WHEN the sisters arrived at home they were doubly thankful that they had lost no time in setting out. They found Mrs. Northcote's illness was of a much more serious character than the letter had led them to anticipate. The filial love and self-devotion of both the girls would be tested to the utmost, and it must be owned that Mr. Northcote and his sons doubted much whether these qualities in Edith's case would stand the strain.
But soon all who were in the house, and none more than the invalid mother, became sensible of the change that had begun in the elder daughter. Perhaps nothing tries the mettle that the young are made of more than sickness in a house. When not actually engaged in attendance on the sufferer, there is the unnatural quiet in the home, the necessity for excluding visitors, abstaining from outdoor social intercourse, and the impossibility of indulging in the usual merry games. The burst of song which springs to the young lips must be hushed, the piano remain closed, for fear of disturbing the invalid. Even the innocent jest, which might provoke a laugh, is suppressed; because laughter has a heartless sound when pain shuts out those we love from sharing in it.
At first Edith found all these things hard to bear with perfect submission. But she loved her mother, and love is all-constraining. Lizzie and she acted in a delightful concert, which none had ever seen to exist between them before, and it astonished all to find how willing the elder was to learn from the younger. When, at length, the crisis had passed, and the minds of the watchers were relieved by the invalid's gradual approach towards convalescence, Edith found how great a blessing to herself had been the needful discipline of those sorrowful weeks. How sweet it was to feel her mother's arm around her neck and to hear her say:
"I can thank God for every day of pain and sickness, my darling; for this illness has shown me that in you I have a treasure of which I never before saw all the value."
"It was not there, dear mamma," was the girl's answer. "I have been dreadfully selfish and careless of other people nearly all my life—even of you—but lately I have been led to see myself in a new light. I do long to be all that you think me, dear mamma; and if I am better, Lizzie has been the instrument, in God's hands, of helping me."
What a precious confession was this! And when the mother knew yet more of her child's inward struggles against evil, and the united daily prayers of the sisters for blessing and strength from above, her cup of happiness was filled to overflowing.
It must not be supposed that the girls had forgotten their promise to keep Nora fully informed of all that passed during their mother's illness. It is hardly needful to say that, through Mrs. Martin, her brother-in-law shared in the correspondence. Generous-hearted Lizzie did not know how to say enough of Edith's devotion to her mother, and Edith let her friend into the secret of the change, and told what her young sister's example had done for herself. The letters between the friends had always been unrestrained, and now the correspondence was not without its influence on the young wife in London, for through it she was led to realise her responsibilities as she had never done before. So true is it that "no man—" that is, no one of the human race—"liveth to himself alone."
Nora often wondered whether, after all, anything would come of the acquaintance between her brother-in-law and Edith; but during all Mrs. Northcote's illness, he made no sign. When the better tidings came, he received them with manifest pleasure, and that same evening he spent an unusual time at his writing table in the library. When he joined Nora, he held a single letter in his hand, and she jokingly told him, if that were the extent of his correspondence, he must have been asleep, or the letter of vast importance.
"It is of vast importance. I have been writing to Edith. A love-letter—my first, Nora, and a very sober one; but I hope it will bring much happiness."
Truly, the letter which, on the morrow, was placed in the hands of Miss Northcote, The Manor House, Haltham, Lincolnshire, was, in one sense, a sober one. Believing that he could do so with the certainty of sympathy, he told Edith of the deep feelings of his heart, his desire to find in the woman he loved one who would share his higher aspirations, and join in his work for God's glory, and the good of those around them. He acknowledged the feeling of admiration which she had from the first inspired, and the reason why he had hesitated to let this be seen. There was much more in the letter than can be related at length.