A Daily Rate. Grace Livingston Hill

I’ve come to see if I can’t help you,” explained Celia. “Maggie told me you were sick. Tell me what is the matter. Perhaps I can do something for you. I know about sickness and nursing.”

      “Oh, such awful pain!” said the woman, writhing in agony, “I suppose it’s something I’ve et. Though I never et a thing, all day long, but a little piece of pie at dinner to-night and me tea. Me nerves is all used up with worrying anyway, and me stomach won’t stand anything anymore.”

      Celia asked a few practical questions, and then told her she would return in a minute. She found her way in haste to the kitchen, though she had never before penetrated to that realm of darkness—and dirt. She ordered Maggie peremptorily to bring her a large quantity of very hot water as soon as she could, and send somebody for a doctor. Then she went up to her own room and hastily gathered a bottle or two from her small store of medicines and a piece of an old blanket she had brought from home. She hesitated a moment. She ought to have another flannel. The woman was too sick to find anything, and she had said she did not know where there were any old flannels. It was necessary. She must take up this cross to save that poor woman from her suffering and perhaps save her life, for she was evidently very sick indeed. She waited no longer, but quickly took out her own clean flannel petticoat. It was nothing very fine, and was somewhat old, but it was a sacrifice to think of using any of her personal clothing down there in that dirty room, and for that woman who did not seem to be scrupulously clean herself However, there was no help for it, and she hurried back as fast as she could. She gave the poor woman a little medicine which she thought might help her, and she knew could do no harm till the doctor could get there, and then plunging the cherished blanket into the hot water she wrung it as dry as she could and quickly applied it to the seat of pain, covering it with the flannel skirt. She knew there was nothing like hot applications to relieve severe pain. She saw by the look of relief that passed over the sick woman’s face that the pain had relaxed to some extent. After a moment, Mrs. Morris said:

      “I don’t know as you’d a needed to send for a doctor, this might have helped me without him. I can’t bear to think of his bill. Bills’ll be the death of me yet, I’m afraid.”

      But a spasm of pain stopped her speech, and Celia hastened to repeat the applications.

      It was some time before the doctor arrived. The girl had to work fast and hard. It was evident when he came that he thought the patient a very sick woman. Mrs. Morris realized this, too. After the doctor was gone and Celia was left alone with her, she asked her if she supposed the doctor thought she was going to die.

      “Though I ain’t got much to live for, the land knows—nor to die for either for the matter of that.”

      “Oh you forget!” said Celia, reverently, aghast that one should speak in that tone of dying, “There is Jesus! Don’t you know him?”

      The woman looked at her as if she had spoken the name of some heathen deity, and then turned her head wearily.

      “No,” she said, “I don’t suppose I am a Christian. I never had any time. When I was a girl there was always plenty of fun, and I never thought about it, and after I got married there wasn’t time. I did tell the minister I would think about joining church the time of my daughter’s funeral, but I never did. I kind of wish I had now. One never is ready to die, I s’pose. But then living isn’t easy either, the land knows.”

      A grey ashen look overspread her face. Celia wondered if perhaps she might not be dying even now. She shuddered. It seemed so terrible for anyone to die in that way. She had never been with a very sick person near to death, and she did not know the signs well enough to judge how much danger there might be of it. She felt however that she must say something. The woman must have some thread of hope, if she should be really dying. She came close to her and took her hand tenderly.

      “Dear Mrs. Morris! Don’t talk that way. Dying isn’t hard, I’m sure, if you have Jesus, and he’s always near and ready, if you will only take him now. I know he helps one to die, for I can remember my own dear mother, though I was but a little girl. She had a beautiful look on her face, when she bade me good-bye, and told me she was going to be with Jesus, and that I must always be a good girl and get ready to come to her. She looked very happy about it.”

      Mrs. Morris opened her eyes and gave her a searching look. Then she said in a voice halfway between a groan and a frightened shout:

      “Why do you talk like that? You don’t think I am dying, do you? Tell me, quick! Did the doctor say I was going to die? Why did he go away if that was so? Send for him quick!”

      Then the inexperienced young girl realized that she had made a mistake and been too much in earnest. There was danger that the woman might make herself much worse by such excitement. She must calm her. To talk to her thus would do no good. She must wait until a suitable season.

      “No, Mrs. Morris,” she said, rising and speaking calmly, “he did not say so, and I do not believe you are going to die. You must not get so excited, or you will make yourself worse. Here, take your medicine now, for it is time. I did not mean you to think I thought you were dying, and I’m sorry I spoke about my mother’s death, it was very foolish of me. Please forget it now. I only wanted to tell you how Jesus was standing near ready to be a comfort to you always, whether you lived or died. But now you ought to go to sleep. Would you like me to sing to you? Is the pain a little easier? The doctor said you must lie very quiet. Can I get you anything?”

      By degrees she calmed the woman again, and then sat down to watch and give her the medicine. There seemed to be no one whose business it was to relieve Celia. Maggie put her head in the door about midnight to say she was going to bed now and had left a fire, if any more hot water was needed. Celia sat there gradually taking in the fact that she was left to sit up all night with this sick woman, an utter stranger to her. It was scarcely what she would choose as a pleasant task. But she recognized it as the cross the Master had lain upon her with his own hand, and there was a sense of sweetness in performing this duty which she would not have had otherwise. It occurred to her that it was well this was Saturday night instead of some other, for she could ill afford to sit up and lose all her sleep when she had to stand at the counter all the next day. She smiled to herself in the dim light and thought this must be part of the Master’s plan to fix it so that she could do this duty and her others also. This was all he asked her to do, just what she had strength for. He gave her the daily allowance of that. But what if she should have to sit up to-morrow night? “Daily, only, he says to thee,” and “Thou mayest leave that to thy gracious Lord,” came the answering words, for now she knew the little poem by heart. She went upstairs, hastily changed her dress for a loose wrapper, and secured her Bible and one or two articles which she thought might be useful in caring for the sick woman. When she came down again Mrs. Morris seemed to be asleep, and Celia settled herself by the dim light with her Bible. She felt that she needed some help and strength. She had not read long when Mrs. Morris said in a low voice, “Is that the Bible you’ve got? Read a little piece to me.”

      Celia hardly knew where to turn for the right words just now, but her Bible opened easily of itself to the twenty-third psalm and she read the words in a low, musical voice, praying the while that they might be sent of the Spirit to reach the sick woman’s heart. When she stopped reading Mrs. Morris seemed to be asleep again, and Celia settled herself in the least uncomfortable chair in the room, and began to think.

      But she had not long for this occupation, for this was to be a night of action. The terrible pain which for a time had been held by some powerful opiate the doctor had given when he first came in, returned in full force, and the patient soon was writhing in mortal agony once more. Celia was roused from her thoughts. She called Maggie and sent for hot water and the doctor again, and it was not until morning was beginning to stain the sky with crimson that she sat down to breathe and realize that Mrs. Morris was still alive. It seemed almost a miracle that she was, for the doctor had said when he arrived that there was doubt whether he could save her.

      Early in the morning Miss Burns came in to relieve her watch, and Celia snatched a little sleep, but she found on awaking that she was needed again. Mrs. Morris had asked for her. She went down to the breakfast table