Daybreak | Page 6

towards the doctors.
The elder of the two men came toward her, and bent over her. "My dear
child," he said, "you are doing very well; there is no need to cut off
your leg. And try not to distress yourself about your friend, for only
what is wisest and best is being done for her."

"I will try and be good, and not mind so much, please sir," said Frances;
and then she hid her face in the pillow, and tried to choke down her
sobs.
The doctors moved away at last, and Kate turned a pair of wondering
eyes upon Frances as she said:
"What made you wish to lose your leg instead?"
"Only Kate, because I love you more than I could tell any one. And if
you must lose your leg, please God, I will comfort you for it as much as
ever I can."
"Thank you, dear," said Kate, very much touched,--and after that she
relapsed into silence.
Easter fell very late that year. Good Friday was kept in the hospital
after Kate had lost her leg. There was a service in the ward, and
moreover, the nurse came and sat by Kate's side, and read to her the
fifty-third chapter of Isaiah.
"She doesn't seem to take much notice of reading," the nurse said later
to Mother Agnes, who had come up again to see Kate. They little knew
that it was the first "notice" that Kate had ever taken of anything in the
Bible.
Kate would not talk to-day to Mother Agnes. She answered gently, but
shortly, and could not be drawn into conversation. One of her old fits of
reserve seemed to have taken hold of her.
Mother Agnes was going away, deeply disappointed, when the nurse
told her the story of little Frances wishing to lose her leg for Kate's sake.
And also, how the children had grown to love each other; and what a
dear child Frances was, and how she talked to Kate of everything that is
good.
And then Mother Agnes was comforted, for she saw that all she had to
do was to stand aside, and let a little child do the work. And as she

walked along the Thames Embankment in the glory of the setting sun,
it came into her mind how Christ had taken all that was sweetest on
earth, the love and trust of little children, the love of the father for the
child, of the shepherd for the sheep, and made earthly love the
stepping-stone to raise us into the thought of the possibility of that
greater Love outside ourselves.
[Illustration: St. Thomas' Hospital.]
The next time she came to the hospital, Kate had much to ask her about
the Orphanage. They talked pleasantly for a short time; and then, after a
pause Kate said: "Mother Agnes, something is frightening me."
"What is it, Kate?"
Another pause--so long that it seemed as if Kate did not mean to speak
again--and then she said: "The love of God frightens me."
"But, Kate, that was meant to be the greatest joy and comfort of our
lives."
"It is always there," said Kate, earnestly, "burning into me so that I
cannot forget it. It is much worse to bear than the pain. Indeed, I cannot
bear it, it is almost intolerable. Night and day, I can never, never forget
it. And oh, Mother Agnes, if I had killed my own little Frances, it
would not have given me the trouble it does to think of the things I
have done against Jesus Christ."
Kate's words, her face, and her whole manner awed Mother Agnes so
much that she could not speak for some moments. And then she talked
to Kate for long--gently and tenderly and more plainly than she had
ever done before. Kate said good-bye to her with eyes that were full of
tears.
That night, before she went to sleep, Frances said:
"Kate, does what you spoke of still burn into you?"

Kate was startled, for she did not think that Frances had heard the
half-whispered conversation.
"Yes," she said, "it is there just the same. I can scarcely bear it! What
can I do?"
"I don't know what you can do," said Frances, "except that you are
bound to speak to Him about it."
Kate turned on her pillow with a half sob, and said no more.
CHAPTER IV.
IN A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE.
"Kate--I can't sing any more--I'm just tired out with happiness."
"Cuddle up against me, darling, and try and go to sleep then."
"Then, dear Kate," said Frances, earnestly, "will you promise to tell me
all about the next stations, and the green fields, and the sheep, and the
cows, and the people hay-making, and the dear little white houses. And
I will