“The children grew tired, and I put them to bed when I could keep them up no longer; and then I went and waited on the doorstep till I grew chilly and sick in the dew; and then I went in. I did not mean to go to sleep, though I sat down on the floor and laid my head on the pillow of my boys’ low bed; but I was tired with the week’s work, and more tired with the day’s waiting, and I did drop off. I could not have slept very long. I woke in a fright from a dream I had, and the room was filled with smoke; and when I made my way to the door and opened it the flames burst out, and I saw my husband lying on the bed. He had come in, though I had not heard him. God alone knows how the fire happened. I don’t know, and Stephen don’t know, to this day.
“I tried my best to wake him; but I could not. What with liquor, and what with the smoke, he was stupefied. I dragged him out and dashed water on him, and then went back for my boys. I don’t know what happened then. I have a dream, sometimes, of holding a little body, and being held back when the blazing roof fell in; and then, they say, I went mad.
“I don’t know how long the time was after that before I saw my husband. I have a remembrance of long nights, troubled by dreams of fire and the crying out of little children; and then of seeing kind faces about me, and of long, quiet days; and then they took me to my husband. He was ill, and cried out for me in his fever; and they took me to him, fearing for us both.
“He did not know me at first. I had been a young woman when we lived together on the prairie; but when I went back to him my hair was as white as it is to-day. He was changed too—oh, how changed and broken! He needed me, and I stayed and nursed him till he got well. I was weak in mind, and couldn’t remember everything that had happened for a while; but I grew stronger, and it all came back; and then, oh, how I pitied him! There was no room in my heart for blame when I saw how he blamed himself; and we did the best we could to comfort one another.
“Then we said we’d begin again. We came away here to Canada, because we thought it was almost the end of the earth, and nobody would be likely to find us who had known us before.
“And here the Lord met us and cared for us and comforted us. And I’m not afraid now. Stephen’s safe now in His keeping and His loving-kindness—oh, how good!”
The last words were uttered brokenly and with an effort, and Mrs Grattan leaned back in her chair pale and faint. Mrs Morely leaned over her, and her tears fell fast on the hands which she clasped in hers.
“It shakes me to go back to those old days,” said Mrs Grattan, faintly. “You must let me lie down, so as I shall get over it before my husband comes along. It worries him dreadfully to see me bad. It won’t last long. I shall be better soon.”
She was but a little creature, thin and light, and, though Mrs Morely was not strong; she lifted her in her arms and laid her on the bed; and as the poor little woman covered her face and turned it to the wall, she sat down beside her to take the lesson of her story to herself. Surely the grace that had changed Stephen Grattan and given him rest from his enemy could avail for her husband too. “‘I will trust, and not be afraid!’” she murmured; and, with her hand clasping the hand of this woman who had suffered so much and was healed now, Mrs Morely had faith given her to touch the hem of the Great Healer’s garment; and in the silence, broken only by the prayer-laden sighs of the two women, she seemed to hear a voice saying to her, “Go in peace.”
There were no sorrowful faces waiting the coming of Stephen in the little log-house that night. The little lads met him with shouts of welcome halfway down the hill, and when he came into the house there was Sophy busy with her tea-cakes, and Mrs Morely sewing her never-failing white seam, and Dolly was dancing the baby on her lap, and singing a song which brought the prairie, and their home there, and the long summer Sabbaths to his mind, and a sudden shadow to his face. Mrs Morely’s face showed that her heart was lightened.