Away flies the messenger.  I seize the bottle of morphine and a hat, and follow to the child’s home.  The floor is strewn with fragments of burnt clothing.  A sickening odor of burnt flesh fills the room.  The scorched high chair, in which the child was tied and put before the open fireplace, while the mother went to a neighbor’s for milk, lay in a pool of water, and beside it, the burnt whisk-broom that an older baby had put in the fire, then dropped blazing under the baby’s long clothes, these told the whole sad story.  They were all at the grandparent’s house next door—­a crowd of screaming people.  Upon the bed lay what was left of the poor child, moaning in conscious agony.  A drop of water containing the precious anodyne which alone could ease it then, soon brought blessed unconsciousness until death kindly bore the little soul to God.  But oh! the heart-rending grief of that poor mother!  God grant we may never witness such suffering again.  We tried to comfort her with our tearful sympathy and prayers, but God alone can ever heal her sore heart.

A sad-faced man wants to see the minister.  We know his pitiful story and his errand before he speaks.  A sick wife and six young children.  The desperate daily fight with the hunger-wolf at the door, spite of the little lifts we try to give them.  Now the wife is dead, and he comes to ask for money to buy a coffin and a place to lay her away.  He has tried in vain elsewhere, so comes to us, and we cannot refuse.  A few hours after, the pitiful little procession passes by.  The pine coffin in an old cart, the husband and children, the minister and a few friends, following on foot.  Such calls are frequent.  Does the money ever come back? Once it did.

So it goes on, day after day, twenty, thirty, sometimes forty calls, for all these incidents are actual facts, and fair samples of our daily experiences and only a small part of our work.  There is a large household to look after, and between times there must be flying visits to the distant kitchen to see that everything is going on right there.  A watchful eye must look after the details of the dining room and see to the comfort of the whole household.  Supplies must be ordered; bills must be paid; there are countless letters to write; there are sorrowful hearts to be comforted; wayward church members to look after; cold, dead prayer meetings to warm up; the Sunday-school to carry along; mother’s meetings and children’s meetings and missionary societies.  An unlimited stock of patience, tact and good nature must be constantly on hand to keep all the machinery running smoothly, while the work is exhausting, wearing out body and soul far too soon.

Does it pay? Yes! for slowly but surely this people is being lifted up to a higher life, and while we sometimes grow faint and heartsick and discouraged, still there are rifts in the clouds and bits of sunshine now and then to cheer our hearts, and someday we hope to hear the Master say, “Well done!”