Passing But Once | AdventAI

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Nov 26, 1885

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 11, No. 45.

Passing But Once.

A cold, quiet lady sat on the shady side of a pretty piazza at Saratoga. A young lady neice, who had just arrived that day, had inquired of her in a low tone who those people were, sitting on the steps, and she replied, "I'm sure I don't know, Mattie, who they are; I am here to rest. I don't trouble myself in regard to the other people who are here. I don't care to know them, and probably they will never cross my path again."

"Transients, only transients! Let me see, Auntie, what's that about 'passing this way but once?' " the young girl asked, meditatively. "I've forgotten exactly what it is, but it lingers in my memory, and I—"

Her sentence stopped abruptly; for just at that moment a pretty little girl fell down the piazza steps, hitting her head severely against the gravel walk. In another moment she was resting in Mattie's arms, and it was Mattie's sweet voice that was soothing her.

"Thank you, Miss, for picking Miss Gracie up," said the nurse, gratefully; "but I'll relieve you now. I'll carry Miss Gracie to her mamma."

"No, no, Nina!" sobbed the child, who was a frail, little thing about three or four years of age; "I'll stay with the pretty lady. She picked me up—she'll carry me to my mamma, won't you?"

Mattie smiled into the tearful, appealing eyes of the little one, as she answered, "Yes, dear; if Nina will lead the way, I'll carry you."

It was up one flight of stairs and into a beautiful suite of rooms that Nina led Mattie with the little girl in her arms. A pale young woman was resting upon a luxurious couch. She started nervously at their approach, and asked in a frightened voice, "Is Gracie hurt?"

"Only a little bruise," Mattie answered cheerily. "She'll hardly know she has been hurt after we wash off the stains."

"Please put her right down here beside me so that I can see her. I can't get up, I am an invalid, you see," the young mother said to Mattie; and then, after satisfying herself that her child's face was more soiled than injured, she said to her, "Run along with Nina, and get the blood washed off your face. Quick, dear; you make me faint."

Gracie had no desire to go with Nina. That was an every-day affair and had grown monotonous. She slipped her little hurt hand, still gritty with sand, within Mattie's, saying coaxingly, "I dess she will wash me, 'cause she loves me, 'cause she kissed me."

The mother's face flushed at what she considered Gracie's audacity in proposing that an elegantly dressed young lady should play the part of a nurse to her; but Mattie only smiled, as she kissed the child again, saying—

"I have often washed little faces, and I'm sure I'd like to wash this little hurt one if you will allow me. I think I do love the child already. In just that one thing I believe I am a little like my Master. I do love to have the little ones come to me."

The young invalid's eyes were moist as Mattie went into the nursery with the child; but when she returned with her, her face and hands cleansed, and with the bruises neatly covered with court plaster, and her tumbled curls softly smoothed, the mistiness about her eyes intensified into actual tears. She reached out for Mattie's hand and impulsively kissed it.

"I believe you are one of the ministering spirits we read about," she said, tremulously, "and I thank you truly for your goodness to Gracie and I. I have been so lonely here—so lonely. I know nobody, and nobody knows me."

Mattie bent down and pressed her lips to the white forehead.

"Then somebody will know somebody," she said, smiling. "We will know each other soon. My name is Mattie Berber. I have no cards with me, but I will leave you this instead."

She unpinned from the bosom of her pretty dress a bouquet of exquisite carnations, and put them in the frail white hand. The next moment she was running down stairs, humming a cheery song.

"What did you pick up that child for?" was the question her aunt asked when she reached her.

"I don't think I stopped to reason why I picked her up," answered Mattie, laughing a little at her aunt's severe look. "She fell; and I being on hand, it was the most natural thing in the world for me to pick her up."

Some ladies were talking a little way back. Mattie heard one of them say, "There is Mr. Lowe and his poor little granddaughter. His people raised a purse so that he could bring the child here to be treated."

Just below the piazza sat the old gentleman, in a suit of rusty black, with the invalid child beside him. A boy was just passing with a basket of delicious peaches. The sick child's eyes followed them longingly; but probably the old man's purse would not allow the indulgence, for he shook his head sadly in answer to the child's appealing glance. A bright silver piece fell into the peach boy's hand, and two large peaches were held by Mattie.

"Here, little one," she called softly, "see if you can catch these, dearie."

A flush of gratitude crept into the pale, thin face. She held out her hands, and catching the fruit, smiled her thanks.

"She called me 'dearie,' grandpa," whispered the child joyfully. "Am I dear to that pretty young lady?"

"Yes, yes, my child," answered the grandfather, smiling into the little face upturned to his, "all of the Lord's lambs are dear to the Lord's own."

The next day a fine-looking, cultured gentleman came to the hotel, bringing with him his old mother, who was sick, and whom he hoped would be benefited by the baths and the water. She walked about very feebly; and had it not been for two or three kindly souls who considered the jewel within the casket, she would have been very lonely; for her son had been obliged to leave her abruptly for some pressing reason.

As to looks, the old lady was not particularly prepossessing, except for a face telling of a tried and patient life. She was doubtless a battle-scarred veteran of the Lord's army. She had evidently borne the burden and heat of the day. Elegantly attired ladies held aloof from her. Of course, she could not be congenial to them. She was poor in regard to the culture of this world; and when she spoke, they fairly held their breath at her unconscious murdering of the Queen's English.

As she sat down that first day, just within the shadow of an open window reaching to the floor, she looked up deprecatingly, as if seeking a friendly face. Two ladies answered the suggestive look, and were soon talking kindly with her, and became so interested in her strange, quaint sayings, that in less than an hour the younger lady, Mattie Berber, was sitting on a hassock at the old lady's feet, her hand clasped within that of the aged woman. The other lady was called away just then by a friend. Standing off a little distance, she said,—

"Look there! Is not that a pretty sight? All that I can think of is these verses of Weatherly's:—

" 'Two hands lay clasped in sympathy: And one was dainty fair to see, And like a cloud when skies are bright, So pure and white. And one was toil-worn, wrinkled, hard, Furrowed with labor, seamed and scarred, Like chasm-broken, sunburnt lands; So were the hands.'"

"It is quite evident that Mattie Berber is not a crippled Christian," said her friend.

"What do you mean?"

"Some one has remarked: 'The great difficulty with Christian manhood—and, I add, womanhood—is that it is too much deformed. Some are without arms; they have never helped any one over the rugged places of life. Some are without feet; they have never gone an inch out of their own way to save others. Some are voiceless; they have never, even by a word, encouraged any one who was cast down. Some are deaf; they have never listened to the voice of suffering. Some are without hearts; they do not know what sympathy and generous feelings are.'"—Sel.