Aunt Kitty's Tales

by Maria J. McIntosh

I was always gratified that my little girl should wish me to share in her pleasures, and so I told her, adding that I thought her choice of the books rather than the doll was very wise. At the end of the book which Harriet had just read, were the names of all the volumes of the Boys' and Girls' Library that had yet been published. Harriet turned to this leaf, and began to show me which of them she intended to buy. I told her, however, that she had better not think any more of them just now, but that after breakfast she might write down their names and give them to me, and I would send for them to a bookseller in the city. In the mean time I reminded her that she had not yet thanked her Heavenly Father for his kind care of her while she was away, or asked him to bless her through this day.

I then left her, as she was dressed, and went to the breakfast parlor, intending to put some questions to the servant who was there about my neighbors, which I had no time to ask the evening before. I now heard very sad news indeed. The servant told me that a great many children, and even some grown persons, had died with scarlet fever. Among the last was Mr. Scott; and Alice had been near death,—indeed was still very ill. This news made me very sad, and when Harriet heard it she forgot both her gold coin and the books it was to buy, while she begged to go with me to see the sick child. As I was no longer afraid of her taking the disease, since persons usually have the scarlet fever but once, I consented, and we set out as soon as we had breakfasted.

As we came in sight of the house, we found it looking very gloomy. Though the morning was pleasant and the weather warm, the windows were all closely shut. The little court-yard looked neglected; it was full of weeds. Alice's flowers seemed to have withered on their stalks, and wanted trimming and training sadly. We did not see a creature, or hear a sound, and every thing was so still and seemed so lifeless, that it made me feel melancholy, and Harriet appeared a little afraid, for she drew close to my side and took hold of my hand. When we came quite near, I found the door was ajar, and we went in at once without knocking. The parlor door stood open, and I looked in, hoping to find some one there who would tell Mrs. Scott of my coming, as I was afraid we might disturb Alice by going straight to her room. There was no one in the parlor, and bidding Harriet wait there for me, I stepped very softly on, to the room door. I intended to knock at this door so lightly, that though Mrs. Scott might hear me, it would not wake Alice if she were asleep. When I came near the room, however, I heard a sound like some one speaking very low, yet not whispering. The door was not latched, and every thing was so quiet that I stood still and listened. I not only knew that it was Alice's voice, but I could even hear what she said. Her tone was very feeble, as if from her own great weakness, yet sharp, like that in which persons speak who are frightened or distressed. She appeared, poor child, to be both frightened and distressed. It seemed to me that she was complaining to her mother of the darkness and silence around her, while her mother did not answer her at all, but every now and then moaned as if in great pain.

"Mother, dear mother," said Alice, "speak to me; and open the window, mother—pray open the window and give me some light. I am afraid, mother—I am afraid, it is so dark and still—so like the grave."

For a moment the child was silent, as if waiting for her mother's answer; but as no one spoke to her, she cried out again, in still sharper tones, "Oh, mother, mother, where are you? Wake up, mother, dear mother, and open the window and let me look once, only once, on the blessed light, and see your face; and then mother, I will be quiet and go to sleep, and you may shut it all up again."

I began now to be quite anxious about Mrs. Scott, who I thought must be ill herself, or she would certainly answer Alice. Besides, I could not stand the poor child's distress any longer, and thinking it would be a relief to her to hear anybody speak, I pushed the door open and went in. The window was shut, as poor Alice supposed, but still there was light enough for me to see her very plainly. Her face was as white as the pillow on which it was lying, and her long and thick dark hair fell around it in great confusion. This, and the terror she felt, made her look very wild. Mrs. Scott was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her hands were clasped over her head, and her face was buried in the bedclothes. Alice's eyes were opened very widely, and their look, together with what I had heard, told me the painful truth at once. Alice was blind—perfectly blind,—an affliction that sometimes follows scarlet fever. Till this morning she had been either out of her senses, or so low and stupid from the disease, that she did not notice any thing. But now she was better and stronger, and having heard the doctor bid her mother good morning, when he came in to see her, she was first surprised by the long-continued darkness, and then frightened by her mother's silence and distress. And poor Mrs. Scott! she had long feared for her child's eyes, as Alice would complain of the darkness when the broad daylight was around her, and grieve that she could not see her mother's face when she was weeping over her pillow, or pressing her cold hand on her hot and aching head. But the fever gave Alice many strange fancies, and Mrs. Scott had hoped that this was one of them, till this morning, when the doctor told her that her precious child was blind, quite blind, and must, he feared, be so always.

I have told you that Mrs. Scott had had many sorrows; that she had been sick and poor, had lost three sweet children, and last and worst of all, her husband; yet she had never complained; she had always said, "My Father in heaven loves me, and he sees this sorrow will do me good, or he would not let it happen to me." But she was now weak and worn with grief and fatigue, and when she first heard that her gay, laughing Alice must now be always in darkness—that she could never again see the green earth, or the beautiful flowers, or the bright skies she had so loved to look upon—that, instead of running, jumping, and dancing along, she must now be led by another, or feel her way very slowly and carefully, she was so distressed, so very, very sad, that she had no power to answer Alice, except by low moans.

Much of what I have now told you I heard afterwards; but I saw enough at once to show me what I had best do. Now I want my little readers to mark what I say, and remember whenever any thing happens to another which terrifies or distresses them, they are not to run away from it, but to try to do something to remove it. It no doubt makes you feel very badly to see another suffering, but then you know they feel a great deal worse than you do, and if you will only think more of them than of yourself, you will generally find something you can do to help them.

As soon as I saw how things were with Mrs. Scott and poor Alice, I said to Mrs. Scott in as cheerful and quiet a manner as possible, "How d'ye do, Mrs. Scott? I have called to see how Alice and you are to-day, and I am very glad to find she is better." Then going up to Alice, and taking her hand, I said, "I rejoice, my dear little girl, that you are getting well again; but you have been very ill, and your mother has watched by you so long that she seems quite overcome with sleep. Will you let me take care of you for a little while, that she may rest?"

I spoke very gently, and the child seemed pleased to hear any voice besides her own.