Some Years Later

The years passed swiftly without bringing any great changes in our quiet life. Our grandparents had aged a bit, and Teresa was not quite as active as formerly, while a few wrinkles had gathered on our father’s forehead; but all this had come so slowly that the change was hardly noticed.

Rosa, who was now eighteen years old, was studying in the city. She was still the same—studious, faithful and sincere in all that she did. Her quiet, reserved manner caused some people to call her proud, but those who knew her better loved her, and knew she could be depended on in time of trouble.

Catalina still suffered somewhat, but now was able to walk around a bit without crutches, and in spite of her delicate health and poor, twisted body she had come bravely to take her true place among us as our “big sister,” so loving and solicitous for everybody’s welfare that she came to be known in the neighborhood as “the little mother.”

Paula was now fourteen years of age. In the house, at school, in the village, everywhere, everybody loved her, and I can say with all honesty that never a shadow of envy ever disturbed the tender friendship which had united us to her from the beginning. One could not possibly be jealous of Paula. All that she possessed was ours. Our joys were hers. Our sorrows were her sorrows. She had grown in body and mind, and yet had kept the same characteristics. Always bright and happy and full of fun, she had the same simple, humble ways as when at ten years of age she had come among us. Her special summer delight was to run through the fields, always returning to the house with a big bunch of wild flowers for Catalina. In one thing only she always seemed to fail. Teresa had a fearful task in teaching her to sew and to knit.

“What are you going to do in the future if you don’t know how to do these things?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Paula would say sadly, and would take up the work once more with such sweet resignation that Teresa, moved with compassion, would take the work from her hands saying—“There! There! Run outdoors now for a bit of fresh air.”

Then away Paula would go into the garden or under the trees that lined the village street. Soon she was back with such a happy smile that Teresa forgave her completely.

Once, however, Teresa lost all patience with her, exclaiming, as she saw the strange ragged ends she had left in her sewing, “Drop that work, and go where you please; but remember this, never will you be called a ‘Dorcas.’ Never will you be able to sew and provide garments for the poor. It’s not enough to tell them you love them, you must show it by your works—and the best way to do that would be to learn to be useful to them.”

Paula sat back stiff and straight in consternation. “Oh, Teresa, I never, never thought of that!” she said in a tone of greatest remorse. “Oh, please let me go on! I will try to do better!”

But Teresa had taken away the work, and was not inclined to be easily persuaded. “No, not now! Another time perhaps you may show what you can do.”

Paula therefore had to submit; but that was the last time that Teresa had any reason to complain. That afternoon Paula had gone straight to her room, and I followed soon after to comfort her, but I found her kneeling by her bedside pouring out her heart in true repentance to Him who was ever her unseen Companion. I closed the door gently behind me and stole away.

Later Paula said to me, “Oh, Lisita, I’m surely bad indeed. One thing I’ve certainly hated to do, and that is to sit down and learn to sew, especially in fine weather like this. I seem to hear a thousand voices that call me out-of-doors. I never could see any earthly reason why I should have to learn how to sew, and so I never even tried to please Teresa in that way. But now she tells me that if I go on like this I shall never be able to sew for the poor. I never thought of that! I wonder what the Lord Jesus must think of me. He gave His life for me, and here I am not willing to learn something that would help me to put clothes on poor folks! Oh, I must! I must learn to sew, no matter what it costs.”

That was it—to do something for others—that was the principal thing in all her thoughts.

In school Paula never did win prizes—nor did I. Both of us were generally about on an equal level at the bottom of our class.

About a year after our first visit to Mademoiselle Virtud’s house, Madame Boudre had moved us up to the Third Grade. Teresa made a magnificent apple cake as a sign of her pleasure. My father also showed his great satisfaction, and in fact everybody rejoiced to see that at last we were both making progress. In spite of all, however, there was one great heavy weight on my heart, and I cried myself to sleep that night. I think Mlle. Virtud also felt badly that we were leaving her, but she made us promise to come and visit her. “You are no longer my pupils,” she said, “but you are still, and will be always, my dear friends.”

Gabriel was so glad to see us that it was always a joy to go and play with him on our Thursday half-holidays. Paula always told him Bible stories, for that seemed to be his chief pleasure, and I taught him to read. Victoria’s mother used to bring her work over to Mlle. Virtud’s room and heard the stories with great delight.

“If I had been able to leave my Victoria in school she would have become as wise and learned as you, Mesdemoiselles,” she would say a bit sadly at times. “But there, I can’t complain; what would we have done without the money she earns at the factory?”

One afternoon we said goodbye to Gabriel and mounted the stairs to visit the blind girl. Left alone for most of the day, she passed the long hours knitting. She was about the same age as our Catalina, but she appeared to be much older. The first time we had visited her, she had hardly raised her head from her work, and showed but little interest in the stories that her mother had asked us to read to her. It was not so much indifference as an apparent incapacity to comprehend the meaning of what she heard. But on this particular afternoon Paula started singing a hymn. The poor girl suddenly dropped her work in her lap, and listened with rapt attention. When Paula had finished she exclaimed “Oh, Mama! Mama! Tell her to please sing again.”

Mme. Bertin could not suppress a cry of delight as she said, “Dear Mademoiselle Paula, please sing another song! Never have I seen my Marguerite so happy.”

And so Paula sang hymn after hymn. As Paula at last stopped singing, for the time had come to go home, poor Marguerite stretched out her arms as if groping for something.

“Please do not be offended, Mademoiselle Paula,” implored Madame Bertin; “she wants you to come nearer that she may feel your face. The blind have no other eyes.” Paula knelt at Marguerite’s side and the blind girl passed her hands gently over the upturned face, pausing an instant at the broad forehead, then on over the beautiful arched brows and long eyelashes and the delicately-fashioned nose and lips, that smiled softly as she touched them.

“You have not seen her hair,” said the mother, as she guided the girl’s hands upward and over the waves of light brown hair that seemed like an aurora fit for such a face, and then finally down the long braids that extended below Paula’s waist. Then, with one of those sudden movements characteristic of the blind, she carried the shining braids to her lips and kissed them as in an ecstasy. Then, just as suddenly, in confusion she dropped them and buried her own face in her hands.

At this Paula sprang to her feet and put her arms about the poor girl, and murmured in her ear, “We do love you so, Marguerite!”

After that visit, little by little Marguerite began to love to hear us speak of the Savior. Her indifference and sadness disappeared, giving place to a quiet peace and joy that was contagious for all who came in contact with her. Mme. Bertin no longer called her “My poor daughter,” only “My Marguerite.” For the next two years she became our constant delight. Teresa at times gave us clothes but slightly worn to take to her, which gave us almost as much joy as we carried them to Marguerite as she herself felt on receiving them.

One day Gabriel came running to tell us that Marguerite was quite ill, and we lost no time in going to see her. With painful feelings of presentiment we mounted the steep stairs to her room.

As we entered, Madame Bertin came toward us with her apron to her eyes and Mlle. Virtud made signs for us to come over to the bed, as she slightly raised the sick girl’s head.

“Dearest Marguerite,” said our teacher; “Here are Paula and Lisita.”

“May God bless them both,” and Marguerite spread out her ams toward us, adding, “Oh, Paula, please sing again, ‘There is no night there!’ ” And Paula sang once more the old hymn.

“In the land of fadeless day
Lies the city foursqare;
It shall never pass away,
And there is no night there.

“God shall wipe away all tears,
There’s no death, no pain, nor fears,
And they count not time by years,
For there is no night there.”*

“Oh, how beautiful!” And it seemed as if the poor blind girl were straining those sightless orbs for a glimpse of the Beautiful City. “Don’t cry, mother,” she said as she caught a low sob from the other end of the room. “I am so happy now to go to be with Jesus in His City.” The poor mother put her face close to her daughter’s lips so that she might not lose a word.

“One regret only I have, Mama,” Marguerite said; “and that is, that I have never seen your face. Oh, that I might have seen it just once.”

“In Heaven,” interrupted our teacher, “your eyes will be open forever.”

“Oh, yes,” said the dying girl. “There perhaps I will see Mama and Victoria. Will you please give Victoria a kiss for me when she comes home from the factory tonight. Tell her I’m so grateful; she has worked so hard for us!” Then suddenly—“Paula!” she called—“Paula!”

“Here I am, Marguerite,” and Paula came closer, taking her hand.

“Ah, you are here. Thanks, dear Paula,” she gasped. “Many thanks for telling me about Jesus and His love for me. Sing—”

The sentence was never finished, but Paula’s sweet voice rose, as once again she sang the sublime words:

“There is no night there.”

“Is she dead?” I said, as we looked down on the still, white face.

“Her eyes are open now,” said Mlle. Virtud tenderly, “in the City where there is no night!”