“But how do you do it?” cried Katy. “How do you manage to be so sweet and beautiful and patient, when you’re feeling badly all the time, and can’t do anything, or walk, or stand?” – her voice was lost in sobs.
Cousin Helen didn’t say anything for a little while. She just sat and stroked Katy’s hand.
“Katy,” she said at last, “has Papa told you that he thinks you are going to get well by and by?”
“Yes,” replied Katy, “he did say so. But perhaps it won’t be for a long, long time. And I want to do so many things. And now I can’t do anything at all.”
“What sort of things?”
“Study, and help people, and become famous. And I wanted to teach the children. Mamma said I must take care of them, and I meant to. And now I can’t go to school or learn anything myself. And if ever I do get well, the children will be almost grown up, and they won’t need me.”
“But why must you wait till you get well?” asked Cousin Helen, smiling.
“Why, Cousin Helen, what can I do lying here in bed?”
“A good deal. Shall I tell you, Katy, what it seems to me that I should say to myself if I were in your place?”
“Yes, please,” replied Katy, wonderingly.
“I should say this: ‘Now, Katy Carr, you wanted to go to school, and learn to be wise and useful, and here’s a chance for you. God is going to let you go to His school – where He teaches all sorts of beautiful things to people. Perhaps He will only keep you for one term, or perhaps it may be for three or four; but whichever it is, you must make the very most of the chance, because He gives it to you Himself.’”
“But what is the school?” asked Katy. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It is called the School of Pain,” replied Cousin Helen, with her sweetest smile. “And the place where the lessons are to be learned is this room of yours. The rules of the school are pretty hard, but the good scholars, who keep them best, find out after a while how right and kind they are. And the lessons aren’t easy, either, but the more you study the more interesting they become.”
“What are the lessons?” asked Katy, getting interested, and beginning to feel as if Cousin Helen were telling her a story.
“Well, there’s the lesson of Patience. That’s one of the hardest studies. You can’t learn much of it at a time, but every bit you get by heart, makes the next bit easier. And there’s the lesson of Cheerfulness. And the lesson of Making the Best of Things.”
“Sometimes there isn’t anything to make the best of,” remarked Katy, dolefully.
“Yes there is, always! Everything in the world has two handles. Didn’t you know that? One is a smooth handle. If you take hold of it, the thing comes up lightly and easily, but if you seize the rough handle, it hurts your hand and the thing is hard to lift. Some people always manage to get hold of the wrong handle.”
“Is Aunt Izzie a ‘thing?’” asked Katy. Cousin Helen was glad to hear her laugh.
“Yes – Aunt Izzie is a thing – and she has a nice pleasant handle too, if you just try to find it. And the children are ‘things,’ also, in one sense. All their handles are different. You know human beings aren’t made just alike, like red flower-pots. We have to feel and guess before we can make out just how other people go, and how we ought to take hold of them. It is very interesting, I advise you to try it. And while you are trying, you will learn all sorts of things which will help you to help others.”
“If I only could!” sighed Katy. “Are there any other studies in the School, Cousin Helen?”
“Yes, there’s the lesson of Hopefulness. That class has ever so many teachers. The Sun is one. He sits outside the window all day waiting for a chance to slip in and get at his pupil. He’s a first-rate teacher, too. I wouldn’t shut him out, if I were you.
“Every morning, the first thing when I woke up, I would say to myself: ‘I am going to get well, so Papa thinks. Perhaps it may be to-morrow. So, in case this should be the last day of my sickness, let me spend it beautifully, and make my sick-room so pleasant that everybody will like to remember it.’
“Then, there is one more lesson, Katy – the lesson of Neatness. School-rooms must be kept in order, you know. A sick person ought to be as fresh and dainty as a rose.”
“But it is such a fuss,” pleaded Katy. “I don’t believe you’ve any idea what a bother it is to always be nice and in order. You never were careless like me, Cousin Helen; you were born neat.”
“Oh, was I?” said her Cousin. “Well, Katy, we won’t dispute that point, but I’ll tell you a story, if you like, about a girl I once knew, who wasn’t born neat.”
“Oh, do!” cried Katy, enchanted. Cousin Helen had done her good, already. She looked brighter and less listless than for days.
“This girl was quite young,” continued Cousin Helen; “she was strong and active, and liked to run, and climb, and ride, and do all sorts of jolly things. One day something happened – an accident – and they told her that all the rest of her life she had got to lie on her back and suffer pain, and never walk any more, or do any of the things she enjoyed most.”
“Just like you and me!” whispered Katy, squeezing Cousin Helen’s hand.
“Something like me; but not so much like you, because, you know, we hope you are going to get well one of these days. The girl didn’t mind it so much when they first told her, for she was so ill that she felt sure she should die. But when she got better, and began to think of the long life which lay before her, that was worse than ever the pain had been. She was so wretched, that she didn’t care what became of anything, or how anything looked. She had no Aunt Izzie to look after things, so her room soon got into a dreadful state. It was full of dust and confusion, and dirty spoons and phials of physic. She kept the blinds shut, and let her hair tangle every which way, and altogether was a dismal spectacle.
“This girl had a dear old father,” went on Cousin Helen, “who used to come every day and sit beside her bed. One morning he said to her:
“‘My daughter, I’m afraid you’ve got to live in this room for a long time. Now there’s one thing I want you to do for my sake.’
“‘What is that?’ she asked, surprised to hear there was anything left which she could do for anybody.
“‘I want you to turn out all these physic bottles, and make your room pleasant and pretty for me to come and sit in. You see, I shall spend a good deal of my time here! Now I don’t like dust and darkness. I like to see flowers on the table, and sunshine in at the window. Will you do this to please me?’
“‘Yes,’ said the girl, but she gave a sigh, and I am afraid she felt as if it was going to be a dreadful trouble.
“‘Then, another thing,” continued her father. ‘I want you to look pretty. Can’t night-gowns and wrappers be trimmed and made becoming just as much as dresses? A sick woman who isn’t neat is a disagreeable object. Do, to please me, send for something pretty, and let me see
