“Bear ye one another’s burdens,” was a command literally obeyed by Bessie in her unselfish devotion to Hatty, her self-sacrificing efforts to cheer and rouse her; but she never could be made to understand that there was any merit in her conduct.
“I know Hatty is often cross, and ready to take offence,” she would say; “but I think we ought to make allowances for her. I don’t think we realize how much she has to bear—that she never feels well.”
“Oh, that is all very well,” Christine would answer, for she had a quick temper too, and would fire up after one of Hatty’s sarcastic little speeches; “but it is time Hatty learned self-control. I dare say you are often tired after your Sunday class, but no one hears a cross word from you.”
“Oh, I keep it all in,” Bessie returned, laughing. “But I dare say I feel cross all the same. I don’t think any of us can guess what it must be to wake depressed and languid every morning. A louder voice than usual does not make our heads ache, yet I have seen Hatty wince with pain when Tom indulged in one of his laughs.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Christine, only half convinced by this. “Of course it is very trying, but Hatty must be used to it by this time, for she has never been strong from a baby; and yet she is always bemoaning herself, as though it were something fresh.”
“It is not easy to get used to this sort of trouble,” answered Bessie, rather sadly. “And I must say I always feel very sorry for Hatty,” and so the conversation closed.
But in her heart Bessie said: “It is all very well to preach patience, and I for one am always preaching it to Hatty, but it is not so easy to practice it. Mother and Christine are always praising me for being so good tempered; but if one feels strong and well, and has a healthy appetite and good digestion, it is very easy to keep from being cross; but in other ways I am not half so good as Hatty; she is the purest, humblest little soul breathing.”
In spite of late hours, Bessie was downstairs the next morning at her usual time; she always presided at the breakfast-table. Since her eldest son’s death, Mrs. Lambert had lost much of her strength and energy, and though her husband refused to acknowledge her as an invalid, or to treat her as one, yet most of her duties had devolved upon Bessie, whose useful energy supplemented her mother’s failing powers.
Bessie had briefly hinted at her family sorrow; she was not one at any time to dwell upon her feelings, nor to indulge in morbid retrospection, but it was true that the loss of that dearly loved son and brother had clouded the bright home atmosphere. Mrs. Lambert had borne her trouble meekly, and had striven to comfort her husband who had broken down under the sudden blow. She spoke little, even to her daughters, of the grief that was slowly consuming her; but as time went on, and Dr. Lambert recovered his cheerfulness, he noticed that his wife drooped and ailed more than usual; she had grown into slow quiet ways that seemed to point to failing strength.
“Bessie, your mother is not as young as she used to be,” he said abruptly, one morning, “She does not complain, but then she is not one of the complaining sort; she was always a quiet creature; but you girls must put your shoulders to the wheel, and spare her as much as possible.” And from that day Bessie had become her mother’s crutch.