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KATIE

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 26, 1899

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 25, No. 30.

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KATIE.

By Rose Seelye Miller

“If you please, mistress, canna ye gie a puir lassie wark to do!” Here the pleading voice broke a little. The plea had been so often repeated, and as often repulsed.
The woman on the steps of the little Dakota home looked up apathetically, hardly hearing the words, or noting their import. The girl's voice again broke the stillness.
“Ye dinna ken, mistress; canna ye gie me wark, and a bite and a sup for the wark? I hae walked sae far, and I am sair wearied wi' it a'.” The sweet voice grew pathetic; this time the woman had heard, but she still looked apathetically at the girl.
“Nay, lass, I canna gie anythin'; I am sair troubled mysel', and I canna pay the wage to any; nay, nay, I canna, I canna.” And she relapsed into hopeless brooding thought again.
“Ye maun be ill, mistress,” the girl said, looking thoughtfully at the wan face and lusterless eyes. “Ye maun be ailin', and ye maun let me come in and helpit ye a bit. It's no wage I'll ask, just a bite and a sup forenenst meal time.”
“O, but ye dinna ken, ye canna enter here. There's sair sickness, and it's sair tired and troubled I be, lass, but not so sair daft as to let ye in. Ye dinna want the fever lass, and I dinna want twa to care for instead o' ane. Nay, lass, nay,” as the girl pushed the woman gently aside, and entered the door.
“Ye maunna tek it sae hard, mistress,” the gentle voice said, “but if ye are sair troubled and burdened, then it is for me to help ye wi' your care. Ye ken, mistress, the Maister tellit us in His Buik to bear each ither's burdens.” The girl spoke softly, but with quiet insistence, and as she spoke, she took off her sunbonnet, and hung it up, and laid her bundle of clothing in one corner.
The room was untidy, but Katie MacPherson did not at once begin its setting to rights. Through the open door she could see a figure lying upon a dingy bed. The face was drawn with pain, and flushed with fever; the bright eyes met hers, and she went into the room, and to the bedside.
“It is sair pain ye are bearin',” she said, gently, with infinite compassion in her blue eyes, as she looked at the man's face before her. “But I ken hoo to care for the sick; I cared for my ain feyther lang, and he thought nane could comfort sae well as me.” And Katie softly moved the hot head to a cooler place upon the pillow, and straightened the tumbled bedclothes. “Noo, I maun get ye a drink, for ye are sair parchit wi' thirst,” and she went out quietly, and, finding a pail, went for water. The fevered man drank greedily, and then Katie drew the shades in the little room, and, closing the door, left the sick man alone.
“And, noo, mistress, canna ye tell me about things a bit? and then ye, too, shall hae a sleep, and wake refreshit.” And the woman laid her tired head upon the girl's shoulder, and wept for the first time in many days. Little by little she told the girl how they had come to Dakota, in the far West, and had lived very well until John had sickened; how there were no neighbors near; how the scorching heats had come and withered the grain, and burned the grass until it crisped beneath the feet; how the little garden was neglected, the cattle had wandered off, and how now she was in the last straits of desperation. The food was nearly gone. She could get no doctor. There seemed no help from heaven or earth, and death seemed so near that she could not leave her sick husband for help.
“And ye would hae turned me awa'!” Katie said, half-reproachfully.
“Aye, weel, most wenches will hae the siller for their work, whether they earn it or not; I carena to live if John dees.” And again the tears dropped from the tired eyes that were losing their glassy, despairing look.
“Didna ye pray?” asked the girl in an awed voice.
“Na, lass, I couldna, I haena lived reet, and I couldna ask for things when I haena lived reet.”
“It isna the reet livin',” Katie responded, “its just the luv o' God, and the believin' in His Son. And He's an 'ever-present help in time o' trouble,' mistress—an ever-present help.”
“He didna help me,” the woman said doggedly; “He didna help me.”
“Aye, mistress, He sent me; 'twas little I thocht He was leadin' me to thee, when I couldna find work anywhere; but His hand it was leadin', and noo I am come, and we shall see the mercy o' the Lord. We shall see it.”
Katie was a strong Scotch girl. She, too, had met with sore troubles in the sickening and dying of her mother and then her father, in the loss of her little home, and her unavailing search for work. Days and days she had walked, seeking help and finding none; but her heart was staunch and true, and she knew the God of her fathers had not forsaken her, and her faith wavered not in spite of heart-aching losses and troubles that would have crushed one less certain of the goodness and love of God. She was young—only sixteen; but she had a wisdom that cometh down from above, and so into her humble hand was given a great work for the “Maister” whom she so loved and trusted.
As the days went by, she tended the sick man. The woman, Mrs. MacGregor, had sickened; the strain had been too great for her overwrought body, and Katie's hands were full; but her strength came from on high, and she never failed or faltered through all those trying days. She sought and found the missing cattle, and she replenished the empty larder; she sought out a doctor, and she told the neighbors about the sore pressure at the little sod house on the Dakota plains. The people were too well versed in the school of suffering and self-denial to feel it a burden to help this stricken family, and so all through the long sickness and convalescence nothing was lacking; and all through the efforts of this one humble follower of the One who never forsakes His children.
The little harvest was gathered in by kindly hands before the sick ones recovered; the garden had been tended and coaxed into bringing forth some vegetables; the cows, tended by Katie's willing hands, were sleek and glossy, and gave down their milk, making rich stores of butter, which Katie disposed of at the nearest station, so that when the fall winds began to blow, the little family of the MacGregors were in a comfortable condition. Mrs. MacGregor was sitting by the little window, looking out at the sear and yellow cornfield; and her eyes grew dim as she thought of all that had come, and what had not come, through that trying summer.
“If it hadna been for ye, lass,” she said to Katie, “mayhap John and me would hae been lyin' stark and cowld out yon where the corn is ripenin' noo.”
“It hadna been for the lass,” Mr. MacGregor added, thoughtfully.
“Nay, nay, but ye are baith wrang,” the girl responded brightly. “Ye maun better say if it hadna been for the Laird. He watchit all the time, an' He kenned just when ye needed help sair, and He sent it. It was the Laird, and not me at a'.”
“But it isna ivery lass wha would hae done as ye hae, Katie; it isna ivery lass.”
“But I hae done nocht mair than I should,” the girl persisted. “The Laird gied me a wark, and I shouldna be a guid servant if I didna do it. I hae done nocht for praise.”
“Ye hae taught us a lesson, lass, and ye maun stay wi' us, and teach us mair of this ever-present Laird ye talk sae mooch aboot,” said Mr. MacGregor.
“It's not the talkin', mon, its the leevin' an' doin' an' hopin' an' lovin',” said his wife.
“The Laird maun teach ye these things hissel,” Katie responded.—Rose Seelye Miller.