The great fireplace was so deep, it was impossible to keep the room warm without a large log to bring the fire forward, and throw the heat into the room. These logs, which were three feet through, Sally hauled into the house on a hand-sled, and rolled into the fireplace, then cut up the rest of the wood to complete the fire.
The weather was intensely cold, the snow deep and drifted, and she was obliged to drive the cattle to the brook, and cut holes in the ice for them to drink. In addition to all this was the care of Bennie and the baby, the constant watching, and sense of loneliness. What a commentary was this upon the declaration of Uncle Isaac to Ben, in reply to the expression of his fears lest the untried hardships of Elm Island should prove too much for Sally,—
“O, she’s got the old iron nature of that breed of folks. She’s had nothing to call out that grit yet; but you’ll find out what she’s made of when she comes to be put to’t.”
Her husband was now so much reduced that it was with the greatest difficulty she could hear his requests, and the apprehension that he would die, which had tortured her for weeks, now seemed ripening into certainty.
It was just before midnight. Ben had lain since morning in a stupor, from which it seemed impossible to rouse him, and, being nearly high water, she feared he would die when the tide turned.
It was a fearful night. The roar of the sea on the rocks, with that hoarse, pitiless sound which pertains to the surf, and the hollow moan of the wind in the forest was heard all through the house. Sally had been taught to say her prayers from childhood, but never in all her life had she prayed in her own words. But now, as she sat with the Bible upon her knees, and her eye caught the promise, “Ask and ye shall receive,” something seemed to whisper, “Pray, poor woman, pray.” “Had I shown any gratitude for His mercies,” thought she, “I might with more confidence resort to Him in trouble.” At length, driven to despair, she fell on her knees beside the bed, and begged for mercy and help from heaven. “I am glad I did it,” said Sally, as she rose from her knees; “I think I now know something of what I have heard mother say—that the best place to carry a sore heart is to the cross. I don’t know what God will do with me, but I feel more willing to be in His hands. What a strange thing praying is! If you don’t get what you ask, you get comfort. It kind of takes the sting out. It’s like as when I was burnt so awfully, and the fire was out; the anguish is abated, though the wound is not healed. I will pray more, and trust more.” She spent the remainder of the night in prayer and reading the Scriptures.
The wind, shortly after midnight, had changed to north-west, and, though bitterly cold, it became clear. As the light of morning struggled through the windows, Sally scraped the thick coating of frost from the panes, that she might see her husband’s face, and eagerly scanned the pallid features. “He certainly does not look so death-like,” thought she, “is not feverish at all, and he certainly breathes better.” In the course of an hour, he made a sign for drink. She put it to his lips, and found that he swallowed. A short time after, she gave him some nourishment, which he also took. When a couple of hours had passed, he opened his eyes. She bent her ear to his lips, and asked him how he felt. “Better,” was the reply, in a voice scarcely audible. It was the first word he had spoken for two days. “The fever has turned, I know it has!” she cried; and falling on her knees, she poured out her heart in gratitude to God. Just then the child waked. “O, you blessed little soul,” cried the delighted mother, almost smothering it with kisses, “did you know your father was better?” And tying the young child in a chair, and giving it some playthings, she caught the milk-pail. As she opened the door, a ray of sunshine flashed in her face, and streamed across the threshold. “Bless God!” cried she, tears of gladness streaming down her cheeks; “it’s sunshine in my heart this morning.”
“How are you all?” said Sally, as she entered the barn, and, mounting with rapid steps the mow, pitched down a bountiful foddering to the cattle. “Put that into you; it’s Thanksgiving on this island to-day.” While Sailor, catching the altered looks and tone of his mistress, barked, and ran into the snow till nothing but the end of his tail was to be seen.
“How strong I feel this morning!” she exclaimed, rolling an enormous log on to the hand-sled; “I’ll make this old fireplace roar. I’ll have some light in this room, so that I can see Ben’s face. I have not dared to look at him for a month past,” catching a cloth, wet with hot water, and washing the frost from the windows. “I’ll wash up this floor, too; it is dirty enough to plant potatoes on; and then I’ll have a nap.”
In the afternoon, Ben awoke in the full possession of his faculties, though extremely weak, and in a whisper asked for the baby; he then asked for Sailor. Sally had kept the dog in the outer room, that he might not disturb her husband; but the moment she opened the door, he leaped on the bed, and licked his master’s hands and face, and then, rolling himself into a ball at his feet, went to sleep, occasionally opening one eye to see if his master was there.