D

CHAPTER II.

"Sick unto Death."

"THEN let them press the hand and part,

The dearly loved, the fondly loving;

Still, still in spirit, and in heart,

The undivided, unremoving."-HORATIUS BONAR.

URING one of Mr. Lancaster's journeys his wife

was taken ill, and it was feared she would die before the husband could reach home. A telegram from Charlie hastened his return. Helen, who was at an excellent finishing school at Northport, was instantly recalled, letters being sent to the lady principal urging her to send her pupil by the first available train.

A few hours saw Helen by her mother's bedside. From that time she became her mother's nurse, her father's comforter, Charlie's companion, and the lesser ones' help and counsellor.

Let no girl who may read this think that Helen had a very easy life, or that her path was perfectly smooth and free from trial. Perhaps, up to the time when Helen knew she must lose her mother, the greatest had been parting from a dear girl friend, name Lottie Cartmell. Helen and this friend had, during a time of revival in Northport, consecrated themselves to God in the same hour. One Sabbath evening, when the preaching service was over, the minister had spoken specially to the young people of the congregation, urging them to sur

Helen

render themselves a sacrifice to God that day. and Lottie, who had many times conversed on the desirability of being renewed, looked into each other's eyes, and acting on the same impulse, turned to the pew door and walked to the communion enclosure at the same moment, where there were already several others kneeling. Kindly advice and encouragement were given to them; they were urged to rest their souls, by faith, on the blood of the Atonement. With clasped hands both girls solemnly devoted themselves to God. They laid hold of the pardon and received the witness of the Spirit of adoption almost at the same moment.

Great was the joy of their kind instructress, herself a Wesleyan Methodist. She gave orders that as much as possible the girls should be together. From that time they shared the same room, met in the same class, sat side by side in chapel, sang from the same hymn-book, read from the same Bible;-like David and Jonathan their souls were knit together.

When Mrs. Hillerton heard of Mrs. Lancaster's illness she almost feared to break the sad tidings to Helen, on account of the strong love between the girls, now almost sisters. Very, very sorrowful good-byes were said, both looking forward to the time when they should meet again. The sorrow of parting with Lottie, with the fear of what awaited her at home, was the commencement of a life of patient working out the will of her Heavenly Father.

Daily trials were inevitable. The care and management of house and children rested on Helen; for though the best advice was obtained, and the best help that was to be found, Helen was her mother's best nurse,―her beloved mother, whose days were numbered, was her first care. Truly did this young servant of the Lord testify

to whom she belonged. Highly did the poor invalid value these kind ministrations, as was shown by her grateful looks and words. Though all the family were most anxious to bring ease and comfort to the sick room, -Horace often showing his pale face by her side to kiss her, and tell her he prayed for her every day; then away to his room to weep for her, and ask God to spare “dear ma, or take him too,"-the husband, who knew his dear life's companion must be taken from him, constantly, with the tender solicitude of his large heart, devising something that would ease her pain or please her mind,—it was Helen that was chief there, as he often told her with a grateful smile. The small tray with the snowy cover, the bright silver fork or spoon, the white china cup and plate, with its delicate, tempting slice of chicken, the wafer of ham or tongue, a very flake of bread-and-butter, the clear jelly, or yellow custard, were all Helen's preparing. When flowers or fruit were sent in, Helen had to dispose and arrange them.

Mabel watched her quiet ways and deft fingers, wondering how she could go about so quietly, and how she made "dear ma" so comfortable without any fuss, herself longing to try. She was now taking care of May, and also doing a good deal for Horace, who clung to Mabel as his chief helper now. Helen and her father praised her endeavours, and said Mabel would be all they wished yet.

One day Charlie and Mabel insisted on their sister taking a walk with papa, they undertaking to keep all very still, and take the greatest care of the mother. Charlie and Mabel, who had never as yet been left alone with her, became nervous and alarmed when the cough, which racked the feeble frame, suddenly came on.

"Come here, Mabel-quick! Get on the bed and lift her up; that was what Nelly said we had to do."

Poor Mabel, who had forgotten Helen's quiet ways, jumped on the bed with a jerk that sent a quiver through every nerve in the sick lady's frame; but she soon lifted her up in her strong arms. Charlie opened the windows of the room, and gave the soothing medicine that had been placed ready in case it should be wanted. Mabel grew hot and frightened, and her heavy curls, that grew thicker and heavier, fell on her mother's face and head, making her hot, and her breathing worse than before.

"Lay me down," she said, panting. "Thanks, dears. Open the door. Sit down both, please. Poor child!" she said to Mabel, who was shedding quiet tears.

At those words Mabel could not control her sorrow, but burst into a fit of sobbing.

"" Oh, mamma darling, I am afraid I made you worse. I did not help you rightly, did I? I am so awkward ; but, dear ma, I am indeed trying to be better each day."

Her mother smiled approval, and patted her daughter's hand. Just then the dog, who had missed Mabel, heard her voice through the open door, and, contrary to all rule, came bounding up stairs, and before Charlie could close the door, had leaped to the girl's shoulder, and was kissing her face. In turning sharply round to prevent him from shaking the bed with his great paws, she upset the little table by the bedside. There had been placed on it a crystal jug with the iced water, a vinaigrette, a bottle of rose-water, a glass of jelly, a bunch of ripe grapes just brought in by Mr. Lancaster. Poor Mabel! great was her dismay as all went over with a loud crash. The noise sent a pang through the worn frame of the mother, a worse through the heart of the child.

"Come down, you wicked beast," she cried, "come down!"

Taking hold of his collar she dragged him from the

the

room, and down the stairs, striking him all the way, dog uttering the most fearful howls, till they reached the door leading to the garden, when she gave him a parting kick, that sent him yelping to his kennel.

The girl went back slowly to her mother's room, angry and mortified, where she heard Charlie trying to explain to her father and Helen,-who had returned, during her absence with Bob, from their walk,—the noise they had heard and the state of the room. Mr. Lancaster was really angry; Helen fearful of consequences to her mother.

"You had better go to your room, my dear," she said, "till you are cool a little."

"I shall not," said Mab, decidedly; "at least, Helen, I mean not till I have spoken to my own mamma. Oh, dear, darling mother, forgive your naughty, stupid girl. That last, you know, was not my fault; though it is my fault, too, because I am so much with poor Bob, and I ought not, I know; but if you only could know how sorry I am, ma, dear, I am sure you would forgive me." "Hush, my child, hush!" she replied, caressing her hands.

"Say you forgive me, please."

"Of course, dear. How could I do otherwise ?"

"You will kiss me, ma, with your arms round my neck ?"

Mr. Lancaster raised his wife in bed, that she might give the asked for kiss. Mabel pressed her hot face to her mother's, which was wet with tears, as slowly and with deep emotion, she said—

"God bless my darling child. Help her to watch and guard her temper; help her to look always to Thee for help. Oh God, make her Thine!"

Helen removed her from her mother's arms, saying