Ethelyn's Mistake

For one whole week the windows of Ethelyn's room were darkened as dark

as Mrs. Markham's heavy shawl and a patchwork quilt could make them. The

doctor rode to and from the farmhouse, looking more and more concerned

each time he came from the sick-room. Mrs. Jones was over almost every

hour, or if she did not come Tim was sent to inquire, his voice very low

and subdued as he asked, "How is she now?" while James' voice was lower

and sadder still as he answered, "There is no change." Up and down the

stairs Mrs. Markham trod softly, wishing that she had never harbored an

unkind thought against the pale-faced girl lying so unconscious of all

they were doing for her. In the kitchen below, with a scared look upon

her face, Eunice washed and wiped her dishes, and wondered if Richard

would get home in time for the funeral, and if he would order from

Camden a metallic coffin such as Minnie Dayton had been buried in; and

Eunice's tears fell like rain as she thought how terrible it was to die

so young, and unprepared, too, as she heard Mrs. Markham say to the

Methodist clergyman when he came over to offer consolation.

Yes, Ethelyn was unprepared for the fearful change which seemed so near,

and of all the household none felt this more keenly than Andy, whose

tears soaked through and through the leaf of the prayer-book, where was

printed the petition for the sick, and who improvised many a touching

prayer himself, kneeling by the wooden chair where God had so often met

and blessed him.

"Don't let Ethie die, Good Father, don't let her die; at least not till

she is ready, and Dick is here to see her--poor old Dick, who loves her

so much. Please spare her for him, and take me in her place. I'm good

for nothing, only I do hope I'm ready, and Ethie ain't; so spare her and

take me in her place."

This was one of Andy's prayers--generous, unselfish Andy--who would have

died for Ethelyn, and who had been in such exquisite distress since the

night when Eunice first found Ethelyn moaning in her room, with her

letter to Richard lying unfinished before her. No one had read that

letter--the Markhams were too honorable for that--and it had been put

away in the portfolio, while undivided attention was given to Ethelyn.

She had been unconscious nearly all the time, saying once when Mrs.

Markham asked, "Shall we send for Richard?" "Send for Aunt Barbara;

please send for Aunt Barbara."

This was the third day of Ethelyn's danger, and on the sixth there came

a change. The shawl was pinned back from the window, admitting light

enough for the watchers by the bedside to see if the sufferer still

breathed. Life was not extinct, and Mrs. Markham's lips moved with a

prayer of thanksgiving when Mrs. Jones pointed to a tiny drop of

moisture beneath the tangled hair. Ethelyn would live, the doctor said,

but down in the parlor on the sofa where Daisy had lain was a little

lifeless form with a troubled look upon its face, showing that it had

fought for its life. Prone upon the floor beside it sat Andy, whispering

to the little one and weeping for "poor old Dick, who would mourn for

his lost boy."