“Are ye comin’ the morn?” asked the lad.
“Yes, I am,” said Allison.
“And could ye no’ get a book to bring with you—a book of ony kind—except the catechis?”
“Heard ye ever the like o’ that! Wha has had the up-bringin’ o’ you?”
“Mysel’ maistly. What ails ye at my up-bringin’? Will ye hae a book for me the morn?” said he to Allison.
“If I can, and if it’s allowed.”
“Oh! naebody will hinder ye. It’s no’ my head, but my leg that’s sair. Readin’ winna do that ony ill, I’m thinkin’.”
And then Allison went on to another bed, and backwards and forwards among them, through the long day. There were not many of them, but oh! the pain, and the weariness!—the murmurs of some, and the dull patience of others, how sad it was to see! Would she ever “get used with it,” as the woman had said, so that she could help them without thinking about them, as she had many a time kept her hands busy with her household work while her thoughts were faraway? It did not seem possible. No, surely it would never come to that with her.
Oh! no, because there was help for all these poor sufferers—help which she might bring them, by telling them how she herself had been helped, in her time of need. And would not that be a good work for her to do, let her life be ever so long and empty of all other happiness? It might be that all the troubles through which she had passed were meant to prepare her for such a work.
For the peace which had come to her was no vain imagination. It had filled her heart and given her rest, even before the long, quiet time which had come to her, when she was with the child beside the faraway sea. And through her means, might not this peace be sent to some of these suffering poor women who had to bear their troubles alone?