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There is no sick-room feeling here. The coverlet, the sheets, the night-dress, with frills at the breast and wrists–everything about Katie is sweet and fresh. Every morning of her life she is sponged and dressed and “freshed up a bit” by her mother’s loving hands. It takes an hour to do it, and there are many household cares; but what an hour that is! What talk, what gentle, tearful jokes, what tender touches! The hour is one of sacrament to them both, for He is always there in whose presence they are reverent and glad.

We “take the books,” and I am asked to be priest. One needs his holy garments in a sanctuary like this. After the evening worship is over I talk with Katie.

“Don’t you feel the time long? Don’t you grow weary sometimes?”

“No! Oh, no!” with slight surprise. “I am content.”

“But surely you get lonely–blue now and then?”

“Lonely?” with the brightest of smiles. “Oh, no! They are all here.”

Heaven forgive me! I had thought she perhaps might have wanted some of the world’s cheerful distraction.

“But was it always so? Didn’t you fret at the first?” I persisted.

“No, not at the first.”

“That means that bad times came afterwards?”

“Yes,” she answers slowly, and a faint red comes up in her cheek as if from shame. “After the first six months I found it pretty hard.”

I wait, not sure what thoughts I have brought to her, and then she goes on:

“It was hard to see my mother tired with the work, and Jean could not get to school”; and she could go no further.

“But that all passed away?” I asked, after a pause.

“Oh, yes!” and her smile says much. It was the memory of her triumph that brought her smile, and it illumined her face.

My words came slowly. I could not comfort where comfort was not needed. I could not pity, facing a smile like that; and it seemed hard to rejoice over one whose days were often full of pain. But it came to me to say:

“He has done much for you; and you are doing much for Him.”

“Yes: He has done much for me.” But she would go no further. Her service seemed small to her, but to me it seemed great and high. We, in our full blood and unbroken life, have our work, our common work, but this high work is not for us–we are not good enough. This He keeps for those His love makes pure by pain. This would almost make one content to suffer.

Next morning we all went to the little log school, where the Communion service was to be held–all but the father and Katie.

“You have done me much good,” I could not but say before I left; “and you are a blessing in your home.”

The color rose in her pale cheek, but she only said:

“I am glad you were sent to us.”

Then I came away, humbly and softly, feeling as if I had been in a holy place, where I was not worthy to stand. And a holy place it will ever be to me–the white room, the spotless white room, lit by the glory of that bright, sweet, patient face. At the Table that day the mother’s face had the same glory–the glory of those that overcome, the reflection of the glory to follow. Happy, blessed home! The snows may pile up into the bluff and the blizzards sweep over the whistling reeds of the Marshes, but nothing can chill the love or dim the hopes that warm and brighten the hearts in the little log house Beyond the Marshes, for they have their source from that high place where love never faileth and hopes never disappoint.