"I knew a lady, afore I came into the house, who allowed a poor old soul as lived in a garret a pound of tea every month, and a sack of coal at Christmas. That's what I calls a friend," said Ann Rogers.
"The kindest thing I ever heard of," observed an old, bedridden pauper, "was a clergyman's taking in my poor brother, who had chanced to fall down in a fit at his gate, and nursing him, and paying his doctor, and giving him a half-crown and a good warm coat when he left. A real kind Christian was that parson, who knew how to practice what he preached."
There was a general murmur of assent through the room. When it was silenced, Grace Milner said, in her soft, faint voice, "If you are comparing deeds of kindness, I think that I know of one greater than any that you have mentioned. I do not mean to undervalue the generosity of either the clergyman or the lady; but I could tell you of one who, without spending a farthing, did more than either of the two. My story is a true one, and belongs to the history of the famous general, Sir David Baird."
"A story—let's have that," said the nurse, who, like most of those in the poorhouse, was glad of anything that gave promise of affording five minutes' amusement.
"So you've found your tongue at last," observed Ann Rogers, who had been inclined to take offence at the previous silence of the invalid lady.
Grace slightly flushed at the rude remark; but without appearing to take notice of it, and lifting up her heart to God to ask for His blessing on her attempting to use her one talent to His glory, she recounted the following little anecdote, in the hope of drawing from it some spiritual lesson.
"Some seventy or eighty years ago a fierce war raged in India between the English and a native monarch called Tippoo Saib. In the course of this war, which ended at last triumphantly for our country, our troops sustained a terrible disaster, and some of our most gallant officers fell into the enemy's hands."
"And mighty little mercy they found, I'll warrant you," observed Ann Rogers.
"The officers, amongst whom was Baird, then a young man, were thrown into a horrible prison, where those who had been brought up amidst the comforts of an English home were exposed to hunger and miseries untold. What made their condition yet more wretched was that some of the officers had been wounded—Baird, in particular, had been shot in the leg, and pain and weakness were added to confinement, want, and anxious fears for the future. A wild beast was at one time kept near the prison of the unfortunate English, and its howls greatly disturbed them; for a dread arose in their minds that the tyrant Tippoo intended to give his captives as a prey to the savage animal."
"Poor souls, they were worse off than we," said the nurse, who had seated herself on the edge of Grace's bed, to listen to her tale.