“AND oh, sir, I have often wondered why I was born!” This was the conclusion of what Betsy Waters said to the kind minister. Betsy was a girl of eighteen, with a deformed spine. A quiet resignation stamped her face, save when the pain was almost too great for endurance. She rested in a plain, narrow bed in an hospital ward. On all sides were sights of human suffering—here a fevered face, flushed to purple, there a distorted countenance, giving evidence that some cruel accident had marred all traces of humanity, making of a man a thing too horrible to be seen.
“How came you here, Betsy?” asked the minister; “have you no friends?”
“Yes, sir, I have some friends, God bless them, but they are too poor to take care of themselves, and much too poor to help me. So I gave them no rest till I got them to put me into the hospital. It is a very good place, sir, only the groans keep me awake.”
“How did you come by this illness, Betsy?”
“When I was two years old, sir, my father’s house took fire. There was no other way to save me, so he threw me out of the window. It nearly broke my back. I did not walk for a year. My father was burned to death, sir. My mother was carried to the hospital, she was so badly hurt; so my mother and I were left, sick, and helpless, and alone. She was heart-broken, and lost her ambition. We began peddling matches and little penny articles. Many a time when we’ve had no money to pay for a lodging we’ve slept in the street. Once one of her feet was frozen; and I have been frozen in my hands and feet so that there are black spots to this day—see, sir. This hand is nearly useless. Then my mother died, and I believe she was glad to die. I was six years old; but, sickly and crooked as I was, I tried to do something after she was buried. Sometimes I found friends, sometimes I was treated cruelly. I had no chances to learn, though Heaven knows it made my eyes hungry to see a little girl go by with books in her hands. I have known nothing but misery and suffering, such as I couldn’t possibly tell you, or make you understand—it was so terrible, and I hadn’t any chance to help myself. I’ve cried till it seemed as if I’d be blind, to think what a poor, wretched orphan I was, and I knew that others had peace and plenty. I’ve been in such pain, too, working; working all the time, with nobody to give me a kind word or a smile– just dying for something of the kind. Oh, sir”— and her voice rose to a wail— “what was I born for?”
“My dear child, do you think that God does not care for you?” asked the man tenderly.
“It was not long ago, sir, that a young lady, beautifully dressed, met me in the street. I was crying with cold, and hunger, and pain. She pitied me—I knew by her face that she pitied me—and she spoke to me with her soft voice, and asked me to come to her house with her. There she gave me some clothes and some food, and told me of God. It did me good, and for months she helped me; but she took a fever and died, and I was sick again. Ever since then, sir, I have been miserable; every day I have been wretched, and it has seemed as if God didn’t care for me. I haven’t been able to do any good for myself or anybody else, and I am very discouraged. I don’t want to have dark, wicked thoughts; I try not to, but they will come when I see people well, rich and happy.”
“But if you will look to God, my poor child, He will help you to bear this burden. When your father saw you in the midst of the flames he thought there was no other way of escape, and followed the dictates of human judgment. But God knows that it is best for you to bear these afflictions. He will give you inward mercies if you ask of Him, spiritual comfort if you will only look to Him; and if, like a little child, you put your whole trust in Him, He will compensate you fully for all your cares and troubles in the world to come. Do you ever think of that?”
“I feel it sometimes,” said the girl, brokenly. “In the night I seem to be lifted by something when I think of God, and it appears as if there must be another and a better place. Oh, if I could only know!”
“Pray the Lord to give you spiritual sight, that you may look away from these trials. Your sufferings must be great. I, perhaps, strong man that I am—I could not bear them with your patience; but God never forsakes those who trust in Him. Yes, you will forget all this human woe in heaven!”
The minister had gone. The darkness fell gradually over the long avenues between the beds—the dim lamps were lighted—the doctors and nurses had gone their rounds, and silence fell upon the desolate scene. The young girl mused on what the good man had said. “Make me resigned, Lord Jesus,” she softly prayed, the tears brimming to her eyes. “Oh, help me to have faith in Thee, and never to doubt Thy loving mercy because I suffer.” Her face so white, grew more peaceful. In that sombre place it took on a childlike expression that was touching to see. A few masses of fair hair curled over the pillow—one thin hand pressed her pallid cheek—her eyes were upturned, or else closed in thought. “God has taken away my pain,” she whispered. At that moment a strain of soft music seemed to steal dreamily over her senses. It was very low; its intertwined harmonies scarcely stirred the pulses of the air—and yet she heard it.
Little by little the dimness struggled like a vapor with some strange bright glory that gradually superseded it, and rested on the bed, on the upturned face, while Betsy breathlessly gazed, lost in wonder—her whole being changed. Presently the luminous color grew into an intensity of splendor too great for mortal eyes, but the sick girl had strength to behold it. As the harmony increased, and the strangely brilliant dyes melted the one into the other, in their midst came a form that seemed familiar. She remembered now her mother’s face—the holy smile, the look of love—but she had never seen such garments on any one. Of a luster brighter than the sun, yet so soft and ethereal that it gave her no pain, the appearance of this celestial visitant filled her soul with a new exultant rapture. Sorrow, and the great sum of all her privations, and the cruelties of the world to which she had so often been subjected, were all forgotten. Such ineffable peace filled her soul that she could only whisper, “It is enough.” Presently another form appeared, clad in garments as heavenly—but oh! the exceeding purity of that celestial countenance! She had not remembered her father, but she did recollect how often her mother had told her how good a man he was, and how he loved God and Jesus Christ, and prayed for them—his wife and his child—every day when he was alive. She knew him now, and stretched forth her hands towards him, yearning for his embrace.
“Not yet!”
The words seemed to melt in liquid music on his lips. Then the glory blazed and deepened—playing with a sort of twinkling splendor upon wall and bed till their whiteness was something heavenly—until all outlines were lost, and forth from the vast distance came beautiful forms clad in clear white robes that swept the air, and their faces were so filled with a living joy that it fell over into her heart, and from those serene eyes she gathered strength and hope, and a peace she had never dreamed of. Feebly she murmured, “Shall I be so?” and the rich, deep chorus swelled up, “As we are, so shall you be.” Then she felt the bonds of earth loosen—her soul arose as from some dark crypt—she floated up toward them, and in a heavenly ecstasy exclaimed, “Oh! I am glad that I was born!”
“She is asleep,” said the physician to an attendant. “I don’t know that I have ever found her asleep at this hour—very soundly, too”; and he moved the lamp across her face.
“It strikes me she has a singularly lovely expression. I never noticed it before; she must be dreaming something pleasant. Poor thing, I hope so; her life has been sad enough, I warrant, and she is a very patient creature. But stop—look! why, what is this?”
Still dreaming; a low, exultant cry issuing from the smiling lips, the girl lifted herself gradually—lifted her face as in a tranced triumph—lifted her clasped hands—the whiteness and the pureness of some angelic ministrant as if reflected in her features. Suddenly the whole form relaxed, and the smile still inwrought with every line of her countenance, she fell back upon the pillow.
The doctor spoke but one word―
“Dead!”
But his lips trembled, and he knew that in some vision of glory she must have gone home.