The difference which Ellen observed in her aunt's manner was to be accounted for by the fact that she had that morning, to her grief and bitter regret, learned of Mary's death. Conscience told her plainly that she was to blame for what had happened. Had she not so hastily and unjustly dismissed her from her employ, Mary, in all probability, would never have contracted the illness which proved fatal. Miss Mansfield's self-reproach was keen, and she felt as though she could never forgive herself for having acted as she had. Long did the memory of Mary cause her pain, till at length, it led her to seek, at the foot of the cross, the pardon and peace which the Saviour alone can give to the sin-laden soul. She never forgot the lesson which this sad experience taught her, and for the future, treated her apprentices with more consideration and kindness than she had previously shown.
Ellen felt cheered by her aunt's unexpected kindness, but still she longed for her mother's presence, and wished she were not so far from those whom she loved.
Thinking about her home, and recalling happy days that were past, she fell asleep, and in her sleep, still saw the dear old homestead, and the faces of her parents and brothers and sisters.
She did not lose the consciousness of weakness and pain, but she dreamed that she was no longer in the hospital, surrounded by fellow-sufferers, and tended by a strange though kind nurse, but lying in her little bed at home, with her brothers and sisters smiling upon her, and her mother at hand to attend to her wants. By her side sat Jerry, with such a happy face, as he talked to her about the Great Physician, and heard her tell how Jesus had made her whole. Then she saw her mother bending over her, and heard her say, "My poor Nelly!" and even felt her kiss upon her lips. With that, she awoke and opened her eyes. But so bewildered was she at the sight which met her gaze, that she thought she must still be dreaming.
For as she lifted her eyes, they rested upon her mother's face—her own mother bending over her, just as she had seen her in her dream. For a moment, she looked in amazement, till it dawned on her mind that this was no dream, but a joyous reality, and, forgetful of her burns, she sprang up with a cry of delight.
"Oh, mother! How did you get here?"
"My dear child," said her mother, as she folded her in a warm embrace. "Do you think I could stay away from you when you were laid up thus?"
Ellen cried for very joy. The sound of her mother's voice, the sense of her presence, were unspeakably precious.
There is no one like a mother to a sick child. Ellen had often behaved undutifully to her mother, and had manifested little gratitude for her devotion; yet she had loved her all the while, and in pain and sorrow, her heart had yearned for her. All past grievances were forgotten, as she gazed on her parent's face, for was she not her own mother, who loved her and cared for her as none other could?
"However did you manage to get away, mother?" she asked, when she had recovered a little from her pleasant surprise. "What will poor baby do without you?"