LOVE LETTERS
Through an almost fatal accident, an old lady of seventy-five years lay at death’s door for many long weeks. She had not been as prosperous during the last twenty-five years of her life as she had been in her early married life, and many of her old time friends had drifted out of her life, and she drifted out of theirs. She thought of all this as she lay on her bed of affliction, too weak to move more than one arm. It was sad to think of the old friends who had forgotten her so completely. They must all know of her illness, for her daughter Mary had read several notices to her from the local papers concerning her serious accident, and more serious condition since the accident occurred.
Somehow she felt so lonely and isolated and neglected. Better die and be out of this painful existence than to lie sick in bed for weeks and weeks and be absolutely forgotten by the old-time friends, whose society she once enjoyed so delightfully.
When her daughter came in she had hard work to turn her feeble head to the wall, so the tears on her lashes could not be seen. She even felt one on her thin cheek, but had not the physical power to wipe it away. As the daughter went about the room, tidying things up, and dusting off the stand on which the medicine bottles stood, she listened carefully to see if her mother was sleeping. A slight cough from the bed convinced her that the invalid was awake, and she broke the silence by saying:
“I hope the mail today will bring a letter from brother John. He knows of your accident, and I feel sure he will reach us today with his answer.”
The finger on the bed moved slightly and a weak voice answered; “I hope so, Mary. It’s nice to receive a letter from our absent ones, at such times like this.”
Mary knew how it exhausted her mother to talk, so she said no more, but pulled down the blind to shut out the light, and left the sick room with a pain at her heart. Her keen eye had seen the tears on her mother’s eye lashes, and she felt certain that the poor invalid had been weeping over confinement and isolation from society and her friends.
In an hour the morning mail arrived, and she was agreeably surprised to find five letters, addressed to her mother, besides the one from John. She opened John’s letter and read it over carefully, to make sure that he had said nothing to hurt his mother’s feelings. John was so careless at times, and would bring up business problems that should not be spoken of when the mother was not in condition for such matters. Then Mary went up to the sick room and read John’s letter aloud.
“I’m glad to hear he’s well,” the invalid said laboriously, and closed her eyes again from sheer weakness.
“But mother,” exclaimed Mary, “here’s a letter from Mrs. Moore—your old friend, Mrs. Moore, of whom you spoke only yesterday.”
The invalid opened wide her eyes and listened until the letter was finished. It spoke of the old time friendship, and expressed hope that the invalid would soon recover, and be in condition to enjoy a visit from her friend, just so soon as the weather was settled.
“How kind of Mrs. Moore to think of me in my affliction,” exclaimed the invalid in much stronger tones. “It’s better than medicine to hear from her. Old friends are so dear to the heart, for they bring up old memories.”
“But here are letters from more of your old friends, mother. Here is one from Mrs. Bridgens, and one from Mrs. Jones, and one from old Miss Christie, and from Mrs. Cook.” And Mary sat for almost an hour reading the messages from old friends to the invalid of whom the writers spoke so tenderly, and wrote of old-time adventures and scenes from their girlhood days.
Mary was delighted to see the change these messages of love had worked in her invalid mother. The faded old eyes were lighted with a new illumination, and a little color had struggled back to her cheeks. She asked to have the letters given to her, and she brought both hands together to receive them, holding them as tenderly as a little girl would hold her first doll. Mary went downstairs, leaving the invalid holding her love letters so fondly, and when she returned in half an hour, she found her sleeping sweetly, and fondly holding those letters in one feeble hand. And Mary whispered:
“If they only knew how much pleasure and hope their letters brought to my dear old mother, they would never neglect writing to their old friends when affliction is upon them. God bless them for the hope and happiness they brought to this home.”