"Oh," Kate thought, with unutterable bitterness of sorrow; "how happy I might have been—how happy I might have made others, if I had given my heart to God, instead of to His creatures. The bountiful blessings I have wasted—youth, health, opulence—how many poor souls I might have gladdened and helped!"
She rose from the table, and walked over to the window. The blackness of darkness had settled down over the earth, but she never saw it. Was it too late yet? Had she found her mission on earth? Had she still something to live for? Was she worthy of so great a charge? A few hours before, and life was all a blank, without an object. Had Father Francis been sent to point out the object for which she must henceforth live? The poor and suffering were around her. It was in her power to alleviate their poverty and soothe their suffering. The great Master of Earth and Heaven had spent His life ministering to the afflicted and humble—surely it was a great and glorious thing to be able to follow afar off in His footsteps. The thoughts of that hour changed the whole tenor of her mind—perhaps the whole course of her life. She had found her place in the world, and her work to do. She might never be happy herself, but she might make others happy. She might never have a home of her own, but she might brighten and cheer other homes. As an unprofessed Sister of Charity, she might go among those poor ones doing good; and dimly in the future she could see the cloistered, grateful walls shutting her from the troubles of this feverish life. Standing there by the curtained window, her eyes fixed on the pitchy darkness, a new era in her existence seemed to dawn.
Miss Danton said nothing to any one about this new resolution of hers. She felt how it would be opposed, how she would have to argue and combat for permission; so she held her tongue. But next morning, an hour after breakfast, she came to Grace, and in that tone of quiet authority she always used to her father's housekeeper, requested the keys to the sideboard.
Grace looked surprised, but yielded them at once; and Kate, going to the large, carved, old-fashioned, walnut wood buffet, abstracted two or three bottles of old port, a glass jar of jelly, and another of tamarinds; stowed away these spoils in a large morocco reticule, returned the keys to Grace, and, going upstairs, dressed herself in her plainest dress, mantle, and hat, took her reticule, and set off. She smiled at herself as she walked down the avenue—she, the elegant, fastidious Kate Danton, attired in those sombre garments, carrying that well-filled bag, and turning, all in a moment, a Sister of Mercy.
It was nearly noon when she returned, pale, and very tired, from her long walk. Grace wondered more than ever, as she saw her dragging herself slowly upstairs.
"Where can she have been?" she mused, "in that dress and with that bag, and what on earth can she have wanted the keys of the sideboard for?"
Grace was enlightened some hours later, when Father Francis came up, and informed the household that he had found Kate ministering to one of the worst cases of fever in the village—a dying old woman.
"She was sitting by the bedside reading to her," said the priest; "and she had given poor old Madame Lange what she has been longing for weeks past, wine. I assure you I was confounded at the sight."
"But, good gracious!" cried the Captain, aghast, "she will take the fever."
"I told her so—I expostulated with her on her rashness, but all in vain. I told her to send them as much wine and jellies as she pleased, but to keep out of these pestiferous cottages. She only looked at me with those big solemn eyes, and said: