The following morning, the fever had left her; but Mary was tired and listless, refusing milk, broth, everything. When her uncle was with her, she clung to him, great tears running down her pale little face. Nothing that he or Sister Julia could say comforted her. She was lonely, lonely, lonely! That day passed, as did the next, without any change. The Doctor felt helpless; and when at noon, Thursday, the usual scene took place, he strode from the room, muttering, "I will send a wireless! They must try to be transferred to the first homeward bound steamer that they meet. To Halifax with the business!"

Then Sister Julia made up her mind to take matters into her own hands. Drawing a low chair to the bedside, she began, "I think I shall tell you a story, Mary."

"I—don't seem to care very much about stories any more, Sister."

"I have noticed that, dear; but this is one that I think you really should hear."

"Is it a long one, Sister? Please don't make it very long, because I don't want to think of anything but my darling father and mother and little sisters."

"Very well, I shall make it as short as possible—this true story which I am going to tell you.

"I once had a little patient suffering from the same illness which you have just had. Like you, too, she was blessed with a very loving father and mother and a good, kind uncle. The doctor who attended her had told me how much this uncle thought of the little girl; but it was not until I was sent to take care of her that I saw just how matters stood. There were other children in the family; but before I was in the house one hour, I knew that the sick little girl had first place in her uncle's heart as well as in the hearts of everyone in that home. And she well deserved it; for in all my years of nursing, I have never met a more lovable child. Gentle, patient, obedient, always thinking of others—why, before the first day had passed, I think I loved her almost as dearly as those who had known her all her life. I was quite ready to agree with the doctor in his opinion of her.

"Well, not to make too long a story of it, the child grew steadily worse. My heart ached more for the uncle than for her parents; because they had their other children, while he seemed too wrapped up in his little pet to think of anyone else. Then came a night when we thought the little girl's soul was about to return to God. I shall never forget the face of that poor uncle as he knelt at the bedside. It was gray, Mary, positively gray, and the pain in his kind eyes made me long to go away and cry. Great drops stood on his forehead though the room was really chilly, for the doctor had ordered me to keep it very cool.

"Oh, how I prayed to the loving Heart of our Divine Lord that, if it was His holy will, He would spare the child to that good man who had done so much for Him in the persons of His poor, suffering, little ones——"

"Sister, you are telling about Uncle! I know you are! It is all coming back to me about that night—I had forgotten it. I remember that I didn't know anything for a long time. Even the man with the knives was gone—and the silly little birds. Then, I woke; but I didn't open my eyes right away. The pain was all gone, and everything was so quiet that I thought I was alone; so I opened my eyes and saw Father at the foot of the bed looking straight at me. Then I saw Uncle, and he looked so strange that I thought he must be sick, too. But his eyes smiled at me and I tried to smile back, but I was too tired; and before I knew it, I went to sleep again."

"Yes, dear, it all happened just as you say, only that you did smile. But even then, we thought you were slipping away from us, and fully fifteen minutes passed before we knew that God had answered our prayers."

There was a long pause.

"But—but, Sister,—not all of your story is true. I was cross and cranky and screamed when the pain was bad; and I couldn't think of anyone but that dreadful man with the long knives, or of those silly little birds with yellow ribbons around their necks. No wonder Uncle teases me about yellow."

"But, Mary, you were not yourself for many, many days. Do you remember the morning I told you that you must fight to get well? I had good reason to regret that advice; for instead of fighting the illness, you used those little fists on everyone who came near you. When your uncle tried to listen to your lungs, you struck out so well that your mother and I had to hold your hands——"

"Why, Sister, you don't mean that!"

"Indeed I do! I shall not soon forget the time you caught the Doctor's head between your hands. My! what a boxing you gave his poor ears!"

"Sister!—I—boxed—Uncle's—ears!—O Sister!" and Mary buried her burning face in the pillow.

"But, darling, that is nothing to be ashamed of. You did not know what you were doing. We expected worse things than that."

"Worse than boxing poor, dear Uncle's ears? Could anything be worse than that?" came the muffled question.

"Indeed, yes, Mary."

"But, Sister," Mary sat up, "surely not when you think of how awful he looked that night. Poor Father looked oh, so tired! But Uncle—I didn't know him until he smiled in his eyes."

"Did you know him when he was in here a few minutes ago, dear?"

"Why—why of course I knew him. I don't remember whether I looked right at his face——"

"I am quite sure that you did not, Mary, or you would never have let him go away without trying to make him feel better. You are not a selfish little girl; and I am very sure that when you understand the harm you are doing to your good, kind uncle, you will try to put an end to it."

"The harm—I—am—doing—to—Uncle! You surely don't know me very well, Sister, if you think I would harm Uncle for anything in the whole world!"

"I am very, very sure, Mary, that you would not intend to harm him."

"But what is it, Sister? Won't you please tell me? Am I bad?" the child asked piteously. "Is it bad to be so tired, and not to be hungry, and to like just to think of my darling father and mother and little sisters, and to want Uncle to stay with me every minute he can? Am I a bad girl to do that?"

"I did not mean for an instant that you have been a bad girl, dear. It is weakness that makes you so tired; but unless you try to take food even though you are not hungry, you cannot expect to grow stronger. Surely, since the good God did not take you from those who love you so much, He must wish you to do everything you can to grow well and strong. As for your father and mother and the babies, you would be a strange little girl if you did not think of them very, very often; but in the way you have been doing it, dear child, you have, without knowing it, been harming yourself and others. Let me tell you just how it has all seemed to me. First, our dear Lord sent you the measles——"

"Oh, did He, Sister? I thought I caught them at school."

"But if it had not been His will that you should have them, you would not have caught them. That illness meant that you must be away from your mother and little sisters; but you were so good and brave and patient about it all that others would not have guessed how much that separation cost you until they saw how happy you were at the thought of being with them soon again. I am sure that our dear Lord was very much pleased with you, and you must have won many graces.

"Then, for His own wise reasons, He sent you greater suffering. There are some people who think that all pain and sorrow is a punishment from God; but this is not true. Our Lord often sends such trials so that we may grow more like Him and merit a greater reward in heaven. We are told that suffering is a mark of God's love. Even when He sends it as a punishment, He does so in love; for it is far better to be punished for our sins in this world than in the next.

"In your second illness, I really think that those who love you suffered more from the fear of losing you than you did even from the great pain. However that may be, our dear Lord wished you to do something more for Him—something that you found much harder than your first or second trial. In those you had no choice. The illness came, and you could not escape it. But you might have refused our Lord when He asked you to give up your mother——"

"But—but, Sister, our Lord didn't ask me to do that—nobody really asked me. I just couldn't think of letting poor Father go away by himself, you know."

"But has not our Lord said that whatever we do to even the least of His little ones, we do it unto Him? And do you not make your Morning Offering every day?"

"Oh, yes, Sister, the very minute I wake in the morning, even though it isn't time to get up. I make it again when I say my morning prayers; but I have thoughts even though I may not do anything before I say them; and they ought to be offered up, I think."

"Surely, dear. So last Saturday you had made your Morning Offering of all your thoughts, words, and actions to God; and when the time came to decide whether you wished your mother to go with your father or to stay with you, you had already offered Him the thought and action and suffering, even though you did not think of it that way at the time."

"N—no, Sister, I didn't. I was so—I don't like to say s'prised, because I think a s'prise ought to be something to make someone happy."

"Perhaps shocked is the better word."

"That's just exactly it, Sister. I was so shocked that I said dreadful things, and—and—oh, I was horrid! And while Mother was talking to me, I didn't know what to do. Then I remembered that Sister Florian said that when we had to decide something we must ask our Lord to help us, and she told us to say to our Blessed Mother, 'Mother, tell me what am I to do,' We were learning a hymn to her at school and that is the last line of every verse. I remember the first verse:

"And our Blessed Lady did tell you what to do, and her Divine Son gave you the grace to do it, and you gave Him the gift He was asking of you. Indeed, dear, what you have done is no small thing, but don't you think that it would be too bad to take back part of your gift, or to spoil it in any way? Would not that be a selfish thing to do? In sickness, we must be very careful. It acts in two ways, making the patient either more selfish or more thoughtful of others. Until the last few days, I thought it was having the good effect upon you; but now, I am just a little afraid that you are forgetting others, especially that good, kind uncle, who is trying to make you well and happy."

There was a moment's silence; then, "Sister, please ring for Liza——Oh, why doesn't she hurry!"