the house was very still, and as lucy moved about she was half startled at the sound of her own footsteps. she went into her sister's room to sit, for she fancied that it was more pleasant than her own; and then all rosa's books were there; perhaps she might like to look at some of them.
the bible was on the table; she took it up. "rosa, from her uncle gillette," was written on the blank leaf; and before it were several sentences. they were as follows:—"remember when you open this book, that god is with you, that he is speaking to you. remember to ask god to bless to you what you read. when you close the book, think over what you have been reading, and take the first opportunity to practise it."
as lucy read the first sentence, a fooling of awe stole over her; and she almost trembled to think how often she had carelessly opened the word of god, and hurried over its sacred pages. now she reverently turned to the place where her sister had left the mark the evening before. the story of the storm on the sea of galilee caught her eye: as she read it she felt sure that it must have been that sweet narrative which had so fixed rosa's attention when she watched her.
lucy repeated, again and again, the words of the blessed saviour, "why are ye so fearful, o ye of little faith?" they seemed addressed to her by the kind friend who stilled the tempest, and who, rosa had said, would be ever with her to take care of her, if she would love him and strive to be truly his child. "i will, i will love him, and try to please him," she said, half-aloud. "i should never be afraid, if i were sure he would watch over me."
she took up the prayer book, and read the verses with which the morning service commences. some of them she did not quite understand; but when she came to "i will arise, and go to my father, and will say unto him, father, i have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son," she was reminded of the day when her sister had read to her the sweet parable from which those words are taken, and how she had said that one purpose of the parable was to show how willing god is to receive all those who really come to him. again her purpose strengthened to be his child, who could so freely forgive.
lucy had been over the same service almost every sunday since she had been able to read, and could now find all the places without assistance, but she had hardly noticed many parts of it, and to some she had listened, while they were repeated by others, as if she had no part in the matter. now the exhortation, "dearly beloved brethren, the scripture moveth us in sundry places," seemed so direct and simple, that she wondered she could ever have heard it without feeling for how important a purpose she had come into the house of god.
with a strange feeling of solemnity, she knelt down and began to repeat the confession aloud. the words were so simple and natural, and so true, that she seemed rather to be speaking what had long been in her heart, than repeating what had been spoken by many voices around her from sunday to sunday, while she thoughtlessly glanced on the page, or let her mind wander to other things. as she said, "we have done those things that we ought not to have done," little faults she had committed, acts known only to herself, came thronging on her memory. among these painful recollections was the falsehood she had told about the light the morning after the thunder-storm. the whole fearful scene of that night came back to her: again she seemed standing, trembling and alone, in the passage, while the incessant lightning appeared to threaten her with instant death. so long she dwelt on these circumstances, that she quite forgot she was on her knees, speaking to the mighty god of heaven. suddenly it flashed upon her, and she started up, as if she feared he would immediately punish her for seeming to be praying, while her thoughts were far away. lucy had begun to realize that prayer is something more than merely repeating a form of words.
the little girl had hardly risen from her knees before there was a ring at the door. she set off immediately to save betsy the trouble of coming up stairs, for the poor old woman suffered much from rheumatism, and lucy knew it gave her great pain to move about. "i will go, betsy," she called, as she passed the stairway.
a ragged irishman was standing at the door. lucy was almost afraid to turn the key, lest he should lay hold of her with his hard, rough hands: she felt inclined to call out to him to go away, as the doctor was not at home; but she thought of the misery that giving way to her fear of mrs. tappan's dog had cost her, and her father's reproof, and she resolved that no poor sufferer should go uncared-for because she was afraid to speak to a man in ragged clothes.
she threw the door wide open, and was quite relieved when the irishman took off his hat, and asked her very respectfully, "is the doctor in?"
"he is not," answered lucy, promptly: "where shall i tell him to call?"
"sure and it's jist down the lane, forninst bridget o'brady's: he can't miss it, for isn't it the poorest bit of roof in the place? and tell him to come quick, if you plase, miss."
the man turned to go away, but lucy called after him, not at all satisfied that the direction would be sufficient. "what is your name?" she asked; "i want to put it down on the slate for my father."
"it's owen m'grath, plase you; and don't be afther stopping me, for who will be minding the baby, and the mother so sick, while i am jist talking here?" so saying, he hurried from the door.
lucy had very little idea how the name was to be spelt, but she put it down as well as she could, the direction and all, and looked at it quite proudly when it was done. it was neatly written, but oh, the spelling!
"who was that, miss lucy?" called betsy.
"an irishman with a queer name: he says he lives by bridget o'brady's," was the reply.
"oh! dreadful!" shouted betsy. "why, miss lucy, they've got the small-pox in all them dirty little houses; you've ketched it for certain. go, take off every rag of clothes you've got on, and throw them into the tub there in the yard: i don't know who'll wash 'em. i am sure i should not want to touch 'em with a broomstick."
poor lucy, pale and trembling, ran up stairs and did as betsy had advised. even in the midst of her fright she could not help thinking that she was glad it was her calico, not the favourite silk, that she happened to have on, since she must thrust it into the water, to lie there till some one should dare to remove it.
the happy birds were still singing about the pretty cottage, and the trees were waving in the sunshine, but lucy did not see them; her hands were pressed tightly over her eyes, and she rocked to and fro, thinking of all the horrible stories she had heard about the disease which betsy said she had "ketched for certain."
"i shall be very ill," she thought, "and who will dare to nurse me? perhaps i shall die; and if i get well, my face will be all marked, so that nobody will like to look at me. i wonder if rosa would be afraid to sit by my bed, if nobody else would stay with me. i should hate to see her face all pitted. how badly i should feel if she should take the small-pox from me. perhaps i shall give it to her if i see her now." at this last thought, lucy ran into her own little room. there she sat sobbing until church was out. she forgot that there was a friend with her, in that quiet room, who could have given her comfort, if she had called on him in her trouble.
