"But He is willing to come,--waiting to be asked."

"It may be; I dinna ken," said the woman gravely.

They looked at Allison with a little surprise. She was surprised herself. She had no thought of speaking until the words were uttered.

She was only conscious of being very sorry for them, and of longing to help them. But she had spoken many a word of comfort among them before her work there was done.

A little child with a face like a snowdrop came and looked up at her, touching her hand. Allison took her up in her arms, and carried her with her as she went on.

"Dinna be troublesome, Nannie," said a voice from a distant bed.

"Come and see my mother," said the child.

Her mother was a woman who had been badly burned by her clothes taking fire, while she was in a drunken sleep. She was recovering now, and her little girl was allowed to come and see her now and then.

"Ye can do naething for me," she said as Allison set down the child beside her.

"No, I fear not, except that I might ease you a little, by shaking up your pillow and putting the blankets straight. Are ye in pain?"

"Ill enough. But it's no' the pain that troubles me. It's the fear that I mayna get the use o' my hand again."

"Oh! I hope it mayna be so bad as that," said Allison, shaking up the pillows and smoothing the woman's rough hair, and tying her crumpled cap-strings under her chin. "What does the doctor say about it?"

"Ye'll need to speir at himsel' to find that out. He says naething to me."

"We will hope better things for you," said Allison.

She took the child in her arms again. A fair, fragile little creature she was, with soft rings of golden hair, and great, wistful blue eyes.

She was not in the least shy or frightened, but nestled in Allison's arms in perfect content.

"Come and see Charlie," said she.

Charlie was a little lad whose right place was in another room; but being restless and troublesome, he had been brought here for a change.

"What ails you, my laddie?" asked Allison, meeting his sharp, bright eyes.

"Just a sair leg. It's better now. Oh! ay, it hurts whiles yet, but no' so bad. Have you ony books?"

"No, I brought no book with me except my Bible."

"Weel, a Bible would be better than nae book at a'."

"Eh! laddie! Is that the way ye speak of the good Book?" said a voice behind him. "And there's Bibles here--plenty o' them."

"Are ye comin' the morn?" asked the lad.

"Yes, I am," said Allison.

"And could ye no' get a book to bring with you--a book of ony kind-- except the catechis?"

"Heard ye ever the like o' that! Wha has had the up-bringin' o' you?"

"Mysel' maistly. What ails ye at my up-bringin'? Will ye hae a book for me the morn?" said he to Allison.

"If I can, and if it's allowed."

"Oh! naebody will hinder ye. It's no' my head, but my leg that's sair.

Readin' winna do that ony ill, I'm thinkin'."

And then Allison went on to another bed, and backwards and forwards among them, through the long day. There were not many of them, but oh!

the pain, and the weariness!--the murmurs of some, and the dull patience of others, how sad it was to see! Would she ever "get used with it," as the woman had said, so that she could help them without thinking about them, as she had many a time kept her hands busy with her household work while her thoughts were faraway? It did not seem possible. No, surely it would never come to that with her.

Oh! no, because there was help for all these poor sufferers--help which she might bring them, by telling them how she herself had been helped, in her time of need. And would not that be a good work for her to do, let her life be ever so long and empty of all other happiness? It might be that all the troubles through which she had pa.s.sed were meant to prepare her for such a work.

For the peace which had come to her was no vain imagination. It had filled her heart and given her rest, even before the long, quiet time which had come to her, when she was with the child beside the faraway sea. And through her means, might not this peace be sent to some of these suffering poor women who had to bear their troubles alone?

She stood still, looking straight before her, forgetful, for the moment, of all but her own thoughts. Her hopes, she called them, for she could not but hope that some such work as this might be given her to do.

"Allison Bain," said a faint voice from a bed near which she stood.

Allison came out of her dream with a start, to meet the gaze of a pair of great, blue eyes, which she knew she had somewhere seen before, but not in a face so wan and weary as the one which lay there upon the pillow. She stooped down to catch the words which came more faintly still from the lips of the speaker.

"I saw you--and I couldna keep mysel' from speaking. But ye needna fear. I will never tell that it is you--or that I have seen you. Oh!

I thought I would never see a kenned face again."

The girl burst into sudden weeping, holding fast the hand which Allison had given her.

"Is it Mary Brand?" whispered Allison, after a little.

"No, it is Annie. Mary is dead and--safe," and she turned her face away and lay quiet for a while.

Allison made a movement to withdraw her hand.

"Wait a minute. I must speak to some one--before I die--and I may die this night," she murmured, holding her with appealing eyes. "I'm Annie," she said. "You'll mind how my mother died, and my father married again--ower-soon maybe--and we were all angry, and there was no peace in the house. So the elder ones scattered,--one went here and another there. We were ower young to take right heed,--and not very strong. Mary took a cold, and she grew worse, and--went home to die at last. As for me--I fell into trouble--and I dared na go home. Sometime I may tell you--but I'm done out now. I'm near the end--and oh!

Allie--I'm feared to die. Even if I were sorry enough, and the Lord were to forgive me--how could I ever look into my mother's face in Heaven? There are some sins that cannot be blotted out, I'm sair feared, Allie."

Allison had fallen on her knees by the low bed, and there were tears on her cheeks.

"Annie," said she, "never, never think that. See, I am sorry for you.

I can kiss you and comfort you, and the Lord himself will forgive you.

You have His own word for that. And do you think your own mother could hold back? Take hope, Annie. Ask the Lord himself. Do ye no' mind how Doctor Hadden used to say in every prayer he prayed, 'Oh! Thou who art mighty to save'? _Mighty_ to _save_! Think of it, dear. 'Neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.' Jesus said that Himself. Ah!

ye are weary and spent--but ye have strength to say, 'Save me, I perish.' And that is enough."

"Weary and spent!" Yes, almost to death. The parched lips said faintly, "Come again," and the blue, beseeching eyes said more. Allison promised surely that she would come, and she kissed her again, before she went away.

She came often--every day, and many times a day, and she always had a good word to say to the poor sorrowful soul, who needed it so much.

Annie lingered longed than had seemed possible at first, and there came a day when every moment that Allison could spare was given to her, and then a long night of watching, till at the dawning she pa.s.sed away-- sinful, but forgiven; trembling, yet not afraid. Allison kissed the dead mouth, and clipped from the forehead one ring of bright hair, saying to herself: "To mind me, if ever I should grow faithless and forget."

But many things had happened before this came to pa.s.s. For at the end of the first week of d.i.c.kson's stay among the sick and sorrowful folk, there came to her the message for which she had through all the days been waiting. It was Doctor Fleming who brought it, saying only, "Come."

"Is he dying?" she found voice to say, as they pa.s.sed into the room together.