please her, but Katy hardly said, “Thank you,” and never saw how tired Aunt Izzie looked. So long as she was forced to stay in bed, Katy could not be grateful for anything that was done for her.
But doleful as the days were, they were not so bad as the nights, when, after Aunt Izzie was asleep, Katy would lie wide awake, and have long, hopeless fits of crying. At these times she would think of all the plans she had made for doing beautiful things when she was grown up. “And now I shall never do any of them,” she would say to herself, “only just lie here. Papa says I may get well by and by, but I sha’n’t, I know I sha’n’t. And even if I do, I shall have wasted all these years; and the others will grow up and get ahead of me, and I sha’n’t be a comfort to them or to anybody else. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how dreadful it is!”
The first thing which broke in upon this sad state of affairs, was a letter from Cousin Helen, which Papa brought one morning and handed to Aunt Izzie.
“Helen tells me she’s going home this week,” said Aunt Izzie, from the window, where she had gone to read the letter. “Well, I’m sorry, but I think she’s quite right not to stop. It’s just as she says: one invalid at a time is enough in a house. I’m sure I have my hands full with Katy.”
“Oh, Aunt Izzie!” cried Katy, “is Cousin Helen coming this way when she goes home? Oh! do make her stop. If it’s just for one day, do ask her! I want to see her so much! I can’t tell you how much! Won’t you? Please! Please, dear Papa!”
She was almost crying with eagerness.
“Why, yes, darling, if you wish it so much,” said Dr. Carr. “It will cost Aunt Izzie some trouble, but she’s so kind that I’m sure she’ll manage it if it is to give you so much pleasure. Can’t you, Izzie?” And he looked eagerly at his sister.
“Of course I will!” said Aunt Izzie, heartily. Katy was so glad, that, for the first time in her life, she threw her arms of her own accord round Aunt Izzie’s neck, and kissed her.
“Thank you, dear Aunty!” she said.
Aunt Izzie looked as pleased as could be. She had a warm heart hidden under her fidgety ways – only Katy had never been sick before, to find it out.
For the next week Katy was feverish with expectation. At last Cousin Helen came. This time Katy was not on the steps to welcome her, but after a little while Papa brought Cousin Helen in his arms, and sat her in a big chair beside the bed.
“How dark it is!” she said, after they had kissed each other and talked for a minute or two; “I can’t see your face at all. Would it hurt your eyes to have a little more light?”
“Oh, no!” answered Katy. “It don’t hurt my eyes, only I hate to have the sun come in. It makes me feel worse, somehow.”
“Push the blind open a little bit then, Clover;” and Clover did so.
“Now I can see,” said Cousin Helen.
It was a forlorn-looking child enough which she saw lying before her. Katy’s face had grown thin, and her eyes had red circles about them from continual crying. Her hair had been brushed twice that morning by Aunt Izzie, but Katy had run her fingers impatiently through it, till it stood out above her head like a frowsy bush. She wore a calico dressing-gown, which, though clean, was particularly ugly in pattern; and the room, for all its tidiness, had a dismal look, with the chairs set up against the wall, and a row of medicine-bottles on the chimney-piece.
“Isn’t it horrid?” sighed Katy, as Cousin Helen looked around. “Everything’s horrid. But I don’t mind so much now that you’ve come. Oh, Cousin Helen, I’ve had such a dreadful, dreadful time!”
“I know,” said her cousin, pityingly. “I’ve heard all about it, Katy, and I’m very sorry for you! It is a hard trial, my poor darling.”
“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
