come to her as soon as Lillian was asleep, her thoughts had been one perpetual prayer for guidance, the longing to save this poor victim from herself having increased as the hours passed. Yet apparently she had succeeded only in calling from her false and reckless words. She did not realize it, but all the time the sick woman was watching with much of the cunning which belongs to insanity, for the effect of her words. When she went into such a passion of self-pity as this before Mrs. Payne, that poor woman's heart was rung, and she hastened to kiss and cry over her patient, and call her a poor, abused lamb, and assure her that nobody should trouble her any more. For at such times it was not possible for Mrs. Payne to believe that her lady was other than insane, and insane people ought to be soothed and humored. As for Mr. Mackenzie, when she resorted to like scenes with him, he had of late years cut them short by abruptly leaving the room and summoning the nurse to the rescue. She looked to see one of these effects upon Rebecca, that the girl still knelt, grave and unmoved, was a disappointment. But Rebecca had found a stronghold so new and so safe, that she could not come out of it now. She was taking this utterly bewildering and disheartening woman to God, and asking his special help just then. As suddenly as before Mrs. Mackenzie's mood changed. She ceased weeping and bewailing, and after a moment spoke in a dry, hard voice. It is all true, Rebecca. Get up! You need not pray about me any more. It will do no good. I am past praying for, but I will tell the truth. It was ladenum, and I take it or its equivalent whenever I get a chance. I have to do it. I know it is killing me. I know I am a terrible woman, an unnatural mother, and unworthy the name of wife, but all the same I do it. I know there is no hope for me in this world or the next, but I go right on. Pray! I have prayed for hours, and then have gotten up from my knees and gone straight for some of the stuff. At this point Rebecca interrupted her speaking eagerly. Oh, dear Madame, I know all about such prayer. That is not praying. It is just saying over words. I have prayed that way myself, and it is worse than useless. But there is a way. I have learned it. There is help for you. If you just mean to let Jesus help you, he will do it. He will not force you. He must have your will on his side. But he stands ready to do all the part that you cannot. Dear Mrs. McKenzie, let him free you from this curse which is killing you and ruining your home. He is the only one who can do it, but he surely can. I don't know, said Mrs. McKenzie, looking at her almost with an air of curiosity. I don't know why you are so different from yourself. I think I was attracted to you because you were so different from others, but now you are somebody new. I would like to be somebody new myself. I have had dreams of it in the past, of surprising Dean some morning by coming downstairs and saying to him, Dean, you needn't tremble for me any more. I am not going to disgrace you again. I am made over. But I shall never say it. There isn't enough of me to make over. Resolve! I have made resolves enough to fill this room to the ceiling, to fill the world. And they did no good any of them. I haven't any will left. I am weaker than the various babies so far as intention is concerned. The only thing I can plan for is the stuff that is killing me. I do not see why they do not let me get enough of it some time and have done with it. What a relief it would be to have me gone. She was trying to shock her again. Rebecca felt this instinctively and would not be shocked. Her voice was never quieter than when she asked her next brief, clear-cut question. Would it be a relief to you, Mrs. Mackenzie? Are you not afraid to die and meet God? Then the poor woman went off into another outburst of tears and cries. This time Rebecca could not but believe that they voiced the thought of her heart. Yes, she said, I am, I am. I have ruined my husband and my home. I am a miserable woman and not fit to live and afraid to die. Oh, God, what will become of me? CHAPTER XVI That was the way the interview had to end. The poor, weak frame, unused to self-control and unused to excitement, was overcome by the violence of her emotion, and Mrs. Mackenzie was presently born fainting to bed. Mrs. Payne bending over her with the solicitude which a mother feels for a helpless child, and between her anxious ministrations and soothing words, bestowing sundry suspicious glances on Rebecca, and broadly hinting that something injudicious must have been said or done, as the invalid felt unusually well when she left her. She added glumly that something always did happen as sure as she left her for a few minutes. Goodness knew she wished she was made of rubber or leather or something and didn't ever have to leave her. CHAPTER XVI You see, she is just like a child, explained Mrs. Payne, half-apologetically, later in the day. She hasn't got any strength of body or mind left, and she has to be humored and petted. You can't say anything moral to her and you needn't try. This lasts with a severe look. Goodness knows I've tried it until I've pretty near killed her. He had a notion that her moral nature ought to be roused, and I did my best, but I told him then that she hadn't any to rouse, and she hasn't. She has just used it all up. The thing to be done with her is to take care of her day and night, just as you would a sick baby, and be patient with her and keep her away from folks that sympathize with her so much if they are willing to help kill her. I dread the summer, I'm sure. There will be new servants to keep watch of and other borders. There is always some little wretch of a boy who is ready to do any kind of an errand for a few pennies. I'm always worn entirely out by the time summer is over. Are you going into the country with us? I hope to goodness that you are. You don't know what a mercy it is to have somebody to speak to who understands. Rebecca could only respond that she did not know. There had been no plans made for the summer. She was heavy-hearted. She had hoped so much from her effort, and had seemed to fail so utterly. Perhaps she would have no other opportunity to help this woman, whose burden seemed to have been laid on her own soul. For among Mrs. Payne's other disheartening sentences had been one hinting that her patient was in the habit of having strong aversions for certain people who had undertaken to rouse her moral nature, and refusing to see them again. What if this should be her experience? And then she remembered, with a thrill of infinite relief, that she had nothing to do with the result of her effort, save to take it to him who had directed her to make it. Such relief did this girl find in her refuge that she wondered how it had been possible for her to have lived all these years practically without prayer. Do you wonder at the change which had suddenly come to her? If you do, you belong to those to whom it is impossible to explain the phenomena of prayer. It does not take the Lord a long time to secure full possession of a soul which has been surrendered to him, but the effect which communion with him will have upon such a soul can only be understood by those who try it for themselves. In a very short time it became evident that no such result as Mrs. Payne had hinted at was to follow the honest effort to speak the truth. So far from taking an aversion to Rebecca, Mrs. Mackenzie asked for her almost constantly, would have been glad indeed to have kept her with her and allowed herself to be guided by her wishes in a way that bewildered Mrs. Payne. Not a great deal of time could be given to her, of course, for Lillian needed her nurse's care, and neither child nor nurse were disposed to give up their rights in this respect, nor did the master of the house approve. I am very grateful to your kindness to Mrs. Mackenzie. He said in his gravest, most business-like tone, and I am glad that she finds a pleasure in your attendance. Whatever of your leisure you choose to give her will not be forgotten, I assure you. But of course Lillian is your first care, and I am glad to feel sure that you will not neglect her for any other interest. And now the days were more than full, for Rebecca could not but be sure at last that she was wanted in a peculiar sense by the half-insane woman who clung to her. She planned to give her every moment of waking time which was honestly her own, and strove by every means in her power to awaken the dormant conscience into life. It is true she could not feel that she was making much headway. The almost daily arguments which she held with the weak woman were mere repetitions of one another. But one thing had certainly been gained. Mrs. Mackenzie was beginning to understand that she must speak the truth with this new attendant. Mrs. Payne, who was well acquainted with the peculiar influence on the moral nature of the drug which her patient took, had long ago ceased to expect the truth, and received the most unreasonable and contradictory statements with good-humored semblance of belief. Mr. Mackenzie, on the contrary, had been so repulsed by this phase of the disease that he was in the habit of cutting short the calls which he punctiliously made at stated intervals, and leaving her abruptly as soon as her lapses from fact became apparent. Mackenzie did neither of these things. She looked the invalid calmly in the eye, and said quietly, quite as if she were making a most commonplace statement, Mrs. Mackenzie, that is not true. Nothing is gained by telling me what we both know is false. Mrs. Mackenzie looked at her curiously one evening when she had said something of the kind, and after a moment's silence replied, with a slight laugh, You are a very queer girl. How is it that you dare to say such things to me? Even Dean doesn't. Still, I rather like it. You are in earnest. But are you sure you are right? What is truth? Are not statements which are partially false more near the truth, after all, than that which passes for truth? I wonder why I do not speak exact truth. I seem to dislike it sometimes, just because it is truth. I actually take some pains to invent falsehood, even when the truth might serve me better. What do you suppose is the matter with me? Sin, said Rebecca, with quiet voice and steady eyes. Sin! What a horrid word! Even Dr. Carter did not use it the last time I let him preach to me. He said that I was a victim of a diseased mind. When the mind is diseased, how can one help what one does? How is it that you dare to call it sin, as though I were to blame? Are you under orders to say such things to me? Yes, dear Madame, always under orders. You have a moral disease called sin, and the only physician who can cure you has sent me to tell you the absolute truth. Sometimes from these talks she would lapse into the self-debased state, calling herself harder names than any Rebecca would ever have used and weeping bitterly until she exhausted herself, and Mrs. Payne would have to be summoned. Sometimes instead she would grow angry and order the girl from her sight. But in either case Rebecca would invariably be sent for before many hours. In these ways the weeks passed, and the early summer was upon them. Preparations were making for departure into a quiet summer home in the country, and Mrs. Payne was shaking her head ominously and dreading the change whenever she had opportunity for a quiet word with Rebecca. She will be a great deal worse, you see if she won't. She always manages to get hold of more of it in the country than at any other time. I wish we could just stay in town. I don't believe the heat would kill her. You and Lillian might go to the country, and Mr. Mackenzie could run down once a week and leave us here to fight it out. She won't hear to such a course. That is the reason it is never tried. And Dr. Carruthers says she would run down, he is afraid. And we must just redouble our vigilance while she is in the country. I'd like to know how we are going to do it, unless we tie her up in her room and let her see nobody but our two selves. It is my belief even then that she would get hold of the stuff somehow. She does hear, you know, in spite of us every once in a while. The sharpness of the woman is something wonderful. Mrs. Payne was so relieved to have the silence of years taken from her that Rebecca was in a fair way to hear in detail all the sorrows and perplexities of these years. It had been decided, without many words, that Rebecca was to go to the country with them. Mr. Mackenzie had sent for her one evening to have a business interview, but something had evidently moved him from his usual calm, for all he said was. You understand that we are to go to the country next week? Rebecca, I know you will not desert my little Lillian and her poor mother. Am I not right? And Rebecca, the tears starting in her eyes from sympathy with the burdened man, murmured that she would be glad to stay if she was wanted and made haste from the room. But the bustle of preparation for removal was interrupted. Lillian, who had retired at seven in apparent health, awakened at midnight so ill that Rebecca promptly summoned first the housekeeper and then the father. Before the next day's son had fairly risen, Nancy had informed every member of the anxious household that she, guest Miss Lillian was awful sick, that Dr. Carruthers shook his head and looked scared and anxious when she asked about her, and she heard him, with her own ears, tell Mrs. Barnett that he was afraid Lillian was going to have the fever, for it was in this neighborhood, and he was afraid it would go hard with her for the child had no consideration. Rebecca, who overheard this statement, was too heavy-hearted to laugh at the mistake, for she knew that Nancy meant constitution, and that it was too sadly true. How could the child of such a mother be expected to have a constitution to resist disease? No sweet June days which followed one another in long drawn-out beauty. For years afterwards Rebecca could not smell the breath of June roses and feel the glory of the perfect June weather without a little shiver of recollection. Mercifully the intense heat which often visited the city early in June was spared them, and if anybody had had heart to analyze the weather it would have been found simply perfect. But hearts and hands were full. The fever burned, and burned with such fierceness that it seemed as though it must burn away the little life. If there had been any doubt before, it was now made very apparent that Rebecca Meredith was wanted in the sense of being needed in this house. Lillian clung to her with almost frantic insistence, and in her delirium turned at times even from her father to throw herself into the arms of her nurse. Day after day and night after night the strain went on, Rebecca leaving her charge only for the few moments which necessity required, and being often even then summoned from the cup of tea she was hastily swallowing, with the word that Lillian was screaming for her. Night after night the poor father hung over his darling in silent agony, doing what he could and when he could, and when the child demanded Rebecca yielding his place to her with a meekness that went to her woman's heart. None of those most closely concerned questioned the doctor. There was no need. He was a friend as well as physician, and his face told the story of his fears. To Nancy, whose anxieties became so great that she conquered her fear even of the stern doctor, he said briefly, It is impossible to tell what the result will be. Certainly she is very ill, nothing is ever gained by denying facts. But people have been very ill before and have recovered. See to it that you do your part, my girl. And Nancy understood him well enough to cry her eyes and nose very red. But she tried faithfully to follow his advice until Rebecca learned to call for her when she wanted something within the limit of her capacity done swiftly and well. She even remembered one day to commend her, and took a moment's time to wonder over the sudden light which illumined the girl's face, and to query whether it could be that she had never been commended before. Very little attention did business receive at the hands of Mr. Mackenzie during these weeks of watching. A half hour twice a day spent in the library in conference with his partner was the utmost that the outside world secured from him. Then he went regularly twice a day to Mrs. Mackenzie's room. For the rest he was either at Lillian's bedside or waiting in the next room for a call fither. A wonderful helper did Rebecca find him. Sometimes Lillian seemed to know him. Then he was invaluable. No arms could rest her like his, and no hand but his could give medicine or nourishment. He lived for those intervals of recognition. But for the most part the burden of nursing fell heavily upon Rebecca. There was a trained nurse in attendance, but she was simply useful in advising and in watching for changes. Lillian seemed from the very first to consider her an interloper with whom she meant to have nothing to do. Occasionally somebody said that Rebecca was overdoing. Once the doctor looked sharply at her and said, You must get some rest today and a few minutes in the outside air. Then Mr. Mackenzie had turned anxious eyes on her and said, Yes, do try to get a little rest. If you should break down, what should become of her? But Rebecca had answered quietly, even putting a brave smile on her face, that she should not break down. She rested quite often in her chair. They were not to worry about her. In her heart she meant that she should not break down until there was no further need for her watchfulness, for poor Rebecca had given up all hope of the little life. Had not I. Lee died, and I. Lee was a stronger child than Lillian and had inherited a good constitution. There came at last a terrible day when the cries of delirium were hushed, and the cheeks which had so long been crimson were deathly in their pallor, and the heavy sleep into which the little sufferer fell was so like death that those who watched knew without trying to read the physician's impassive face that the awful crisis of the disease was upon them. The day itself was breathless, the first very warm day of the season. The sun seemed fierce and pitiless, and it seemed as though he stood still in the heavens and let the hours of almost an eternity roll on without another night. So terrible was it to sit by that still sleeper and feel that there was nothing to be done but wait, and to know almost to a certainty for what they were waiting. On this day, when Mr. McKenzie was informed that his business partner was waiting to see him, he shook his head. Tell him to do whatever he thinks wise about everything. He said, I cannot talk with him today. So the man went away with grave troubled face, and people outside knew that Mr. McKenzie had very little hope of his daughter. Mrs. Payne, whose patient had had an ill turn just before Lillian sickened, and who had seen but little of the child, stole in during the day, and stood watching her for a few minutes, then went softly out, the tears rolling down her cheeks, and they knew that Mrs. Payne felt that she had said good-bye to Lillian. Into the midst of this solemn waiting, which was so much harder to bear than activity, came a break. There was a sudden confusion outside. Doors opened and closed less noiselessly than they had been doing, and once someone called in a quick, sharp tone. Then a summons came for Mr. McKenzie. It was not business this time, for in response to the hurriedly whispered message he went at once. The trained nurse looked her inquiries, but Rebecca shook her head. There was nothing that she could tell, but in her heart she knew what had occurred. CHAPTER XVII LIFE AND DEATH It was even as she had feared. Mr. McKenzie was hours away, and the doctor only looked in hurriedly at intervals to note if there had been any change in Lillian. Finally the trained nurse who went in search of news came back with the whispered word that, that poor mother had been taken worse, and from all accounts they thought she was dying. Poor creature! She would see her baby very soon after all, perhaps. Wasn't it sad? Rebecca could only bow her head for reply. She had no words to speak. Then, with her face buried in her hands, her soul went up in prayer as it had never been her privilege to pray before. Not so much for the little life beside her which she felt was ebbing away, not even so much for the dying woman, if she were dying, as for the stricken husband and father whose burden it seemed to her must be almost greater than he could bear. No, the mother did not die. It was the trained nurse again who brought news at last. They say she is better. It seems she is used to such awful spells, that Nancy says so. But she says they thought she was going sure this time. The doctor's face was as impassive as ever when at last he came to make a longer stay beside Lillian. His replies to the nurse were very brief. She is better. Was she out of danger? I think so. According to the nurse's ejaculation, what a mercy it is that she is spared to that poor man just now. He made no sort of reply. When Mr. Mackenzie came back, it seemed as though years had been added to his life. Rebecca even fancied that his limbs trembled as he crossed the room. And the look on his face she could never quite forget. They were alone for the moment. The doctor had just departed, assuring Rebecca that he did not anticipate any change for several hours, and the nurse had slipped away for what she called a bite, having vainly urged Rebecca to go in her stead. The father had gone to the other side of the bed and dropped upon his knees beside Lillian, an attitude he often took the better to observe her slightest movement. Mr. Mackenzie, you need God. The words seemed to be rung from Rebecca almost against her will. She had not planned to say them, she had thought to be entirely silent. He did not seem to be surprised at her words nor annoyed. Yes, he said in a slow, tremulous tone very unlike his own, I need something. I must have help of some sort, or I shall die. My burden is heavier than I can bear. In an instant Rebecca was on her knees by the bedside, praying in an audible voice, a thing she had never done before. Praying not for the little child lying there so quiet, breathing her life away, but for the father, that the infinite father would come down to him and reveal himself as a burden-bearer, one able and willing to enfold him, praying that he might even then and there see Jesus Christ as his friend and saviour. She did not know what words she used, she was never able to recall them, at the time she did not think of words. She had so recently learned what real prayer meant that she could well understand how little the kneeling man knew about it. It mattered not what he thought if only she could help to show him the mighty Christ. The prayer was very short, her feeling was too intense for many words. In a few minutes she had slipped back to her seat again. When Dr. Carruthers returned he found her as he had left her, and the father kneeling where he had spent so much of his time of late. But now his eyes, instead of being fixed on Lillian's face, were hidden in the bedclothes. The doctor went around to him, laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, and spoke low. Mr. Mackenzie, there will be no change here for some time. Could you not be persuaded to try to get a little rest? You have my word for it that you shall be called the moment there is the slightest indication of change. Then for the first time in more than an hour the father lifted his head. His face was still very pale, but the terrible look it had worn was gone. I will try, he said to the doctor. Then coming over to Rebecca's side of the bed he bent over Lillian, looking long at the white face and sunken eyes. As he turned away his eyes rested for a single moment on Rebecca, and he said in low, grave tones, I thank you. Did it mean for her faithful care of Lillian? After that Dr. Carruthers tried his skill upon Rebecca. He represented to her that at present there was nothing to be done but wait, and the trained nurse could surely accomplish that. By and by there would be a change, and it was barely possible that it might be such in one as would demand all her strength. For if Lillian should awaken conscious, it was reasonable to suppose that she would at once want her nurse. Would not Rebecca show the good sense which had characterized her during this ordeal, and rest when she could? He would make the same promise to her that he had to Mr. Mackenzie. So Rebecca, feeling sure that she could not sleep nor even rest, yet realized that it was the part of common sense to try and went away, and in ten minutes from that time was in the soundest sleep of her life, overtaxed nature had borne all that it could. Four hours afterwards she awakened bewildered, even frightened, at finding herself away from her charge, and in a perfectly quiet house. Very rapidly she made the necessary changes of dress, and hurried into the hall, afraid to hear any news, and yet feeling that she must know at once all there was to know. She met Dr. Carruthers striding down the hall. Ah, he said, I was coming for you according to promise. I hope you are rested, for there is work. She is awake and conscious. And I believe if her nurse can be trusted to control herself, and do exactly as she has told, she will pull her through. He must have understood his subject. Weak from long watching, feeling it even more just now because of the heavy sleep, Rebecca's brain reeled with the news, and she clutched at the baluster to save herself from falling. It was just then that he said, if her nurse can be trusted to control herself, and the nurse brought all her powers of self-control into action. One moment the room was black before her, and she felt herself going up to the ceiling. The next she had steadied herself and looked up at Dr. Carruthers with a smile. I think I was not prepared for good news, she said, but I am all right now. That was well done. He answered, watching her closely. Go down to the dining-room and drink a cup of the broth you will find there, and eat anything you can induce yourself to take. Then go to the piazza on the north side, and walk up and down it ten times. After that you may come to Lillian. There is a long and dangerous stretch of road before us, and we must be as wise as serpents. Rebecca turned without a word, and went to the dining-room. She had believed that she could not eat, but the doctor was to be obeyed. After that, for three perilous weeks Rebecca was at her post, watching clear-eyed and quiet every passing waking movement of her patient, and administering to her as none other could. When Lillian slept, she, still under the doctor's orders, slept also. She ate what and when he told her to, and walked on the north or south piazza as he directed, and gave herself to the business of nursing Lillian, and keeping herself in strength to do it. That is rather a remarkable nurse of yours, Dr. Carruthers said to the father one morning. It was after Lillian was so far recovered that she was on the north piazza with her nurse at that moment in a hammock surrounded by pillows, and pale as a Lillian, but smiling and content. The doctor had assisted in establishing them, Lillian in the hammock and Rebecca on a low rocker at her side. Then he had gone to the library to say a parting word to Mr. McKenzie, and had begun it as I have indicated. She has common sense in the management of her patient and of herself, and common sense, paradoxical as it may seem, is the most uncommon thing there is in this world. Mr. McKenzie smiled. Humanly speaking, continued the doctor, you owe your child's life to her. Yes, said Mr. McKenzie again, and he said not another word. Dr. Carruthers went away, saying to himself that except where Lillian was concerned, that man was immovable. It was a very slow getting well. The stifling days of summer were upon them, but the child was not yet strong enough for the fatigue of a journey, and Mrs. McKenzie was so bitterly opposed to leaving home without the child that the doctor advised her waiting. Carol, who Rebecca learned afterwards, had been summoned home at the time when there was almost no hope for Lillian, but had been too ill to come, was awaiting them at the seaside, being peremptorily forbidden by his physician to brave the city's heat even for a single day. When she heard this, Rebecca understood why Mr. McKenzie was willing to heed his wife's appeals that she should wait for Lillian. There were reasons why it would be unsafe for Carol and his mother to be together without the father to stand guard. So they waited, and Lillian grew daily stronger. The morning that the Tuesday lunch was resumed, or at least the first time that Lillian came to the dining room, her father brought her a mass of wild flowers which he had discovered that morning fresh from the country. Their own conservatory was aglow with flowers, and the child who loved them dearly had fresh ones every day. But no choice exotics had ever pleased her like these hearty treasures of the woods. In his hand he held a bunch of small, sweet-scented violets, and these he presently laid on Rebecca's plate, saying simply, I hope every breath will tell you the story of my gratitude. It was his first and only attempt at thanking her for her devotion to his child. It was just when they were beginning to say that by next week Lillian would be strong enough for the journey that a new element of trouble came, or rather a trouble which was steadily gaining on them but which they had not seen came to the front. It was Dr. Carruthers who opened their eyes to it. Leave Lillian to Nancy for five minutes, Rebecca, and come to me in the dining room while I give you some specific directions that I want carried out. Rebecca obeyed unhesitatingly. It was generally understood now in the household that she was responsible for the carrying out of every order pertaining to Lillian. He commenced abruptly. Have you seen Mrs. Mackenzie of late? Oh yes, for a few minutes every day. Do you note a change in her? For the better, yes, sir, said Rebecca with brightening eyes. In some respects, yes, in all respects, perhaps under the circumstances, although it is not common to say so. What I mean is, do you know that she is very near the end? Yes, he continued, answering Rebecca's startled look. I am confident now that it can be but a few days. I had hoped to get her to the seaside and let the family be together, but it cannot be done. I tell you first that you may understand all the circumstances and be ready to help us. The boy is ill. I do not tell his father how ill he is, because I think the man has burdens enough already. The boy will recover, but it is a low fever, such as they have been having in the institution where he was, and while he is doing very well and receiving all possible care, it is not possible for him now to see his mother again. This will make it hard. She seems to depend on you more than on any others, and you need to know these things in order to help her. You are having a strange experience with this family, are you not? I do not know what they would do without you. A strange experience, indeed. It was weeks since Rebecca had had any question as to whether she was wanted. Her work was plain enough, and seemed to be hourly growing on her hands. Since Lillian had been well enough for her to leave in Nancy's care while she slept, Rebecca had been in the habit of spending an hour each day with Mrs. Mackenzie. She knew that she was watched for eagerly, and she succeeded in making that hour the pleasantest of any in the day, save the one which Lillian and her father spent there. Moreover, Rebecca had believed that a great blessing was coming to this strangely distorted family, and coming through her instrumentality. On the first visit she had made after Lillian's illness, Mrs. Mackenzie, looking frightfully ill herself, had drawn the girl's face down to her and whispered, I have given it up. I have not touched a drop of it in any form since that night, and I never will again. I have promised the Lord that I will not. I told him if he would spare my baby to her father, I would never break my promise again. Dean doesn't trust me, I think. I have promised so often it is not strange that he should not. But this is different. Rebecca, the Lord does help. I told you I didn't believe it, but I do. It isn't because I have not had opportunities. There have been chances. For that matter I have some of it in my room this minute, but I will not touch it. Nor did she. Rebecca had watched each day, and each day had commended the child woman, and assured her of sympathy, and told her how glad Mr. Mackenzie would be when he came to realize it as a fact, and told her that now Lillian need never know anything about the past, and every day she had sought to lead the poor woman to a closer hold upon the infinite helper, and had felt that she was succeeding. It was only the night before that she had said to herself exultingly as she had gone from Mrs. Mackenzie's side, saved, saved, then she had let herself try to imagine what it would be for husband and wife to come together feeling that the awful gulf which had separated them was closed, and that life stretched itself out before them in sunny lines. So absorbed had she been in this part of her work that she had not noticed the steady decline in strength. Since she had come to understand the dark secret of the home, she had accused the drug of being the cause of all the trouble, and with it banished her fears had been forgotten. The doctor's news came to her like a blow. The woman over whom she had exalted was saved, but for heaven, not for earth. The doctor stood waiting the result of his news. I see I have startled you, he said, after a moment. I am surprised at that. I had given you credit for greater penetration, but you have been preoccupied. Well, how are we to manage? Is it your opinion that she ought to be told of her condition, or shall we let her slip away quietly and make no more trouble? It will be a very quiet going, I think. Perhaps that is the better way. Oh, I cannot think so. Dr. Carruthers, would you not want to know if such a wonderful change as that were to come to you? Perhaps so, he said after a moment's silence. Well, will you undertake it? I, said Rebecca, and she drew back as one who shrank from the task. Why, yes, I had thought that it would better be you. She does not seem over fond of Dr. Carter, and there is no one else. Are you not one of the praying kind? It seems reasonable to associate prayer with dying. I hardly know why. I do, said Rebecca. She spoke quietly and had already gained control of her shrinking nerves. I will undertake it, doctor. Very well, he said, relieved. I had a feeling that I could depend upon you. And what of him? I do not think he has an idea of such a change. She has been ill so long and has had so many narrow escapes. Could you undertake, too? But Rebecca interrupted him. She would take no more commissions. She was not at all the person to explain anything to Mr. McKenzie. All right, said the doctor, after he had considered her emphatic words for a moment. I will hand him over to Carter. They seem to get on well together. Poor man! One could have the heartache for him if it would do any good. Then he went away, with his heart much fuller of sympathy, than some of his words would indicate. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Wanted by Pansy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 18 Responsibility Rebecca's task proved not to be a formidable one. She went about it with utmost caution and tenderness, yet with utter truthfulness. Do you mean that? Mrs. McKenzie asked in an odd whisper, as she took in the sense of the softly murmured words of the girl who was kneeling beside her. Then, after a few minutes of utter silence, she spoke quite steadily. Well, perhaps it is better so. It is, of course, if God has planned it. I thought I would like to surprise Dean, and I thought I could do it, but perhaps he sees that I couldn't. I am not very strong even now, although I am different from what I have been for years. Yesterday I lay thinking, what if I should go back? I was all in a tremble over it. I had just strength enough to get out the little bottle from where I had hidden it between the springs and the slats, and pour it out of that open window. I raised up all by myself to do it, and I am glad it is done. I feel safe or so. Perhaps the grave is the only safe place for me. Cold shivers like an egg you chill shook Rebecca's frame as she listened. She had never before come into close contact with a person who was under the dominion of an awful habit, and the power of sin seemed more terrible to her than it ever had. You may well shudder, the sick woman said, but speaking herself in very quiet tones. I had barely strength to do it, and the smell of it, while it was gurgling out, drove me wild. I tell you, I am safer in the grave than anywhere else. Oh, dear Mrs. Mackenzie, not in the grave! Well, no, I will not say that. It used to be all that I could see, but God has been very merciful. It seems strange that there should be heaven for me, but I think there is. And you will take care of my Lillian, such care as I have not given her. It is better so. She said very little more, but lay quiet in grave, evidently thinking over what had been told her. After a little she raised herself and asked for Dean to be sent for. What passed between husband and wife that day only God knows. After that she grew steadily weaker, failing so visibly that no one who saw her needed telling. One evening, just as Lillian was asleep for the night, and Rebecca, who had had a busy day, was seated by the hall window in a flood of moonlight, resting. Nancy came with hurrying feet and wiping the tears from her face. Oh, Rebecca, I guess she's going, sure, and she wants you! Without waiting for details, Rebecca sprang up hastily and hurried away. Mrs. McKenzie had been no worse than usual during the day, but she had not heard from her for several hours. Yes, there had been a change. She noted it the moment her eyes rested on the pallid face. Mr. McKenzie was holding in his a hand which seemed already lifeless. Mrs. Payne was sobbing softly under cover of her apron, and the doctor stood motionless and grave, apparently waiting. He moved aside as Rebecca entered and motioned her forward. The movement seemed to arouse the apparent sleeper on the bed. She opened her eyes and said softly, Has she come? Then as Rebecca stepped close to her, she smiled, I wanted to ask you again. You will be sure to take care of my Lillian? As long as she needs my care and I can give it, I will, said Rebecca in steady tones, and the smile on the sick woman's face deepened. I can trust you, she murmured. Now pray. She glanced about her startled. Was Dr. Carter there? Was anyone who prayed? No, the direction must have been given to her. She dropped upon her knees. She was unused to prayer before others. Save that one time in her dire extremity when she had prayed for Mr. Mackenzie. His wife was the only one who had ever heard her on her knees. But of course there was no thought of refusal, no time for hesitation. As for what she said, God knows, assuredly she does not, but she knows it was from her heart. Amen, said Mrs. Mackenzie. Then after a moment, kiss Lillian for Mama. Oh, Dean, are you sure you forgive me? His reply was murmured in her ear, and a tender smile was on her face the while. Then her eyes closed, and all was still. A few moments more, and Dr. Carothers laid his hand on Mr. Mackenzie's arm, spoke a few words in low tone, and led him away. Rebecca slipped back to her motherless charge, and kneeling beside her bed, prayed for the poor boy who was waiting for the mother who would never come. The next few days were almost bewildering in their responsibility. Every servant in the house seemed to understand by common consent that Rebecca was the one to be consulted in regard to anything which had to do with Lillian, or with plans for the immediate future. Perhaps Mr. Mackenzie had so directed. He came to her the morning after Mrs. Mackenzie had left them, his first errand being to bring Lillian back to her. The child had been with him in the library for more than an hour, and a glance at her little pale face showed Rebecca that she understood. This little girl is going to be very good, he said, with a faint grave smile. She means to take her food and her medicine, and be brave all day for Papa's sake. And then Rebecca received the trembling form in her arms, and the golden head was hidden in her neck. I must leave her entirely in your care today, the father explained. I must go to Carol. I fear the poor boy is more ill than I had supposed, and I must in any case give him his mother's messages. I have left on my library table a paper giving directions, so far as I could recall what should be done. If other questions arise demanding immediate attention, I beg you will use your judgment. I shall return early tomorrow morning. Apparently Rebecca was to take charge of the paper, so she went for it, and quietly assumed the charge he had given her. It was well that she was by nature self-controlled and clear-headed. She needed all her strength and forethought. Even Mrs. Barnett leaned upon her. Do please give Nora a notion of what to have for dessert? She said, way laying Rebecca in the hall as she was on her way downstairs. There will be folks here to dinner, I suppose. He said we must be ready for friends who might come, and I am that shaken up. I don't half know what I am about. She held a hand to her head while she spoke, and looked worn and ill. So Rebecca went to the kitchen and consulted with Nora. There was scarcely less responsibility when the master of the house returned. By that time guests had arrived. Ants and cousins belonging to the class who hold almost no intercourse with their relatives during their lives, but seemed to feel the importance of gathering about their lifeless clay. Some of these cousins, near Rebecca's own age, looked wonderingly and somewhat doubtfully upon her. She overheard one of them interviewing the housekeeper. Barnett, who is that young woman who seems to have so much to say about things? One meets her everywhere, and she always has Lillian with her. Rather officious is she not? The reply was very distinct. That young woman is a dear friend of her that's gone. She had her sent for that last night, and said some of her last words to her, and Miss Lillian loves her dreadfully and can't bear to be out of her sight. No, she ain't officious. She is that kind and considerate that I don't know what any of us would do without her. Rebecca, busy and troubled as she was, could not restrain a smile. Evidently Mrs. Barnett did not like the cousin who was questioning. It was several days after the mother had been laid in the grave before Rebecca knew what was to become of Lillian and herself. Mr. Mackenzie returned to his son directly after the funeral, saying nothing to her beyond the statement that he had left Lillian absolutely in her care. But this he said positively in the presence of the cousin who had considered her officious. So, though that cousin still lingered and did what she could to win Lillian, Rebecca kept her charge constantly in sight and assumed all the responsibilities concerning her. From Dr. Carruthers, who had gone down with Mr. Mackenzie, she learned that the boy was slowly gaining. He had borne the news of his mother's death as well as could have been expected, but still it was a setback, and his father naturally felt very anxious. Mr. Mackenzie went down to the shore where his son was and returned three times before he summoned Rebecca to a consultation. It was not a long one. His plans, he told her, were now matured so far as he could mature them without her help. His boy was in a critical condition. The terrible disappointment in regard to his mother had been very hard. The doctor believed that a sea voyage was a matter of vital importance to him and a stay of some months in a totally different climate. He was unable to go without his father, or at least in his present condition, there was no one with whom his father was willing to trust him save himself. But Dr. Carruthers, who was so sure that the sea was what the boy needed, was equally sure that he did not want Lillian to go in that direction. He greatly preferred the country for her, and cheerful quiet instead of the excitement of travel. Plainly the father must be separated from his daughter if he was to do what was best for both children. The question which remained was, could and would Rebecca assume the entire charge of Lillian until such time as he could again give her his personal care? You remember, he said, breaking off to give her a searching look? What you said to her mother? Yes, said Rebecca, her lip quivering a little. I remember, I shall be glad to keep my word. He seemed greatly relieved and thanked her earnestly, then went back to business. It remained to decide where he should place the two during his absence. He had relatives unnumbered, he explained, with the shadow of a smile flitting across his grave face, but no mother nor sister nor very near and dear friend. His aunts and cousins, three of them, had kindly offered, even urged their homes as the fitting place, but there were reasons why some other would be preferable. For one thing the climate was not in those localities as desirable as it might be, and besides, what did she think? Would she object to having Lillian entirely removed from any of her family friends? I should prefer it, said Rebecca quickly. That is, I beg your pardon, I mean if I am to have the sole responsibility, I think—and there she stopped. Yes, he said, he perfectly understood and quite agreed with her. Assuredly, she was to have the sole responsibility. Then was there any place with which she was acquainted, and for which she had a preference? If so, he would be glad to have her mention it, and he would take it into careful consideration. Then came to Rebecca a vision of her father's last letter. Only a few lines he lived such a busy life, but the closing lines were, Oh, daughter, when are we going to have sight of your face? Your last letters have done us good in many respects, but I own that they have made us hungry to see you. How much longer must we wait? How long would it be, in view of these plans, before she could see her father? She had written several letters since that first one, all beginning, Dear Father and Mother, and Mrs. Meredith had replied to them, saying, We, as her father always did, and giving pleasant home news and being cordial in her tone. Before sickness and death came into their midst, Rebecca had thought of planning a vacation and a visit home. After that she put it from her indefinitely. She thought rapidly while Mr. Mackenzie waited, then spoke from the impulse which had just come to her. I have not had time to think, of course, but would you object to my taking Ms. Lillian to my own home for a time? He was not one to agree blindly to anything. He questioned carefully. Where was her home and what were its surroundings? Oh, yes, he knew that region of country. In point of health, it was all that could be desired. Did her people live in town? Ah, that was encouraging. Half a mile out, in so small a city as that, was almost like the country. When he was told her father's given name, he grew more interested still, asked when and where he graduated, and said at last, Why, I must have known your father when I was a boy. Is it possible that he is John Ellis Meredith? I had a brother who was a chum of his. If I mistake not, I have visited at your father's old home. He looked steadily at Rebecca as he said these words, and she knew his knowledge of her father made him wonder why the daughter had chosen such work as she had. The color on her face deepened, but she answered his look. My father is a country physician in very moderate circumstances, and as there was no work at home needing me, I resolved to try and earn my living. My mother is dead, but my father's second wife is a good woman. I think Ms. Lillian would be happy there. Mr. Mackenzie bowed. Thank you, he said, for your confidence, and Rebecca, it is not necessary for you to say Ms. Lillian. You are too much to her, and too thoroughly a tried and trusted friend of the family, to make such formality necessary or desirable. Matters shaped themselves with astonishing rapidity after that. Rebecca's letter home was replied to by the first possible mail. They were more than willing to receive her charge. Indeed, wrote Mrs. Meredith, your father is so hungry for a sight of you that I think he would accept any conditions. But, aside from that, we are sorry for the little motherless one, and will be glad to help you make her happy. We think it was very kind in you to be willing to assume her care. As for the terms mentioned, they are liberal in the extreme. Indeed, we hardly feel willing to receive so large a sum for the board of a little child. Your father thinks you would better explain that we live very simply and that no such amount is necessary. Rebecca carried the message to Mr. Mackenzie, and he paid quite as much attention to it as she had supposed he would. I am fully aware that I am receiving that for which money cannot pay, but at the same time I wish to have money do what it can. The terms I mentioned included your own board, Rebecca, for I wished you to feel quite free to give your entire time to Lillian if you chose. In an incredibly short space of time, considering the amount of work to be done, the Great House was put in order for an indefinite absence. The servants scattered to various points, the housekeepers sent to spend the summer, and as much longer as was necessary, with her married daughter, and Mr. Mackenzie, attended by his faithful Rogers, was ready for a sea voyage. Only the day before they were to sail, he took Rebecca and her charge as far as the junction where they made their last change of cars. He had planned to go all the way, but business matters of great importance delayed him, and Rebecca assured him that all they would have to do after changing at the junction would be to sit still until her father came to meet them at their own station. But there were a hundred and fifty miles to ride before the junction was reached, during which Rebecca was for the first time in her life taken care of on a journey. Mr. Mackenzie was a man who seemed to know by intuition just when windows and blinds and shades needed attention, or just when a glass of water or an orange would be refreshing. Apparently he devoted himself to Lillian, a looker on would have said that he had eyes and ears for no one but her. Yet during that long morning Rebecca never needed fan or traveling bag or convenience of any sort, but he seemed to know it and was at hand. End of chapter 18