“That is what nurse is always saying,” answered Mary, a little impatiently; “but I can’t see that it makes my trial any easier. I’m sure it only makes me more wretched to think of other people being so miserable.”
“I suppose it does have that effect,” answered cousin John, thoughtfully, “unless one tries to help them. Yes, Polly, strange as it may seem, the only way to lighten our own burdens is by helping other people to bear theirs.”
There was not a shadow of vexation in his tone; and yet, somehow, Mary could not help feeling that her cousin was not quite pleased with her,—perhaps because she was not quite pleased with herself. She was conscious of being unthankful for her remaining blessings; she knew she had felt inclined to murmur at her lot, and to indulge her grief without any regard to the comfort of those around her. But she felt she had great excuse,—as, indeed, she had, if any one can be said to have excuse for doing what is not quite right; for this little Mary’s trials were no common ones.
I dare say my young readers have already guessed that Mary was an orphan, but I hope they are not familiar enough with sorrow to have guessed in what a terrible form her bereavement came. Perhaps some of you may remember, however, to have heard or read of the fearful pestilence at Norfolk in Virginia, a few years ago, when the yellow fever passed through the city and carried off its victims from every house. It was at Norfolk that little Mary’s parents lived; and it was this terrible disease which had robbed her, in a single week, of her father, her mother, her eldest brother, and Sylvie, her faithful black nurse. Poor little Mary! well might she shudder and turn pale as she remembered that fearful day when she found herself alone with the twin babies, with only those strange doctors and nurses to care for them. Well might she cling, too, to the dear cousin who had braved the pestilence to come to their relief.
The grandmother’s house was of course open to the orphans. They had already been with her two months when my story begins, and the twin babies had become quite wonted to their new nursery, grown very fond of “ganny,” as they called her, very familiar with “Cuddy,” as they styled young Dr. Grey, and seemed to have adopted Nurse Evans into the place of their lost Sylvie; but little Mary was still, I am sorry to say, not only very sad but very discontented. She had taken up a sad complaining way, brooding over her grief, and refusing to be comforted; contrasting her grandmother’s quiet, sober ways with her mamma’s sweet brightness, and Mrs. Evans’s strictness with poor Sylvie’s indulgence.
Dr. John was the only person who could soothe or divert her; for she chose to believe that he, an orphan himself, left from childhood to his grandmother’s care, was the only one who could fully sympathize with her great trouble. She was very fond of him; and now, though a little vexed at his seeming reproof, could not bear the thought of displeasing him: so, after a moment’s thought, she took his hand caressingly in both her own, and said, “I am so little, cousin John, and so silly, I don’t see how I could help other people any; but if you want me to, I’ll try,—only you must tell me how.”
“I’ll tell you how I learned what little I know about it, Polly,” answered Dr. Grey, kindly. “When I first came here, it was with me, I suppose, very much as it is with you now. I pined for the dear ones I had lost, and found this great empty house very lonely and dreary. I thought no one had ever been so afflicted as I, and I indulged my grief without giving a thought to other people’s feelings, until, one night, Grandma and I sat here in this very parlor. I was moping by the window, just as you were when I came in. I thought of that night when I saw you here, looking so doleful; and dear Grandma sat by the fire with her knitting in her lap. She was not so old a woman as now by a good many years, but she seemed to me every whit as aged; and I confess I thought it something of a bore that there should be no younger people in the house. She had been trying hard to wile me into a little cheerful talk, but I was obstinate; so she had finally given it over, and sat there thinking, with her hands folded over the work in her lap. I don’t know what prompted me to peep out at her from my sullen nook in the window-seat, but I did, and I never shall forget the weary, sorrowful, jaded look upon that dear old face. Perhaps you have seen it, Polly; it has come back once or twice since you came. It came over me all at once then, that I was not the only sufferer; that, if I had lost my parents, dear Grandma had lost her only son; if I was lonely in my orphan childhood, she must be still more so in her widowed age; and that I, who should have been her comfort, was adding to her trouble by my selfish grief. I can’t tell you how I felt, Mary; but I remember I jumped from the window-seat, and sat down upon the footstool at Grandma’s feet, and leaned my head against her knee. The kind old smile came back then, and I made a great vow to myself to keep it there. I have tried; I don’t know if I have succeeded always; but one thing I do know, Polly: I have never felt myself quite desolate since that night. I have never wished for any one younger than Grandma either; and I hope, I believe, I have filled, in some measure, the place of the son she then lost. But the dear old patient heart has got a fresh wound now, Polly: she has lost a daughter now; another orphan grandchild is weeping in her home; and the old look of sadness and weariness has come back. I can’t banish it alone this time, Polly. Will you help me?”
“Oh, I know what you mean!” cried Mary, bursting into tears; “I know what you mean. I have seen the look. It was on her face to-night, when I would not go with her, and aunt Emily would insist upon taking her away. But I did not mind it as you did. I never thought she could care so much for mamma; but I see now: if I had died, dear mamma would have been so sad, so sorry. Yes, I will try, cousin John,—I will!”
“I knew you would, my darling; and, I am sure, Grandma will be very happy in her little daughter.”
“Her little daughter,” repeated Polly, drying her eyes, and brightening up, as if that put the subject in a new light. “That is like being your little sister, isn’t it? I like that.”