Daybreak Part 2

Kate would not talk to-day to Mother Agnes. She answered gently, but shortly, and could not be drawn into conversation. One of her old fits of reserve seemed to have taken hold of her.

Mother Agnes was going away, deeply disappointed, when the nurse told her the story of little Frances wishing to lose her leg for Kate's sake. And also, how the children had grown to love each other; and what a dear child Frances was, and how she talked to Kate of everything that is good.

And then Mother Agnes was comforted, for she saw that all she had to do was to stand aside, and let a little child do the work. And as she walked along the Thames Embankment in the glory of the setting sun, it came into her mind how Christ had taken all that was sweetest on earth, the love and trust of little children, the love of the father for the child, of the shepherd for the sheep, and made earthly love the stepping-stone to raise us into the thought of the possibility of that greater Love outside ourselves.

[Ill.u.s.tration: St. Thomas' Hospital.]

The next time she came to the hospital, Kate had much to ask her about the Orphanage. They talked pleasantly for a short time; and then, after a pause Kate said: "Mother Agnes, something is frightening me."

"What is it, Kate?"

Another pause--so long that it seemed as if Kate did not mean to speak again--and then she said: "The love of G.o.d frightens me."

"But, Kate, _that_ was meant to be the greatest joy and comfort of our lives."

"It is always there," said Kate, earnestly, "burning into me so that I cannot forget it. It is much worse to bear than the pain. Indeed, I cannot bear it, it is almost intolerable. Night and day, I can never, never forget it. And oh, Mother Agnes, if I had killed my own little Frances, it would not have given me the trouble it does to think of the things I have done against Jesus Christ."

Kate's words, her face, and her whole manner awed Mother Agnes so much that she could not speak for some moments. And then she talked to Kate for long--gently and tenderly and more plainly than she had ever done before. Kate said good-bye to her with eyes that were full of tears.

That night, before she went to sleep, Frances said:

"Kate, does what you spoke of still burn into you?"

Kate was startled, for she did not think that Frances had heard the half-whispered conversation.

"Yes," she said, "it is there just the same. I can scarcely bear it!

What can I do?"

"I don't know what you can do," said Frances, "except that you are bound to speak to Him about it."

Kate turned on her pillow with a half sob, and said no more.

CHAPTER IV.

IN A THIRD-CLa.s.s CARRIAGE.

"Kate--I can't sing any more--I'm just tired out with happiness."

"Cuddle up against me, darling, and try and go to sleep then."

"Then, dear Kate," said Frances, earnestly, "will you _promise_ to tell me all about the next stations, and the green fields, and the sheep, and the cows, and the people hay-making, and the dear little white houses. And I will dream about the sea. Oh, I am so glad that you and I are going to the sea."

So the little head with its ma.s.s of golden brown hair found a resting-place on Kate's shoulder, and silence reigned for a time. And Kate, her arm round the sleeping child, watched those green fields flooded with summer sunlight with thoughts so new and strange that often the tears would come into her eyes. She could not quite understand this new life yet, but somehow, since the day when the fast-closed door was unlocked, and the Friend admitted, she had found all her old restlessness and her hard thoughts of life vanish, and deep peace and love had come in their place.

"Is it a station?" said a little dreamy voice at length, and the brown head moved uneasily. "Please tell me when there's something to be seen besides 'Colman's Mustard.'"

"There _is_ something!" cried Kate, breathlessly, "there is, Oh, Frances, such a beautiful face!"

Little Frances was on her feet in a moment, and rushed to the farther window. Before the train had quite stopped, her head was such a long way out that an old German from the next window shouted to her, "If you do not take care, Miss, some fine morning you vill get up vidout your head."

"I see her," said Frances, turning round to Kate, "all in grey, with a very, very large bunch of roses in her hands. Now she is talking to three big brothers. Now the big brothers are carrying all her things; books, and a bag, and a basket, and a cloak, and a parasol, and a funny stick with wires in it."

"Lawn-tennis racket," suggested Kate, who knew country ways.

"There is a funny old woman with a hook nose walking with them, and now the big brothers are laughing and talking to her."

"Maybe she's the old nurse," remarked Kate.

"They are coming our way; oh, do you think she will get into our carriage?"

"No, she'll travel first-cla.s.s," said Kate, with a little sigh.

"No, no, I can hear them speak of travelling third. Kate, put your old hat straight on your head. Tie my blue tie--quick, please!"

The arrangements were scarcely completed when a young man's face appeared at the window, and soon after they heard a voice: "I say, Violet, if you really mean to travel third, you and Nanny had better get in there. There's only a poor girl with crutches and one other child."

"All right, d.i.c.k; help Nanny up first, and give her a corner seat with my cloak behind her. Now Nanny, darling, lean on his arm."

"Put Nanny facing the engine, or she'll think she's going the wrong way," shouted another voice, and a peal of laughter followed.. The old woman after some difficulty was safely landed inside the carriage. The brothers, carrying the things, followed. Violet with her great bunch of roses came last.

It was quite new to poor Kate to hear brothers and sisters laughing and joking together. She could not half understand the little jokes that pa.s.sed, but she liked to listen. The musical voices and the ringing laughter seemed to do her good.

And Violet all the time was conscious of a great pair of wistful eyes fixed on hers. As soon as the final good-bye to the brothers had been said, and the train was really off, she whispered something to Nanny, and began unfastening her bunch of roses. Nanny, meanwhile, bent forward towards Kate: "You've been ill, my dears," she said.

"We've both been run over," said Kate.

"Eh, dearie me, now! to think of that!" said the old woman, sympathisingly. "And you were hurt a great deal, I daresay."

"I lost my leg," said Kate.

"Well, now, I can feel for you there,--not as I ever lost one of mine, as is as good as ever,--but I as good as lost one in Mr. Fred. You remember, Miss Violet, my dear, that summer when he fell from the apple tree, and the doctor said as he'd never seen such a leg. Dearie me, what a sight of trouble we had with him to be sure!"

Violet had risen from her seat, and came towards the two poor girls.

"I want you to let me pin some of these roses in your dresses," she said, brightly. "They are so sweet. Do you care for flowers?"

"I do. Thank you, Miss, very much." Kate lifted her head, and for a moment the two girls looked each other full in the face. Such a contrast they were! Violet all glowing with life and happiness and beauty; and Kate with her old, sad face, and pathetic, dark eyes.

"Nanny, dear," said Violet, turning to the old nurse; "don't you think my other cloak would make quite a nice soft cushion? Do reach it over," and in one moment more poor Kate, who, truth to say, was getting very weary with her journey, found something that she could lean her tired back against with comfort.

Violet went back to her seat, and for some little time sat still, with a book in her hand but her eyes kept wandering off to the two poor girls in the farther corner. After old Nanny had fallen asleep, Violet at length came and sat next the girls.

"Do you mind my asking,--are you sisters?" she asked, in her soft voice.

"No, Miss," said Kate. "It pleased G.o.d to take my little sister. And this is a little girl He sent me instead, when my heart was pretty nigh broken."