"I scarcely knew what I was doing, there was such a dizziness in my head, and such a ringing sound in my ears. I felt like a hunted creature, sure that some one must be in pursuit. Now that the sun had gone down," continued Sophy, "I grew more frightened than ever at the thought of being out alone in the dark. I saw large iron gates wide open, and a beautiful shrubbery beyond, surrounding a splendid white house, that looked to me like a palace. There were many lights in the windows, and I heard the gay sound of music from within. 'I'll go and ask shelter there,' thought I, 'for the rain is coming on heavy, and if I stay out on a wet night like this, I'll never live till the morning.' So I crept in at the gate, and along the shrubbery drive; but my heart failed me when I thought of going up to the large grand door, up the flight of broad steps, that had an awning over them. I sat, or rather sank down, under the shelter of a large laurel bush, and watched carriage after carriage driving up, and bright, merry children getting out, hurrying up the steps lest the rain should spoil their white muslin dresses. I had such strange, strange thoughts, like dreams, as I looked on the happy little creatures going into the palace, to the light, and the warmth, and the music, and the joy, while I crouched there, hungry, wet, and wretched, shut out from them all. The noise in my ears grew louder, it dulled the sound of the music; my eyes were heavy, my brain confused; I don't know whether I slept or fainted.
"I was roused by the sound of voices, kind voices, that spoke in a pitying tone. 'Help me to raise the poor girl,' said a gentleman, who, as I afterwards found, was the master of the grand house. I was so cramped and stiff that I could not have walked a step had my life depended upon it. The gentleman himself helped to lift me up, and carry me gently into the house, for motion hurt me so that I could not help crying out with the pain. I was taken to a nice warm room, where I was put into a bed, and food and drink were brought. I had no power to eat, but I drank with feverish thirst. I scarcely know what happened after that. I believe that a doctor saw me, and felt my pulse, and said that I was in for a long illness, and had better be taken to a hospital at once. I know that I was removed there, and had every comfort that I needed during a terrible attack of rheumatic fever. Oh, Norah! What I suffered. But all the pain was not so bad as the dreadful after-effects. My eyes, oh! My poor eyes. When I was dismissed from the hospital as cured, though so weak that I scarcely could stand, where was I, poor blind creature, to go? There was no place but the workhouse for me. And here I am, for life, the most wretched being on earth, with nothing to cheer me, nothing to hope for, either in this world, or the next."
[CHAPTER VI.]
HOPE.
"ALAS!" sighed Norah, "what a grievous pity it was that you had not gone up to the house at once. The good, kind gentleman would have helped you; you might never have had your fever, never have lost your sight."
"Don't you think that has come to my mind a thousand times?" cried Sophy, with a passionate burst of grief. "There was something which that gentleman said as he carried me into the house, that, whenever I think of it now, is like vinegar poured on a wound. 'Why did you not come to me?' he asked. I could not answer him then, I can't now answer that question even to myself. I must have been mad to have stayed out there in the darkness and rain, without so much as trying whether there might not be some one who would have mercy even on me."
Persis could keep silence no longer. "Oh, my poor young friend!" she exclaimed, "are you not doing the same thing now?—are you not remaining broken-hearted in the outer gloom of despair, when there is One waiting to be gracious—One stretching out His pierced hands with the invitation of love, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'" *
* Matthew xi. 28.
"It is too late to come," replied Sophy; "I had my day of hope, and it is past."
"Oh, say not so!" cried Persis, with trembling earnestness, while Norah wept in silence. "It is Satan who, having led you into evil, would now drive you to despair; it is Satan who first bids us put off repentance, and then tells us that repentance is too late. Was it too late for the thief who hung beside our Lord on the cross? Conscience upbraided him, man despised him, his own fellow-creatures judged him unfit to live; he had lost his character, he had forfeited his life, he was suffering the agonies of the cross; but even amid those agonies the dying thief turned towards the Saviour, whose 'blood cleanseth from all sin,' * he threw himself on the mercy of Christ; he confessed his own utter vileness; he believed, repented, and was saved. The gates of a blessed paradise, which opened for the Lord of Glory, received also the penitent thief. If he found mercy, who shall despair? Oh come, come to the Saviour!"