If Any Man Sin

by H. A. Cody

At length, after discussing the matter with her sister, Beryl decided to become a nurse. Not that she cared at all for the profession, but it was the only thing that seemed to offer, and she must keep her mind and hands employed if she were to forget the past. That she must forget she was determined, and she believed that in time the deep wound her heart had received would be at least partly healed.

During the months of her inactivity she had brooded much over what had taken place in her life. Many were the battles she had fought, silent and alone. At times a bitterness, so foreign to her loving nature, possessed her. Then it was that her faith in God and man weakened. Was there a Father in heaven who cared? she would ask herself over and over again. If so, why had He allowed her bright young life to be so clouded and blighted? Then she would think of Martin and how much he had meant to her. Though she had always defended him, or remained silent when others had condemned, nevertheless in her own heart the thought of what he had done rankled sore. But her love was too strong for such feelings to last for any length of time, and so she was always able to come forth unscathed from the fierce struggles.

Beryl threw herself with much energy into the work of her new profession. She made rapid progress, and all who came into contact with her were charmed by her gentleness of manner, and the sweetness of her disposition. To the patients, especially, she was an angel of light. No voice was as comforting, and no hand as soothing as hers, and they would always watch eagerly for the nurse who had the sunny smile of cheer. Though her own heart might be heavy, she revealed nothing of her sorrow to the world, but radiated sunshine wherever she went.

But Beryl found it a severe strain to be always presenting to the world a bright face, and by the time her course of training was almost over she felt that it was impossible for her to do so much longer. Every day it was necessary for her to force herself to her duties, and to assume that lightness of heart which she did not feel. She had little to give her that zest for her work which would make each task a joy. Must she go through life, lacking the needful inspiration? she often asked herself. She knew the difference between work done in the spirit of duty and love. One was mechanical, a mere tread-mill round; the other was of the heart.

She was thinking of these things one Sunday night during service in the church where she generally attended, and which was the nearest to her sister's home. As a rule she was a most devoted and attentive worshipper. But to-night her thoughts wandered. They would go back to Glendale, and to that little church, where for years she had been organist. Again she saw Martin conducting the service just as he used to do before his fall.

Somehow it seemed to Beryl that he was near her this night. Once she glanced partly around as if expecting to see him in the church. She could not account for the idea, as she never had such a feeling before. With an effort she checked her wandering thoughts, and fixed them upon what the clergyman in the pulpit was saying. At once her interest became aroused, and she followed him with the deepest attention. He was speaking about Service, and referred to the noble work nurses were doing both at home and in the mission field. He told also about the Red Cross Society, and paid a tribute to Florence Nightingale. He then quoted one verse of Longfellow's "Santa Filomena":

"A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood."

As he uttered these words a strange new thrill swept through Beryl. Her heart beat fast, and her face flushed with living interest—the first time in years. Almost in an instant she became transformed. Hitherto she had been trembling on the verge of uncertainty, with nothing definite in life. Now she had a purpose, which, like a star of hope, burst suddenly into view.

The last hymn was given out, and the congregation rose, and joined in the singing. Beryl knew the words and had no need of a book, though she held one in her hand. An impulse now stirred her heart, her lips moved, and at last, like a wild bird escaped from its cage, she lifted up her voice, and sang for the first time in years. And it was that voice which Martin heard, where he crouched in a back seat, and which thrilled his entire being.

When the service was over, Beryl left the church and hurried to her sister's house. She knew nothing of the lonely outcast, who yearningly followed her, and then paced the street for hours after the door had closed behind her.