One day there came to her school a little deformed boy, about eight years old. He had been brought there by one of the scholars, and when Ruth entered the school-room she did not notice him, but proceeded with the opening exercises. She had taught the children to repeat with her alternate verses of Scripture, and this morning selected the twenty-third Psalm. After she had repeated the first verse, the scholars took up the second. But there was one voice, clear and distinct, above all the others. Glancing round, she saw a pale face, whose large, earnest eyes, bent full upon her, touched her strangely. Slightly averting her head, she went on where the children left off, but still there was the fixed look. It was not a stare or look of curiosity, such as a new scholar might show, but penetrating as though the child had pa.s.sed through deep experiences, maturing the intellect while the body was dwarfed and feeble. At the close of the exercises, a little girl taking him by the hand, led him up to the desk, and introduced him as a new scholar.

"What is his name?" inquired Ruth.

"I'll tell her; mother said I should be a man and speak out. My name is Philip Driscoe," and here the thin tiny hand was slipped in Ruth's. How very thin and white it was, like a baby's hand. As it lay for a moment in Ruth's the fingers closed over it, and stooping down she kissed the child. "I like you, you are good, like mother," and drawing closer he laid his other hand over hers by way of caress.

A sudden impulse seized her to take him in her arms, but the children were there, looking on understandingly. Holding both hands she bent smilingly down, but in an instant her eyes were full of tears. She was thinking of Guy. What if he had been thus afflicted? A thrill of gladness followed the pain occasioned by the thought, and collecting herself she took the child over to a seat in the middle of the room, promising him a book in a little while.

"And a slate and pencil to make pictures?"

"Yes, can you draw pictures?"

"O, elegant ones; mother says I'll make real ones when I am a man, if I don't die."

Ruth could not tell what to make of herself that day, or for many days after, she was so drawn toward that little face. "Now if it had been Agnes, it would have been quite natural."

But the truth was, wherever there was suffering or weakness of any kind, her heart threw off its casing, and she felt that she could do anything to shield or comfort. When the call came for strength or sympathy, she could give it unhesitatingly, but when there was only ordinary occasion, she made no response.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decoration]

CHAPTER V.

WHAT HAPPENED ONE DAY.

AT the beginning of the year, Agnes had resolved not to let a day pa.s.s without having benefitted some one. "It may only be perhaps by looking pleasantly, or speaking tenderly, yet if done in the right spirit, the Lord will accept it and make it result in some good," she argued. And in the spirit of this mission she started for school one morning.

"What a wonderful thing it is to know that while there are millions of people on the earth, there is something for each one to do, that no one else can do. A work the Lord has laid out for each one of us," were her thoughts as she walked. But another thought followed: "How do you know your own work? you may be doing the wrong thing after all."

This was not the first time such a suggestion had been made. Once it troubled and bewildered her, but now her mind was clear on that point.

"For," she reasoned, "my work must be to do everything that comes in my way, as well as I can, without waiting for special calls. And if I do this faithfully, and the Lord sees that I can do a different work, he will turn my mind in the direction of it, and bring it near to me."

Her reflections were disturbed by the loud, eager voices of several of her scholars, who announced in one breath, "O, Miss Agnes, you ought to have seen Martha Nelson's father. He had his leg cut off, and they took him on a settee to the hospital, and Martha's mother is nearly crazy."

"How was it?" inquired Agnes, turning from one to another of the eager, frightened faces.

"Why, he drives a dray, you know, and he fell off when the horse was going fast, and the dray ran over him. Everybody says he was drunk."

"Hush, hush, we must never speak of another girl's father, as we would not like to have our own spoken of. Poor Martha, she will need to-day something that each of us can give her. What is it?"

"Pity," said one of the girls, who by look and voice showed that her heart was already touched.

"Is that all?"

"And love," was the reply.

"Yes, the dear Lord wants us all to do something for Him to-day, and as we cannot do great, hard things, He wants us to love and be sorry for Martha. And if we love people, we will do all the kind things we can for them; don't you think so, especially when they are in distress. And when we say our prayers, we must not forget to ask our Heavenly Father to love and care for Martha, now that her father is away from her, and may perhaps never get well."

When the lessons were over and school dismissed, Agnes hastened to the home of poor Martha. It was quite a distance from her own home, being at the other end of the town, and this was prayer-meeting night. But her day's work could not be complete until she had sympathized with these suffering hearts.

"Here it is, teacher," exclaimed the children who had offered to show her the way, "The house with the shutters shut tight."

Knocking, and then trying the door which she found unfastened, she entered the darkened room, having told the children it would not be best for them to go in on that day. A sad disappointment, for they had meant to kiss Martha and tell her they were sorry, and hear all about the accident, although some of them had witnessed it.

Pa.s.sing into the back room, Agnes found Mrs. Nelson and her children surrounded by a half dozen neighbors, in the midst of a discussion as to the position of the poor man when he fell. The one who had the floor at that moment was a tall, vigorous looking woman, who evidently had battled hard to occupy her present position. She had gone as far as: "'Says I to my man, there goes Bill Nelson;' and says he to me, 'Yes, there's no fear of his old woman letting him over-sleep himself; she's too smart for that'; when, all at once I seen him fall with his head to the horses' hind feet and----" here the entrance of Agnes, whose knock had not been heard, caused the speaker to subside, and a general movement of chairs and stools to take place.

"O, it's teacher, mother," said Martha, springing to meet her, light coming into her heavy, swollen eyes.

"And how do you do, ma'am; it's kind of you to come. And it's a sorry day this has been."

By this time chairs had been backed until they could go no farther, ap.r.o.ns smoothed, and the sleeves of the tall orator pulled down. Then there was silence, Agnes having taken one of the three chairs offered her.

"Yes, Mrs. Nelson, this is a sad occurrence. You have need of a great deal of sympathy, and I am sure you will have it." As Agnes looked round the room, and saw the various expressions of countenance at this remark, they appeared so ludicrous that under any other circ.u.mstances it would have been hard to control herself. As if encouraged by her notice, the tongues were again set in motion, and to her horror she was having all the details of the accident.

Martha had drawn her stool beside her teacher, who now took the opportunity of whispering comfort, and telling her how much her school-mates loved her and sympathized with her.

"I knew you would come when school was out, but it seemed so long. Did anybody have to be kept in?"

"No, the scholars were all quiet and attentive to-day; they were thinking of their little school-mate."

At these words, meant to comfort and rea.s.sure, the child laid her head on her lap and broke into loud sobs. Agnes thought she had done harm rather than good, and the tears sprang to her own eyes. Placing her arm round the child, she drew the bowed head up and let it rest on her.

"Poor thing," whispered the neighbors, "she takes it hard."

With a great effort Martha looked up into her teacher's face and said: "I wasn't thinking about father then."

Not knowing but what the child might have some trouble that she could relieve, Agnes whispered: "What were you thinking of? Don't fear to tell me; perhaps I can help you."

"O, teacher," and there came a great sigh, "you help me all the time.

n.o.body ever was like you, and it was because you were so kind I had to cry."

There were other wet cheeks than Martha's then, and Agnes was already repaid for her long walk. With a few more kind words addressed to Mrs.

Nelson, she rose to go, and Mrs. Nelson followed her into the other room.

"How can you manage without your husband? Had you anything but his wages?" she inquired, feeling that sympathy at this time might perhaps require a stronger expression than words.

"That is just what I've been thinking of, Miss, if I could get time to think. They are well meaning, you see," pointing toward the other room, "but they have no considerateness. It's not for me to sit down and be grieving over what can't be mended, but to be looking round for a way to bring bread into the house. For as you asked me, Miss, I'll just tell you. We haven't even had all his earnings; if we had, this wouldn't have happened to him. But I'll not hear a word said against him there," with another glance toward the back room. "I'll try, if G.o.d spares me, to keep starvation out, and maybe when he is lying there, something good may come into his mind."

"If you could only spare Martha to live out at service for a while, she might help you. At any rate you would have one less to feed," Agnes ventured to remark.

"That is just what came into my head this afternoon, Miss. The one next to Martha is old enough to take care of the rest when I am out, and if you could hear of a nice place where they wouldn't be too hard on her, I'd be a thousand times obliged to you, if you'd speak a word for her.

She sets great store by you, and a word from you as her teacher, would do more good than if I'd talk for a week."

Agnes promised to do what she could, and then timidly, but earnestly, reminded her of the sure help in the time of trouble, the one whose friendship and love are equal to all our demands. By the time she reached home, Ruth was becoming anxious, for when Agnes intended going anywhere after school, she always announced it before leaving in the morning.

Knowing that her sister would probably be uneasy, and that she should have little time to prepare for church, she almost ran home; so that when she entered breathless, her face a deep crimson, Ruth's tone of alarm, as she exclaimed, "What is the matter, Agnes!" brought Guy immediately into the room.