Letting in the Sunshine
By Sydney Dayre
“What a poor little dark room!” said Faith, as, with her mother, she came out of a house in which she had been visiting an invalid girl. “Yes; poor and dark and gloomy,” said her mother with a sigh. “And so dreadfully dirty!” “Yes. I have said as much as I dared to Mrs. Ray about keeping clean, but it seems to have done no good as yet.” “Not a book, not a paper, not a picture, not a flower. Dear me! how can people live so! What if I were poor Ruth!” A sober thought of the difference between her own cheerful home and the dreary one of the young girl who lay in the comfortless room, kept her silent for a while. “I wish I could do something for Ruth!” she said presently. “But we have so little to give away!” “So very little,” repeated her mother, “except kind words and a trifle now and then! But if we had more, Mrs. Ray is not one who thinks herself an object of charity.” Arrived at home, Faith bent lovingly over the plants which had smiled her a welcome from the window. “This little rose-bush is full of buds, mama. And one is just opening—do come and see!” Her mother came to look at the lovely petals which were beginning to unfold in the winter sunshine. “It looks as if it were waking up to thank the sun for the weeks and weeks of shining it has done for it,” said Faith, caressingly touching the green leaves. “O mama, what if I should give my rose-bush to Ruth?” “Why! I thought you were so fond of it, Faith!” “So I am; but I have so little to give. It would be hard to give it; so all the more I ought to.” “Take time to think about it before you make up your mind, dear,” said her mother. Faith did take time, and one day, a week later, she wrapped a paper about the beautiful bush, for careful protection against the sharp wind, and took her way to Ruth’s home. “See what I’ve brought you!” she said, placing the rose-bush, with its glory of half-opened buds, on the window-sill, within reach of the sick girl’s hand. “For me? O Miss Faith, how could you!” The flush of delight which arose to the pale face was a sufficient assurance that the gift which had cost so much self-denial would not be thrown away on her. “You must give it the very tenderest care,” said Faith, half jestingly, motioning toward the flower, as, after a half-hour’s talk, she arose to take leave. “A little tepid water every second morning.” “And a good sprinkling once a week, or oftener, with water with the chill just off.” “And it must have fresh air on mild days, and be set back from the window on frosty nights. And most of all, let it have sunshine. You have such a nice south window, it ought to do well here.” A good deal of brightness went away with Faith’s face, but there was plenty left as Ruth turned with ever-growing delight to the lovely plant on the window-sill to count its buds and blossoms, and rejoice in the delicate beauty of the pink petals. “You look as if you were smiling at me, you beauty,” she said, touching with her lips one of the flowers. “Sunshine! Yes, you shall have all you want.” But as she moved it nearer the pane, in order to catch the rays of the afternoon sun, it struck her, as never before, that the sunlight seemed to linger outside, as if afraid of venturing through the dust-covered window. “Dear me!” said Ruth. “I never noticed how dirty that window is. The sun can’t get in. That won’t do. What will Miss Faith say if her rose-tree droop here?” Raising herself by a little effort, she rubbed the dust from one pane, feeling well rewarded by the kindly rays which seemed glad to beam in upon her. “Look!” she said, pointing triumphantly to the rose, as her mother entered on her return from her day’s work an hour later. “Miss Faith brought it to me. And I’m glad you’re home so early before the sun is quite down. Doesn’t the sun shine in beautifully?” “Yes,” said her mother, well pleased at anything which pleased her daughter. “But how dirty them other panes is! It didn’t show so before.” “No,” said Ruth. “I rubbed that one clean, ’cause Miss Faith says the rose must have sunshine.” “’Twouldn’t take long to clean the whole of it.” She was weary with the hard day’s work, and always before fancied herself too weary to clean things at home, besides having, poor soul, little courage for it. But the new interest and the new light in Ruth’s face were inspiring, and a little later the farewell beams of the sinking sun shone in through twelve brightly polished panes. In her first bending over her new treasure, the next morning, Ruth’s eye wandered to the shelf on which it stood. The sun-beams seemed to be pointing out the dust which lay thick upon it, varied by stains which had come from setting medicine bottles there. “I wonder if Miss Faith noticed it! I hope not. The sun didn’t shine in there. But she might have noticed the window—dear me! If I could only help mother a bit with things!” She gave a discouraged glance around the disorderly room. She had thought little of it before, but now the sun seemed jealously to penetrate to every corner, as if taking pleasure in calling attention to the lack of care and neatness which would have struck horror to any cleanly soul. Ruth tried to look at it as other eyes might look, and it shamed her. “Mother can’t do much more than she does now, but per’aps I could do a little myself.” She had felt no worse from her effort of yesterday, and the new ambitions aroused in her seemed to give new strength. She brought a little warm water and cleaned the shelf; then took a needle and thread from a bag which hung near her and mended some holes in the old curtain. “Now I’ll get mother to wash this next Monday, and it’ll look as neat as a pin.” Mother took silent heed of what was going on. It would have been impossible for her to tell all the thoughts awakened by the presence of the rose-tree, but certain it is that the memories it called out softened and cheered her burdened heart. It was always there, always beautiful in its perfection of bloom, smiling a greeting to her as she came back from her daily toil. And something within her uttered a loud protest against allowing the lovely flowers to bloom amid surroundings of dirt and disorder. Poverty there must be, but poverty did not necessarily mean dirt, as she in her less discouraged days had proved. So there came a day when the window was thrown wide open, and, in the sweet breath of the early spring, the floor was scrubbed and the walls cleaned and whitewashed; and it was impossible, of course, that the improved state of things should not extend to other portions of the tiny house. “What an astonishing change!” said Faith one day, when she had been with her mother to see Ruth. “I am going to take a picture from my room to hang on the wall in Ruth’s room. It can be seen now.” One day not long afterwards Ruth told Faith the whole story, saying, as she finished, “I’ve been looking in the Bible for the text, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness,’ but I can’t find it. Can you tell me where it is?” “O,” said Faith with a merry laugh, “that isn’t in the Bible; but it’s a very good text for all that. There are good things outside the Bible, you know.” “Yes,” said Ruth, looking at her with an affectionate smile, “you are outside of it.” —Sydney Dayre, in Congregationalist.