“All-Saints,” said Berty, thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, I know,—Das Fest Allerheiligen: they keep it in my country, too. Mother took us to die Kirche last year, because of father, and now she is with him in das Paradies. I meant to remember them to-day; I’m so glad this puts me in mind.”
The music ceased, and a nurse, watching her patient near, held up a warning finger. There was a moment’s silence, Tim bending his head reverently, and Berty closing her eyes, the only outward sign of which she was capable; then the service began. “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us; but if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” A strange beginning, perhaps, for a service in commemoration of the saints departed; but very well suited, assuredly, to make saints of those who were left behind. Perhaps the good clergyman had some such case as Berty’s in his mind; certainly, he could have chosen no sentence which would have fixed her attention more securely.
The beautiful ritual which followed was quite unfamiliar to both Tim and Berty, the one being a Lutheran, and the other a Papist; but the slow, distinct utterance of the minister rendered every word perfectly audible, and the solemn confession of sin is fitted for all who have named the name of Christ. When it came to the Lord’s Prayer, all the children joined. Tim, recognizing the Paternoster, fell upon his knees; and Berty, lifting her well hand in supplication, repeated her Vaterunser with the rest.
As the service went on with Psalm, and Lesson, and Collect, Tim noticed that the children seemed to consider themselves quite a part of the congregation, joining in the responses, and singing with a hearty zeal which pleased him very much; but as for Berty, though she still lay with her eyes closed and her hand raised, her mind had wandered far away from the scene, around the dear ones she had lost. She tried to recall her father’s dying words, her mother’s parting counsel. She wondered in her troubled heart whether they could still look down upon their child,—whether they could know her uncomfortable secret. Then she thought of the Doctor again, and of his kindness to the little ones. Ah, if her mother knew it, how grateful she would be, how she would think nothing too much to do for her children’s friend. What would she say, how would she feel, if she knew how her daughter proposed to requite him?
But, all at once, as the notes of a hymn died away and the clergyman’s voice was heard again, it seemed to Berty that it took a more stern and solemn tone. She could not help listening, and, while she listened, the words seemed to carry her straight into the presence of Him “to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid.” She had thought of her mother, and of the Doctor, and wondered what they would think if they knew; but here was One who did know, from whom she could not hide her secret if she would. What did He think? How would her “desires” bear His inspection?
Berty trembled with terror as she asked herself this question, and, even as she asked it, the answer came; for the solemn voice went on to the rehearsal of the familiar Commandments which she had learned at her mother’s knee; while, at the end of each one, the response swelled up from the chapel,—“Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law.” Berty held her breath as if waiting for a blow; and at last it came, in that stern, solemn voice,—“Thou shalt NOT steal.” Tim, too, had been waiting for this, and his voice joined in the response, “Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law,” with a startling emphasis, which went to Berty’s heart; then, almost before the words had left his lips, he leaned forward and whispered earnestly, “Say it, Berty,—say it for your life.” It seemed to Berty almost as if her life did hang for a moment in the balance,—only a moment though, for she could not hesitate. She raised her hand again, and murmured the petition so faintly that Tim could scarcely hear. Another heard, and answered it, as we shall presently see; and Tim heard, too, and gave thanks upon his knees that his Berty was saved.
“Now, Berty,” said he, rising when the service was ended, and taking the package from his pocket,—“now, Berty, you know what I’m going to do,—take this to the station right off.”
“To the station! What for, Tim? Of course that would be easier; but maybe they wouldn’t find him; and then, Tim, don’t you think he ought to know? It would be very hard, to be sure, but don’t you think I ought to tell him?”
“An’ who’s him, Berty?” asked Tim, quite puzzled.
“The Doctor, of course. Oh, Tim, didn’t you know it was the Doctor’s? That’s one thing why I couldn’t do it.”