but she accomplished it; drenched to the skin and too much exhausted to give an account of her adventures or to answer the eager questions of derrick and florence. the mother cut the questionings short, and herself undressed and wrapped in blankets the shivering girl, while ray ran for hot water and aunt elsie herself limped to the kitchen to prepare a hot drink. they all worked swiftly and skillfully to avert what they feared, and did not succeed. before morning it had become evident that jean was seriously ill. with the first glimmerings of dawn the family physician's machine waited at the door, while its owner made an unusually long call. in spite of all that skill and prayer could do, jean grew steadily worse; there were three dreadful days in which, without words passing between them, it was understood in the family that a life hung in the balance; followed by an awful one in which friends from outside went about the still house on tiptoe, and explained in whispers to anxious inquirers in only three words: "she is sinking." then, suddenly, all unexpectedly she rallied, and in a few hours the word went forth that she had come back as by a miracle from the verge.
during all this time and in the anxious weeks that followed aunt elsie was the very embodiment of rest and hope to every member of the family. her face remained calm even during those first terrible days; she was able to smile a "good-morning," and to say in cheerful tones, "she isn't a bit worse than she was last night; the doctor says so; and that is real encouraging, you know."
through those early, fateful days aunt elsie had chiefly busied herself for the comfort of those who watched, leaving to them the chance to wait on the trained nurse, and do the little that they could under her direction for their darling, and then to wait and hover about, and interview the doctor, and know to the minutest detail from minute to minute what was being done; while downstairs, rooms got themselves put in order in unobtrusive ways, the open grate fire was fed at just the right moment, mr. forman's big easy chair was always standing invitingly near in case he should be able to use it, and the couch near it, with fresh pillows and a light cover, was waiting to entice mrs. forman to drop down on it for a few minutes of rest. when ray, conscience-smitten over the heavy burdens of the little maid in the kitchen, would rush down to help, she would find everything serene and rebecca voluble: "there ain't a thing for you to 'tend to, miss ray, not a blessed thing; you just run back and stay with her all you can, poor dear! and you needn't to worry about anything down here; your aunt peeled the potatoes, fixed a salad and done all the extras, and she is coming to season the soup the way you like it; she's a comfort, miss ray, she is that!"
ray, as she sped back to the sick room, echoed rebecca's conclusion with a full heart. in this time of stress what could they do without aunt elsie! they had reason to emphasize this as the days passed; the slow thump of the lame woman's crutch was heard from all parts of the house, and evidences of her thoughtful ministrations were everywhere. when the immediate danger was past, and all that the sick one needed was skillful care, aunt elsie rose up in a new capacity, joyfully installing herself as "head nurse," and insisting that the worn-out mother and elder sister should take much-needed rest. she had discovered a way, she declared, by which she could get up and down stairs once a day without hurting her a bit; indeed, she believed that the exercise would do her good; hadn't she been trying it since jean was sick? one day she went up and down three times; and she was alive yet and good for any amount of nursing. she proved it in the weeks that followed. outside of jean's room the house assumed normal conditions. mr. forman returned to the desk where he spent his days, florence took up her work again in the city library, derrick got the consent of himself to go back to school, and jean was left very largely in aunt elsie's care. her mother was so manifestly exhausted by the heavy strain that had been upon her, following as it had years of undue strain and anxiety, that jean was among the first to urge strenuously for her complete freedom from care. ray was installed head of the culinary department, and by common consent aunt elsie reigned in the sick room. and contrary to ray's fears, jean not only made no objection to this arrangement, but seemed to like it; she had evidently lost the strange aversion she had shown for her aunt. certainly there could never have been a more satisfying attendant upon a convalescent; aunt elsie was alert, and cheerful, and competent; ready to read aloud in any book desired, or tell bright stories of the long ago, or gossip about the daily doings and sayings of the neighborhood, or be entirely silent, according to the whim of the moment. it was during one of those periods of silence that jean, who had been quiet for a longer time than usual, suddenly asked:
"aunt elsie, that day when i was the worst, did you think i was going to die?"
it was a very unexpected question; up to that time she had not spoken of her illness except in the most general terms, and by common consent the family had avoided any reference to those dreadful days when her life seemed slipping away. her aunt hesitated a moment uncertain just how she should reply, but at last said frankly:
"no, dearie, i didn't."
"why not? every one else did. they thought i did not understand, but i did; i knew all about it. i heard the doctor tell father, out there in the hall, that i couldn't live until morning."
"i know, dear; and at first i feared so, too; but the feeling passed, and i looked to see you better in the morning."
"and i was; aunt elsie, i wish i knew why you looked for it, when all the rest—didn't." there was the half-fretful insistence of the still irresponsible invalid in her tone, and her aunt reached a swift conclusion as to what would be best for her.
"if you won't toss about and keep the covers flying," she said cheerily, "i'll try to explain the way i felt. you have known of answers to prayer, haven't you? i had one that night. i had been praying for you for, oh, a long time; i had a definite hope—i might almost say plan—for your future, and your going away so early would have overturned it all; so i asked the great physician to take your case into his own hands, as he did so often when he was on earth, you know. i prayed that prayer about all the time during those three days; always, of course, meaning that if it was not his way i didn't want it; but i asked him to make it plain to me if i was not to pray for that any more; and so, that night when you were at the worst he told me."
"told you what? i don't understand; you don't mean he said real words to you, and you heard him? of course you don't! i don't understand it at all!"
"jean, dear, do you sometimes pray?"
"no," she said, irritably. "i say words of course; i say 'our father' sometimes, and i used to say, 'now i lay me'—but i never felt as though any of it amounted to anything, or was really heard."
"then i don't believe i can make it plain to you. i did not hear any voice, nor expect to; that does not seem to be his way; at least, not now; but my anxiety left me, and in its place came a quiet sense of assurance. i had not the least desire to pray that prayer any more; instead, i said, 'oh, father, thank you!' when i heard that the doctor had said you would not live until morning, i said, softly, 'yes, she will; the physician who never loses a case has taken charge of this one.' i was so sure that i went to derrick's room and told him to go to bed and to sleep, that you would be better in the morning. but i can't explain the experience to you any better than that; and i really don't expect you to understand it; some things have to be lived, before we can understand them. you must just learn how to pray, dearie, and see for yourself how he answers his children."
"what would you have thought if i had died that night?" asked skeptical jean; but her aunt only smiled quietly and asked:
"what would you have thought if the sun hadn't risen this morning?"
"and you mean that you were just as sure as that? well, anyhow, i didn't, it seems." she was already ashamed of her cavil, but she could think of no better way of saying so.
it was nearly a week afterwards that jean, with her aunt elsie on guard, was supposed to be settled for her afternoon nap. instead, she fidgeted, and declared herself not one bit sleepy. at last her aunt proposed to read her to sleep.
"no," she said, promptly, "i don't want to be read to; i want to talk; there is a question i want to ask. do you think people who are really going to die—right away, i mean—ever feel any other way than afraid?"
"oh, yes, indeed," was the prompt reply. "why, your grandfather was no more afraid than you would be of going into your father's room; and i have been with others who felt in the same way; old people and young, even little children who were afraid of the dark. one who loved the lord would not be afraid to go to him, you know."
she had determined to make her reply as lengthy as she reasonably could, in order that jean might not weary herself with much talking. her hope was, also, that if she kept her voice low and evenly modulated her charge would presently grow drowsy, but jean spoke in her most wide-awake tone:
"well, i was afraid; i was awfully afraid! i don't mean that day when i was at the worst; i didn't seem to care then what became of me; i suppose i was too sick to think; but that first night i knew i was going to be very sick; i could feel it all through me; i thought, too, that i should probably die, and i was never so frightened in my life! mother said i was burning with fever, but it seemed to me that i could feel the drops of perspiration inside of me, made of fear. aunt elsie, it was awful! it frightens me now whenever i think of it. now, this is what i want to say." she hurried on realizing that her aunt was about to interrupt and urge her not to talk any more. "i've got to say it; i never shall get to sleep i don't. i know i am getting well now, real fast, but then, of course, i shall have to die, some day, and it might be very soon, you can't ever tell; and i keep wondering if it really is possible, i mean when one is well and not in any danger, to get hold of something that would keep one from having that awful fear."
"it certainly is, dearie." aunt elsie's voice was as calm and her manner as assured as it might have been over an assurance of the next morning's sunrise. "one who loves the lord jesus christ has no call to be afraid over being sent for to go to live with him in the place he promised to prepare." jean interrupted:
"but that is just it; i don't love him; you can't make yourself love a person! i might say i did a thousand times over, in words, but that wouldn't alter anything."
aunt elsie regarded the pale-faced large-eyed girl on the bed with a kind of wistful tenderness in her eyes; the child had come so near, so very near, to changing worlds, and had evidently not understood how to take the first steps toward making a safe journey! she must make it plain to her now, even though there had to be more talking.
"that is true," she said, quietly. "you cannot make yourself love anybody, but you can tell the rightful ruler of this world that you have decided to serve him, and him only, all the days of your life; and if you do this with an honest determination to carry out your resolve he will attend to the rest. you see, it is different from any human love; he agrees, just as soon as you make deliberate choice of him as king, to make such instant changes in your feelings that you will never again be able to say you do not love him."
jean made an impatient movement among the pillows and spoke quickly: "aunt elsie, that doesn't seem possible! how could just deciding to obey somebody make one all over new?"
"it doesn't, dearie, it doesn't at all; the deciding is only the part which the lord gives to you; he does the rest. how he does it i can't explain; we don't have to understand how things are done, you know, before we can believe that they are done. jesus christ said if we were ever to belong to his kingdom we must be born again; and he also said that if we would attend to our part he would see that that great thing was done. why not do your little part, dearie, and leave him to attend to his?"
there was silence in the room for several minutes, then jean drew a long sigh, as she said:
"it seems small and mean to think of doing a thing that you don't want to, merely because you are scared at the thought of dying. i don't think i could be such a coward as that. i don't want to be a church member, and i don't want to read the bible; not regularly; it doesn't interest me; and i would lots rather read real good stories and such things; and—oh, well, there are lots of things that christian people think they must do that i don't want to do, and a perfect jam of things that they think they mustn't do that i want to; now, how could it make me any better to pretend that i didn't think and feel just that way?"
while she talked, aunt elsie took swift counsel of her lord. here was a lamb who clearly needed instruction in order to safely make the fold, but she was growing tired and nervous; she ought not to argue, she ought to be sleeping.
"don't pretend anything, dear," she said. "we mustn't talk much longer now, but i want to ask you just two questions. have you always wanted to do just exactly the thing that your father wanted you to do, and to leave undone what he wanted left?"
"no," said jean, promptly, "i haven't; not by a good deal! but that—" her aunt interrupted:
"wait, dearie, here is the other question: did your not wanting to follow his directions release you from the duty of obeying?"
"no," said jean again, and she laughed, a little shamefaced laugh; even in her weakness she was quick-witted; she could not help seeing just where her admission placed her.
