Chapter I.

Just before vespers, as I came in from a visit to the hospital, Mother Frances, our superioress, called me to her, and said:

"Dear sister, you have been out nearly all day, and were up last evening; you can go into the church for vespers, and then you had better go to your cell."

After the service was ended, I remained a few minutes to say my prayers. When my time had expired, I went through the cloisters to my cell; and, just as I opened the door, I heard from the gate-bell a loud peal that rang through the silent house. I heard the door opened, and a hurried message delivered.

"Another call," I thought; and then came a quiet tap at my door. I opened it quickly, and Mother Frances entered, saying:

"I am grieved, sister, to disturb you so soon; but that poor girl, Mary MacNeal, is dying at the hospital, and she wishes most earnestly to see you."

"Is she indeed dying? why, I left her so much better."

"Yes; but a fatal change has taken place, and she has not long to live."

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There was no time to think of my aching head and wearied limbs. I dressed again hastily, and, together with the messenger, soon arrived at the hospital.

At the entrance of the ward where Mary lay I met the nurse. "Oh! God be praised, sister, that you're come at last! Poor Mary's only cry is for you."

This Mary MacNeal was a young girl who had been brought up in our schools, and afterward maintained herself by dressmaking. Hard toil, poor fare, and want of exercise did their work; and Mary lay dying in the last stage of consumption. She was a good girl, and had been long under my especial care. That very afternoon she had implored me to be with her during her last moments. When I reached her bed, a calm, happy smile welcomed me, and the feeble, faint voice spoke a few words of greeting, "And ye'll say the rosary, sister?"

I knelt down and complied with her request. When we said the last Gloria, Father Bernard came, and Mary received the last sacraments. I have stood by many a death-bed: I have seen the strong man in his agony expire; I have seen the atheist, fearing, dreading God, die, with despair in his glazing eye and faithless heart; I have seen infants die with the smile of an angel on their little faces; in every form I have met with death; but I never knew a soul leave this world that seemed more fit for heaven than that of this young girl. The rosary in one hand, the crucifix in the other, she lay so calm and still. Ever and anon, as I wiped the death-damp from the pale brow, she lifted her eyes as though to thank me. She seemed desirous to speak. I stooped over her to catch the few struggling words, and they were:

"Thank God, I have always loved the Blessed Mother; she is with me now." And she murmured the sweet names of Jesus and Mary.

Then the slight breath stopped; anon it came again; again it went, and without a struggle that happy soul took flight. I closed the eyes, still wearing the lingering look of gratitude and love; I crossed the hands, and twined the beads around them, and then knelt down and said the litany for the dead. I was now preparing to leave the hospital, when the nurse came, and asked me if I would step for a minute into the next ward, just to speak to a poor old woman who seemed to be getting worse. This ward was quite full; but I noticed a bed I had seen empty in the morning, occupied; when I had finished talking to the old woman, I asked who the fresh comer was.

"Ah! sister, she's in an awful way, let her be who she may. I asked her this afternoon if she would see you, or the priest; and I declare the look of her frightened me--it was so wild and fierce. But she's a lady, I am sure; for, though the poor feet of her were bare and bleeding, the few ragged clothes she had on were of the finest, and when she is in her senses, she speaks so lady-like; but she went on in a dreadful way, and told me not to talk to her of sisters or priests, but to do her the only kindness I could, and let her die alone; so there she lies, and not one bit or drop can I get down her."

"But, nurse, I must see her, poor thing! Perhaps I can help to soothe her."

I approached the bed carefully, shading the lamp with my hand. I set the light down on the table, and drew a chair close to the bedside, and sat down upon it. Loud, heavy breathing, and quick, frightened starts, told me the patient slept. I gently drew aside the sheet, with which she had covered her face and head, and started at the picture that met my gaze. {778} It was a woman, seemingly about two-and-twenty years of age; her face and neck were covered with a perfect mass of thick, glossy hair; it spread in its rich profusion over the pillow and the bed clothes. I took one of the tresses in my hand, and wondered at its length and softness. One small white hand was thrown above her head, and it grasped a portion of the hair so tightly that I could not move it, lest I should wake her. Before I had sat many minutes, the sleeper awoke with a loud, piercing scream, and a quick, fearful start. I laid my hands on her, to soothe her.

"Do not be frightened," I said; "you are quite safe."

"Who are you?" she replied abruptly and sharply.

"I am a Sister of Mercy, and I am anxious to assist you."

"I don't want you; go away; you only torment me." She turned from me, and concealed her face.

"I am afraid you mistake me," I said very gently; "indeed, I only wish to do you good."

"Do me good? You cannot; leave me alone! Let me die as I have lived."

"God is good, and very merciful, my poor sister."

"Don't mention his name to me. Leave me! Let me be forgotten by God and man. Let me die, and do not torment me."

"God loves you with an infinite love--a love more tender than you can imagine."

"I tell you to go! I am cursed? hated! I want no good; I will listen to none. Your words are all in vain; save them, and go!"

With these words she resolutely turned from me, and covered her face with the clothes, so that she could neither hear nor see me. I took my rosary, and knelt down, and said it for her; and ardently did I pray that the poor heart might be turned to God. When I had knelt above an hour, she turned fiercely round, and said

"Are you still there? what are you doing?"

"I am praying for you, my sister."

"Praying for me!" and a wild, fearful laugh sounded through the quiet room. "Praying for me; my name is forgotten in heaven. Don't do that. My mother is in heaven. Don't let my name be heard there, or she will know; but go away, and leave me. Heaven and earth have abandoned me; why need you care for me?"

The delirium and fever seemed to increase so rapidly, that I feared my longer stay would be useless. A torrent of words were pouring quickly from the parched lips; now a wild appeal, a fearful cry to God for mercy; then a dreadful outburst of reproaches and contempt against heaven; then a wild snatch of song, and a laugh so unearthly, it almost chilled the blood in my veins. Once, and once only, the loud voice grew calm and sweet, and a quiet look came upon the flushed face when she fancied she was a girl at home again, and her mother was speaking to her.

I went home, for I was of no use, and the nurse gave the poor sufferer an opiate before I left. I could not rest; that wild, beautiful face was before me, and those pitiful cries rang in my ears all night. The following morning I hastened to the hospital. I found my patient more quiet, and a good deal exhausted.

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I procured a basin of cold water, and wetting a handkerchief, placed it upon her burning brow. Its coolness seemed to revive her; for after I had bathed her forehead for some minutes, she opened her eyes, and said, in a faint voice, "Is that you, mother? bless you, thank you;" but after looking earnestly at me, she turned away with a despairing sigh I never shall forget. After I had well bathed her face and head, I gathered the long hair and arranged it neatly under a cap. How beautiful she looked! the red flush had gone, and her face was fair and white as marble. The slight eyebrows were marked so clearly and arched so beautifully, and the noble open brow was so fair, I could distinguish every vein. Again my tears fell upon her face as I stooped over her. She gave a quick start, and said, "Who are you?"

"I am a Sister of Mercy, one who loves you."

"Loves me! and is that tear for me?"

"Yes, not only one, but many more I have shed for you."

"O sister!" and she turned and threw herself on my breast, "that is the first tear any one has shed over me since my mother died. My heart has been so proud, so full of bitter anger and hatred, that I thought nothing could ever again soften it; that tear was a dew-drop from heaven. A few moments since, I fancied you were my mother, for your hand lay upon my head just as hers did when she used to come, night after night, and bless me; just as it did the night before I left her. O sister! do not let me lie in your arms, you are so good, and I have been so wicked and sinful."

"Nay, rest here; none are so sinful but there is love and mercy left for them."

"Mercy! can I, dare I hope for it?"

"Hush, my child, you are tiring yourself out; now rest."

"And do you promise never to leave me till I die? Say, will you stay with me?"

"I will indeed do all I can; for the present I must go. Will you let me put this around you?" (It was a medal of the Immaculate Conception.)

"Yes," she replied, and took it with a trembling hand.

"Are you a Catholic?" I asked, startled by the haste with which she seized it.

"I am, sister," and then a burning blush came over her face. "I am, but a guilty, ungrateful one."

"Then will you say some short prayers, while I go and visit my other patients?"

"I will, but it is long since I have said a prayer."

At the end of an hour I returned, and found her weeping bitterly. She took my hand and kissed it. I tried to quiet her excessive grief. I said, "Do not cry, my child. Tell me, can I help you--can I do anything for you? My name is Sister Magdalen; what shall I call _you?_" She looked up with a sad face, and replied, "My name is Eva." "Well, then, Eva, be comforted; if you have sinned, there is mercy and hope for you; if you are unhappy, there is comfort. Look at this;" and I gave her my crucifix--"does not this teach you to love and hope?" There was no answer, nothing but bitter sobs. I knelt down, and said the _Memorare_, and then, taking Eva's hand, I was about to speak, when she said, "Sister, sister, when I am better, and have strength to talk, I will tell you my history, and you shall teach me to be better."

Day after day passed on, and she became so ill that we thought she must die; but God so willed it that she began to improve, and, at last, was able to speak and think rationally again. One evening I sat by her bed, saying the rosary while she slept, when, looking suddenly at her, I found her eyes open, and fixed upon me intently.

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"Sister Magdalen," she said, "I want to tell you my history; it is a very sad one. I have sinned and suffered--will you hear me?"

"With pleasure, because, when I understand you, I can the better help you."

And as she told it to me, I here give it.