A FATAL MISTAKE | AdventAI

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jan 9, 1893

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 19, No. 10.

A FATAL MISTAKE.

A HEAVY storm had suddenly set in. Mrs. Day came to the door of the store and looked anxiously up the village street. She was a thin, bent woman of sixty. She shivered as the gust of sleet and rain beat on her.

"Don't think of going home now, Mrs. Day," the shopkeeper called out. "I'm sorry I have no umbrella or wraps for you; but wait, and they will send you one from home."

Mrs. Day waited, but she knew that no one at home would think of her. It grew dark and the storm increased. She ran up the street at last, reaching her home drenched. Her son met her in the hall. "Why, mother! Could you not borrow an umbrella somewhere?" he said, drawing back lest he should be wet.

Her daughter Sue was playing on the piano in the parlor. The fire burned brightly, and the lamp threw a cheerful glow around the pleasant room.

"Dear, dear! This is too bad, mamma!" she cried. "Your teeth are chattering with cold."

"I thought perhaps you would have brought me a wrap," said Mrs. Day gently to her son.

"I never thought of it, mother; I saw you go out, too."

"You had better go to bed, mamma," said Sue, "and take some hot tea." She turned to the piano again, and began "Schuberth's Serenade."

Mrs. Day crept shivering up the stairs. She felt strangely weak and ill as she tried to take off her wet clothes. It would have been so pleasant if somebody would have rubbed her chilled feet, and brought her some tea, and petted her a little. Old as she was, her heart ached sometimes for comforting and caressing. A strange longing filled her heart for the husband who died so long ago.

But Sue, though she was sorry for her mother, never thought of going to help her. She sang the serenade with much pathos, while Will listened with dim eyes. Both brother and sister were easily touched by a strain of music, a noble poem, or a beautiful landscape. Yet it did not occur to either of them to look after their mother.

She changed her clothes, and, still chilled, went to the kitchen. It was Martha's "afternoon out," and the supper was to be made ready. She laid the table, broiled the fish, and made the tea. She remembered how she used to help her mother when she was Susy's age. How she loved to work for that dear soul! Yet Susy ought to love her, too.

"I have been a faithful mother," thought Mrs. Day, as she sat at the table looking at her handsome children.

"And you had to get the supper, mamma!" exclaimed Sue. "I forgot that Martha was not to be at home this afternoon."

Mrs. Day went to her bed that night with a high fever. Martha, when she came downstairs in the morning, heard her moan. The girl had a kind heart and common sense. She ran for a physician.

When the old doctor met Sue in her pretty morning gown, after he left Mrs. Day's room, he said sternly: "I fear your mother has pneumonia. I should have been called last night."

She cried bitterly, but she could do nothing. She never had spread a plaster or given a dose of medicine in her life. A nurse cared for her mother the few days in which she lived.

The poor woman before her death watched her children with eager, despairing eyes. She saw that they loved her, but they seemed afraid of the sick room, and could not bear the sight of pain.

She saw now wherein she had failed. She had never allowed them to bear pain or discomfort, or to feel any responsibility in life. From their birth she had waited on them, worked for them, sacrificed everything out of her great love for them.

She had never taught them out of their love for her to wait on her, to sacrifice a single selfish wish for her. She had ministered faithfully to their bodily wants, but she had not given to them the unselfishness, the habit of self-sacrifice which had made her own soul happy.

How many mothers make this fatal mistake, and how few know that they have made it!—The Household.