Happy Days for Boys and Girls Part 63

The cars continued to hurry on till we were within a few rods of the station.

The bell was ringing its usual warning, and the bell from a train from behind was beginning to be heard. We had commenced to switch off, to allow the express train to pa.s.s. But by some carelessness or miscalculation our train was a minute too late. Father and I were comfortably occupying one of the front seats of the rear car; and I was in a state of impatient excitement to reach our destination. But there came, in an instant, a stunning, frightful crash; and I was thrown violently forward. What followed for the next ten minutes I do not know.

I think I must have been in a semi-unconscious state, for I have a dim recollection of strange sounds, confusion, anxiety, and terror. Strong hands seemed to pull me out from under a heavy weight, and gently lay me down. I felt dizzy and faint. I opened my eyes, and light came gradually to my darkened vision. A gentleman stood over me with his fingers upon my wrist. A kind, sunny-faced old lady was wetting my head.

"Are you much hurt?" she tenderly inquired, gazing upon me in undisguised anxiety.

"What's the matter? Where am I?" I cried, springing up and gazing wildly around.

In a moment my eye caught sight of the broken rear car. There were several wounded and bleeding people about me. I saw the front cars emptied of pa.s.sengers, who were actively employed in caring for the injured. I comprehended in an instant that there had been an accident.

"My father! my father!" I cried.

"You shall see him soon," soothingly answered the gentleman by my side. "Drink this;" and he held to my mouth a gla.s.s of something pleasant and pungent. I drank its entire contents. I think it helped to quite restore me. I ran wildly about in search of my missing parent. There was a little group of men and women a short distance off. I hurried towards it, and recognized Peter, my grandmother's man, who had come to meet us at the station.

"Where is my father?" I said in a voice hardly audible from terror, seizing Peter's arm.

Before he could reply, I saw father, white and motionless, upon the ground.

"He is dead!" I shrieked, springing towards him, and convulsively throwing my arms about him.

"He is stunned, _not_ dead, my child," said the physician, kindly drawing me away, to minister to him. "We hope he will soon be better."

In spite of his soothing words and tones, I read the truth in his face; that he feared life was almost extinct.

"O, what can I do? Save him! save him! You must _not_ let him die! you must _not_!"

"My poor child, I will do all I can," replied the physician, touched by my distress.

But no efforts to restore my father to consciousness availed anything.

There was a deep, ugly cut on one side of his head. No other external injury could be found; yet he had not spoken or moved since he was taken out from the broken car.

The accident had occurred but a few rods from the station; and as grandmother's house was scarcely a mile distant, Peter strongly urged that he should be taken there at once. Accordingly a wagon was procured. The seats were taken out, and a mattress placed upon the bottom, and father was carefully laid upon it; and Peter drove rapidly home, while I followed with the doctor in his buggy. A man had been sent in advance of us to inform grandmother of our coming. She met us at the door with a pallid face, but was so outwardly calm, that I took courage from beholding her.

Father was laid upon a nice, white bed, in a little room on the ground floor; and again every means for restoring him was resorted to. Still he remained unconscious.

The hours went on. The old family clock had just struck two, and we were watching and working in an agony of suspense.

I had not left my father's bedside, till the low, indistinct conversation between the doctor and grandmother, in the next room, fell upon my ear.

"There is life yet," said he. "I thought once he had ceased to breathe."

"And you are quite sure he does?" she inquired.

"Yes. I held a small mirror over his face; and the mist that gathered upon it proves there is still faint breathing."

I shuddered and ran out to them.

"You think he will die!" I cried, seizing grandmother's hand with desperate energy.

"I cannot tell, dear Gracie. His life, like yours and mine, is in the hands of G.o.d. We cannot foresee his purposes. We can only submit to his will."

Saying this, she returned with the doctor to the sick room, and I was left alone.

The prospect of being deprived of my only surviving parent almost paralyzed me. I looked out of the open window. It was a calm, clear summer night. The moon shone out in all its glory and brilliancy, and the stars twinkled as cheerily as though there was no sorrow, suffering, or death in the world.

I sprang towards the door and closed it, and then threw myself upon my knees, and poured out my great anguish into the pitying ear of the heavenly Father.

"O, good, kind Father in heaven, do hear and quickly answer me. Do save my own dear papa from death. Mother, Bessie, and little Fred have all gone to live with thee; and he is all I have left. Do, I entreat thee, help him to get well; I will be more kind, and generous, and obedient than I have ever been before, and will try to please thee as long as I live."

I arose comforted and strengthened. Returning to my father's room, I saw the doctor with his fingers upon his wrist again.

"A faint pulse," he said, turning towards grandmother.

Another hour pa.s.sed. The breath was perceptible now, and the doctor looked more hopefully.

Morning came, and the glad sunlight streamed in through the windows.

Father remained in a deep stupor, but manifested more signs of life than at any time since the accident. He had moved slightly several times, and as the hours went on his breathing became more natural and regular.

Suddenly he opened his eyes and gazed feebly around.

"Father, dear father, are you better?" I cried in a choking voice.

He smiled faintly, then closed his eyes again, and sank into a sweet, refreshing slumber.

Another day came, bringing joy immeasurable to all of us. Father was conscious and rallying fast, and before night the doctor a.s.sured us all danger was past. The weeks went on.

June went out and July came in. We had been nearly a month in Woodville; and how different my visit had resulted from the season of perfect happiness I had so ardently antic.i.p.ated!

Father was gradually regaining his former health; and although the wound on his head was but partially healed, he was p.r.o.nounced doing admirably by the attentive physician.

He was now able to go out, and we took many long rides together, keenly enjoying the beautiful scenery and the pure air. As strength increased, the necessity of returning to his business pressed upon my father, and the first week in September was appointed for our departure.

On the last Sunday of our sojourn in Woodville, grandmother and I went in the morning to church. There had just been a fearfully destructive fire in one of the neighboring towns, and a large number of people were homeless. The minister announced that at the close of the afternoon service, a collection would be taken up for the sufferers, and he strongly urged a generous contribution from his parishioners.

I had hitherto paid little heed, when in church, to what the minister said; but since the dreadful accident and father's almost miraculous recovery, I had been far more thoughtful and attentive than formerly.

My heart went out in deep sympathy and pity for the poor men, women, and children who were made houseless in a single night, and I ardently longed to do the little in my power to relieve them.

So, during the intermission between the services, I took out the money I had brought with me, and which father had told me I was free to spend as I pleased. I tied it up in my handkerchief. There was too much for my pocket-book to conveniently hold, for it was all of the carefully h.o.a.rded treasure of my bank. It was my design to put it into the contribution-box.

Grandmother did not go to church in the afternoon; but father decided to go, and I accompanied him. After the services were over, two men arose and began to pa.s.s round the boxes to collect money for the people whose homes had been burned. As I beheld one of them coming slowly up the aisle, stopping at every pew, I was in a flutter of excitement. It was a novel thing for me to put money into the contribution-box, and my heart beat violently.

I drew out my handkerchief from my pocket, and hurriedly began to untie the knot. But my usually nimble fingers were provokingly slow to act now; and I pulled and pulled away, but to no purpose. The knot obstinately refused to yield. The man with the box had nearly reached our pew, and I began to fear I should lose the chance to give.

"Don't let him slip by me," I whispered so loudly to father as to cause at least a dozen persons in the adjacent seats to stare wonderingly at me. "I've something to put in."

Another prodigious effort, and the knot yielded.