Mostly Mary Part 13

"Indeed I do! I shall not soon forget the time you caught the Doctor's head between your hands. My! what a boxing you gave his poor ears!"

"_Sister!--I--boxed--Uncle's--ears!--O Sister!_" and Mary buried her burning face in the pillow.

"But, darling, that is nothing to be ashamed of. You did not know what you were doing. We expected worse things than that."

"Worse than boxing poor, dear Uncle's ears? Could anything be worse than that?" came the m.u.f.fled question.

"Indeed, yes, Mary."

"But, Sister," Mary sat up, "surely not when you think of how awful he looked that night. Poor Father looked oh, so tired! But Uncle--I didn't know him until he smiled in his eyes."

"Did you know him when he was in here a few minutes ago, dear?"

"Why--why of course I knew him. I don't remember whether I looked right at his face----"

"I am quite sure that you did not, Mary, or you would never have let him go away without trying to make him feel better. You are not a selfish little girl; and I am very sure that when you understand the harm you are doing to your good, kind uncle, you will try to put an end to it."

"The _harm--I--am--doing--to--Uncle_! You surely don't know me very well, Sister, if you think I would harm Uncle for anything in the whole world!"

"I am very, very sure, Mary, that you would not intend to harm him."

"But what _is_ it, Sister? Won't you please tell me? Am I bad?" the child asked piteously. "Is it bad to be so tired, and not to be hungry, and to like just to think of my darling father and mother and little sisters, and to want Uncle to stay with me every minute he can? Am I a bad girl to do that?"

"I did not mean for an instant that you have been a bad girl, dear. It is weakness that makes you so tired; but unless you try to take food even though you are not hungry, you cannot expect to grow stronger.

Surely, since the good G.o.d did not take you from those who love you so much, He must wish you to do everything you can to grow well and strong.

As for your father and mother and the babies, you would be a strange little girl if you did _not_ think of them very, very often; but in the way you have been doing it, dear child, you have, without knowing it, been harming yourself and others. Let me tell you just how it has all seemed to me. First, our dear Lord sent you the measles----"

"Oh, did He, Sister? I thought I caught them at school."

"But if it had not been His will that you should have them, you would not have caught them. That illness meant that you must be away from your mother and little sisters; but you were so good and brave and patient about it all that others would not have guessed how much that separation cost you until they saw how happy you were at the thought of being with them soon again. I am sure that our dear Lord was very much pleased with you, and you must have won many graces.

"Then, for His own wise reasons, He sent you greater suffering. There are some people who think that all pain and sorrow is a punishment from G.o.d; but this is not true. Our Lord often sends such trials so that we may grow more like Him and merit a greater reward in heaven. We are told that suffering is a mark of G.o.d's love. Even when He sends it as a punishment, He does so in love; for it is far better to be punished for our sins in this world than in the next.

"In your second illness, I really think that those who love you suffered more from the fear of losing you than you did even from the great pain.

However that may be, our dear Lord wished you to do something more for Him--something that you found much harder than your first or second trial. In those you had no choice. The illness came, and you could not escape it. But you might have refused our Lord when He asked you to give up your mother----"

"But--but, Sister, our Lord didn't ask me to do that--n.o.body really _asked_ me. I just couldn't think of letting poor Father go away by himself, you know."

"But has not our Lord said that whatever we do to even the least of His little ones, we do it unto Him? And do you not make your Morning Offering every day?"

"Oh, yes, Sister, the very minute I wake in the morning, even though it isn't time to get up. I make it again when I say my morning prayers; but I have _thoughts_ even though I may not _do_ anything before I say them; and they ought to be offered up, I think."

"Surely, dear. So last Sat.u.r.day you had made your Morning Offering of all your thoughts, words, and actions to G.o.d; and when the time came to decide whether you wished your mother to go with your father or to stay with you, you had already offered Him the thought and action and suffering, even though you did not think of it that way at the time."

"N--no, Sister, I didn't. I was so--I don't like to say s'prised, because I think a s'prise ought to be something to make someone happy."

"Perhaps _shocked_ is the better word."

"That's just exactly it, Sister. I was so shocked that I said dreadful things, and--and--oh, I was horrid! And while Mother was talking to me, I didn't know what to do. Then I remembered that Sister Florian said that when we had to decide something we must ask our Lord to help us, and she told us to say to our Blessed Mother, 'Mother, tell me what am I to do,' We were learning a hymn to her at school and that is the last line of every verse. I remember the first verse:

"'O Virgin Mother, Lady of Good Counsel, Sweetest picture artist ever drew, In all doubts I fly to thee for guidance, Mother! tell me, what am I to do?'"

"And our Blessed Lady did tell you what to do, and her Divine Son gave you the grace to do it, and you gave Him the gift He was asking of you.

Indeed, dear, what you have done is no small thing, but don't you think that it would be too bad to take back part of your gift, or to spoil it in any way? Would not that be a selfish thing to do? In sickness, we must be very careful. It acts in two ways, making the patient either more selfish or more thoughtful of others. Until the last few days, I thought it was having the good effect upon you; but now, I am just a little afraid that you are forgetting others, especially that good, kind uncle, who is trying to make you well and happy."

There was a moment's silence; then, "Sister, please ring for Liza----Oh, why _doesn't_ she hurry!"

CHAPTER XIV.

THE REAL MARY.

"Please tell Uncle to come up again just for a minute, Liza. Don't let him go back to the office until----"

"Why, Miss May-ree, I done t'ought Ma.s.sa Frank wah up heah wif yo' all dis time. His lunch am gittin' cold, sottin' dah on de table, an' ole Susie am on de rampage, sho' nuff. She jes' done tol' dis yeah chile dat she am plumb tiahed out cookin' fo' a gemplum what doan' eat nuffin but coffee, coffee, coffee, ebery single meal. It's 'bout time yo' put a stop to dat, Miss May-ree. Yo' is de only one dat kin. Yo' ma nebah 'lowed Ma.s.sa Frank to drink coffee dat-a-way, no-how."

"But--but, Liza,--Uncle was here for just a little minute, and--and you don't mean that he hasn't eaten his luncheon yet? He will never have time to do it now. Please see if he is in his room."

"No, Mary, your uncle went down stairs when he left you. I heard the front door close a few moments later, so I fear that he has gone."

"Laws a ma.s.sy! Dis yeah chile bettah keep out'n dat kitchen fo' de res'

ob _dis_ aftahnoon, sho's yo' born!"

"O Liza, Liza! look everywhere downstairs to see if Uncle isn't there, _please_! What shall I do if he has gone--gone without a bite to eat!"

"But dat's persackly what he's done did, Miss May-ree, kase I'se looked fo' him ebery place; an' dat's what he's been adoin' ebery day, honey; and dat's what fo' ole Susie am so mad; an' dat's what fo' I done said yo's de only one what kin put a stop to it. But dah, honey, doan' yo'

fret yo' poah li'l haid 'bout it no-how. Dis crazy n.i.g.g.ah ain't got no right to tell yo' nuffin 'bout it."

"Yes, you have, you have, Liza! Oh, I wish you had told me the very first day! Please go right down to Susie, and ask her to cook everything Uncle likes best for dinner this evening; and tell her that he will eat them--every bite."

"Yas'm, Miss May-ree, I sho'ly will do dat. But ef'n ole Susie am gwine to cook _eberyt'ing_ what Ma.s.sa Frank laks bes', honey, I reckon dat gemplum's got to wait mighty late fo' his dinnah; kase yo' know dey's a powahful lot ob t'ings what Ma.s.sa Frank laks bes'; dey sahtinly is!"

"Then pick out the ones he likes the _very best_, Liza,--the very, _very_ best. Come back after while, and I shall help you to remember them."

"Yas'm, Miss May-ree, yas'm," and Liza hurried down to restore peace in the kitchen.

"O Sister, Sister, _Sister_! What shall I _do_! What _shall_ I do! Oh, I am bad--_bad_!"

"Come, dear, come! Crying will not mend matters. You did not know that you were doing any harm, and you have already begun to repair it; so let us plan the next step."

"But I must tell Uncle--oh, I don't know _what_, but I must tell him _something_! Do you think he is at his office yet? Will you telephone to him for me, Sister?"

"He has scarcely had time to reach the office, dear; but in ten or fifteen minutes, I shall call him and give him any message you wish to send. In the meantime, you had better take the second step, which is to drink this broth. Cold broth is not very tempting."

Eagerly, the little girl emptied the bowl.