“You will find nothing else will help you to fight your bogies; do try it, darling. Be merciful to your poor little self; ‘respect the possible angel in you,’ as Mr. Robertson said. You will get rid of all your faults and fancies one day, as your namesake did in the river. You won’t always be poor little Hatty, whose back aches, and who is so cross; there is no pain nor crossness in the lovely land where all things are new.”
“Oh, if we were only there now, Bessie, you and I, safe and happy!”
“I would rather wait till my time comes. I am young and strong enough to find life beautiful. Don’t be cowardly, Hatty; you want to drop behind in the march, before many a gray-haired old veteran. That is because you are weak and tired, and you fear the long journey; but you forget,” and here Bessie dropped her voice reverently, “that we don’t journey alone, any more than the children of Israel did in the wilderness. We also have our pillar of cloud to lead us by day, and our pillar of fire by night to give us light. Mother always said what a type of the Christian pilgrimage the story of the Israelites is; she made us go through it all with her, and I remember all she told me. Hark! I think I hear footsteps outside the window; the servants are coming in from church.”
“Wait a minute, Bessie, before you let them in. You have done me so much good; you always do. I will try not to mope and vex mother and Christine while you are away.” And Hatty threw her arms penitently round her sister’s neck.
Bessie returned her kisses warmly, and left the room with a light heart. Her Sunday evening had not been wasted if she had given the cup of cold water in the form of tender sympathy to one of Christ’s suffering little ones.
Bessie felt her words were not thrown away when she saw Hatty’s brave efforts to be cheerful the next day, and how she refrained from sharp speeches to Christine; she did not even give way when Bessie bade her good-bye.
“You will remember our Sunday talk, Hatty, dear.”
“I do remember it,” with a quivering lip, “and I am trying to march, Bessie.”
“All right, darling, and I shall soon be back, and we can keep step again. I will write you long letters, and bring you back some ferns and primrose roots,” and then Bessie waved her hand to them all, and jumped in the brougham, for her father was going to take her to the station.
It must be confessed that Bessie felt a trifle dull when the train moved off, and she left her father standing on the platform. With the exception of short visits to her relatives, that were looked on in the light of duties, she had never left home before. But this feeling soon wore off, and a pleasant sense of exhilaration, not unmixed with excitement followed, as the wide tracts of country opened before her delighted eyes, green meadows and hedgerows steeped in the pure sunlight. Bessie was to be met at the station by some friend of the Seftons, as the country-bred girl knew little about London, and though a short cab drive would deposit her at Charing Cross, it would be far pleasanter for her to have an escort. Mrs. Sefton had suggested Mrs. Sinclair, and Dr. Lambert had been much relieved by her thoughtfulness.