Then followed a somewhat eager, somewhat sorrowful talk, and then a moment of silence fell between them, which Abbie broke by a sudden question:
"Ester, isn't this Dr. Douglass gaining some influence over Sadie? Have I imagined it, or does she speak of him frequently in her letters, in a way that gives me an idea that his influence is not for good?"
"I'm afraid it is very true; his influence over her seems to be great, and it certainly is not for good. The man is an infidel, I think. At least he is very far indeed from being a Christian. Do you know I read a verse in my Bible this morning which, when I think of my past influence over Sadie, reminds me bitterly of myself. It was like this: 'While men slept his enemy came and sowed tares—.' If I had not been asleep I might have won Sadie for the Savior before this enemy came."
"Well," Abbie answered gently, not in the least contradicting this sad statement, but yet speaking hopefully, "you will try to undo all this now."
"Oh, Abbie, I don't know. I am so weak—like a child just beginning to take little steps alone, instead of being the strong disciple that I might have been. I distrust myself. I am afraid."
"I'm not afraid for you," Abbie said, speaking very earnestly. "Because, in the first place you are unlike the little child, in that you must never even try to take one step alone. And besides, there are more verses in the Bible than that one. See here, let me show you mine."
And Abbie produced her little pocket Bible, and pointed with her finger while Ester read; "When I am weak, then am I strong." Then turning the leaves rapidly, as one familiar with the strongholds of that tower of safety, she pointed again, and Ester read: "What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee."
Almost five o'clock of a sultry October day, one of those days which come to us sometimes during that golden month, like a regretful turning back of the departing summer. A day which, coming to people who have much hard, pressing work, and who are wearied and almost stifled with the summer's heat, makes them thoroughly uncomfortable, not to say cross. Almost five o'clock, and in the great dining-room of the Rieds Sadie was rushing nervously back and forth, very much in the same manner that Ester was doing on that first evening of our acquaintance, only there was not so much method in her rushing. The curtains were raised as high as the tapes would take them, and the slant rays of the yellow sun were streaming boldly in, doing their bravest to melt into oil the balls of butter on the table, for poor, tired, bewildered Sadie had forgotten to let down the shades, and forgotten the ice for the butter, and had laid the table cloth crookedly, and had no time to straighten it. This had been one of her trying days. The last fierce look of summer had parched anew the fevered limbs of the sufferer up stairs, and roused to sharper conflict the bewildered brain. Mrs. Ried's care had been earnest and unremitting, and Sadie, in her unaccustomed position of mistress below stairs, had reached the very verge of bewildered weariness. She gave nervous glances at the inexorable clock as she flew back and forth. There were those among Mrs. Ried's boarders whose business made it almost a necessity that they should be promptly served at five o'clock. Maggie had been hurriedly summoned to do an imperative errand connected with the sick room; and this inexperienced butterfly, with her wings sadly drooping, was trying to gather her scattered wits together sufficiently to get that dreadful tea-table ready for the thirteen boarders who were already waiting the summons.
"What did I come after?" she asked herself impatiently, as she pressed her hand to her frowning forehead, and stared about the pantry in a vain attempt to decide what had brought her there in such hot haste. "Oh, a spoon—no, a fork, I guess it was. Why, I don't remember the forks at all. As sure as I'm here, I believe they are, too, instead of being on the table; and—Oh, my patience, I believe those biscuits are burning. I wonder if they are done. Oh, dear me!" And the young lady, who was Mr. Hammond's star scholar, bent with puzzled, burning face, and received hot whiffs of breath from the indignant oven while she tried to discover whether the biscuits were ready to be devoured. It was an engrossing employment. She did not hear the sound of carriage wheels near the door, nor the banging of trunks on the side piazza. She was half way across the dining-room, with her tin of puffy biscuits in her hands, with the puzzled, doubtful look still on her face, before she felt the touch of two soft, loving arms around her neck, and turning quickly, she screamed, rather than said: "Oh, Ester!" And suddenly seating her tin of biscuit on one chair and herself on another, Sadie covered her face with both hands and actually cried.
"Why, Sadie, you poor dear child, what can be the matter?"