Tessa brought it and Miss Sarepta opened it on her lap to an intelligent, serious, sweet face.
“She has not taken a step for many years; she is among the youngest of many children; her great love is love for children, she teaches daily thirteen little ones. The one thing in her life that strikes me is her faithfulness. There is nothing too little for her to be faithful in. One of her great longings used to be for letters; oh, if the postman would only bring her a letter! For a year or two I wrote every week, the longest, brightest, most every-day letters I could think of. And one day it came to me that if we had such a good time together, why should we not find some other to whom a letter or a book would be as a breath of fresh air. I pondered the matter for a month or two, but I couldn’t advertise for an invalid, and none of my friends knew of any. One morning I glanced through a religious paper, and tossed it aside, then something moved me to pick it up again, and there she was! The one I sought! That was Elsie. Look at her pale, patient face. For fourteen years she has lived in one room. And hasn’t she the brightest, most grateful, happiest heart that ever beat in a frail body or a strong one? Her poems are graceful little things; I will show you some of them. She had been praying six months for a helpful friend, when she received my first letter. Her letters are gems. You shall read a pile of them. And she had a Shut-in friend, to whom I must write, of course. She is Mabel. I have no picture of her. When she was well, they called her the laughing girl; she has lain eleven years in bed!”
“Oh, dear me!” sighed Tessa.
“Don’t sigh, child. She writes in pencil as she can not lift her head. I call her my sunbeam. She often dates her letters ‘In my Corner.’ So another year went on with my three Shut-ins. I forgot to cry about my folded hands and useless life. One day it came into my mind to write a sketch and call it, ‘Our Shut-in Society’; to write all about Mabel and Elsie and Sue, and send it to the paper in which I had found Elsie’s first article.
“And that sketch! How it was read! I received letters from north, south, east, and west concerning it. Was there really such a society, and were there such happy people as Mabel, Elsie, and Susie? One who had not spoken aloud for fourteen years would love to write to them; another who had locked her school-room door one summer day, and come home to rest, had been forced to rest through eight long years, and was so lonely, with her sisters married and away; another, quite an old man, who had lain for six years in the loft of an old log-cabin, was eager for a word or a paper. How his letter touched us all! ‘The others have letters, but when the mail comes naught comes to me,’ he wrote. But you will be tired of hearing my long story; you shall see their letters; you must see Delle’s letters; she sits all day in a wheelchair, and has no hope of ever taking a step; she has a mother and a little boy; the brightest little boy! Her poems have appeared in some of our best periodicals; we are something beside a band of sufferers, Miss Tessa; some of us are literary! My most precious letters are from Elizabeth; her fiftieth birthday came not long since; for ten years her home has been in one room; she has written a book that the Shut-ins cry over.
“And oh, we have a prisoner! A Shut-in shut up in state’s prison. A young man with an innocent, boyish face; he ran away from home when he was a child and ran into state’s prison because no one cared what became of him. His letters are unaffected and grateful; he does want to be a good boy! Thirty-six are on my list now; I would find more if I had strength to write more; some of them have more and some less than I; many of them have Shut-ins that I know nothing about. We remember each other on holidays and birthdays! The things that postmen and country mail-carriers have in their mail-bags are funny to see: flower seeds, bits of fancy work, photographs, pictures, any thing and every thing!
“They all look forward to mail-time through the night and through the day.
“And, speaking humanly, my share in it, all I receive and the little I give, came out of my self-bemoanings and tears; my longing to be a helper in some small way!
“Now if you want to help me, you may cut some blocks of patch-work for me. One of the Shut-ins is making a quilt to leave as a memorial to her daughter, and I want to send my contribution to the mail to-night; and you may direct several papers for me, and cover that book, ‘Thoughts for Weary Hours.’ I press you into my service, you see.”
“Miss Sarepta, I am ashamed.”