And God Remembered Her

AND GOD REMEMBERED HER By Kathleen B. Nelson Through the mist and smoke of an October morning, early work- men moved like phantoms — cold and silent save for the patter on the pavement by their hurried feet. Out of the gloom, skyscrapers rose weird and unreal. Then in a flash the sun was1 up, touching with impartial fingers the church spire in the square, the garbage can on the corner, a long row of bronzed chrysanthemums, the pink toes of a baby in its crib, the crepe on the house next door. One ray, more daring than the rest, penetrated through a long narrow chink the closed blinds of that house and threw itself boldly across the foot of Frances Weddern's bed — Frances Weddern whose husband had been buried yesterday. The sounds of the city awakening came dully to Frances' ears — the milk wagons, rattling over the pavement, the first trolley, the wheels creaking on the frosty rails, intermittent footsteps, at first hur- ried and light, then regular as an army marching. Various and mul- tiplied came the sounds till they seemed to Frances' fevered mind like a huge wave rolling nearer, nearer, nearer until it rolled over her head. And then she was bathing in sound, rumblings, creakings, roaring ringing — now thinner, higher, shriller, like tiny hammers beating on her forehead — on her eyeballs. When she was conscious again, the first thing she saw was the warm brilliance of her dressing gown thrown across the foot of her bed. The sunlight falling there made of the flowered silk a thing of splendor. For one moment she was conscious only of its sheer beauty and a little thrill very near to joyousness shook her. Almost eagerly her eyes followed the sun's ray across the wall where it also lighted a picture — and then in a flash she remembered everything. She closed her eyes in weary nausea. That picture was one of the boy Samuel praying. But that was not all. That picture was the expression of a long cherished hope — that God would make complete their married happiness by sending them a child. They had never spoken much of this hope even to themselves. It was one of those deep understandings made more poignant by silence. In fact this picture on the wall was its most tangible expression and it had all come about in this way. Wonderful companions were Frances and Jim. He was an en- gineer and where his work took him Frances went, too. They talked and walked and sang and read and dreamed together. One day they were reading the story of Hannah and Elkanah from the Bible. Both of their hearts were full as they realized how this old, old story touched the main-spring of thejr lives. Frances forced her voice into steadi- ness but one big tear rolled down her cheek as she read: "And the

1H2 IMPROVEMENT ERA Lord remembered her * * * that she bare a son, and called his name Samuel, saying, Because I have asked him of the Lord." The book was trembling in her hand when Jim's big strong hand closed over hers, and his dear eyes so full of understanding met hers. In his arms he tried to make her forget as Elkanah had done, "Am I not better to thee than ten sons?" Next time when he returned from the city he had brought her this beautiful print of Samuel and together they had hung it in their bedroom. Four years had passed since Frances Weddern had faced her ordeal, but this morning, as she sat on the hotel porch of a fashionable mountain resort, her mind was running over those dark days. How gradual had come the consciousness of her great loss. This little thing — that little thing, constantly bringing it home to her. Life sometimes seemed such a futile tangle. She was beautiful still and nothing of the look of a martyr about her. Her mouth, her move- ments, her laughter made her seem joyous and young — but her eyes were impenetrable and there was this habit of being with a crowd and yet being millions of miles away from it. Her friends said it gave them an uncanny feeling. This morning the easy flow of the conversation around her was like the droning of bees in her ears. She had no idea what they were talking about or what they were doing. One fugitive thought fol- lowed another — one vivid picture calling to life another. A child's scream brought all to their feet. It was a scream of pain and terror. Dr. Singleton and Paul Wood rushed to the scene and were soon bearing up the path a child crying out and writhing with pain. "He's burned his feet. Get my hand grip, Paul. Open the door. We'll take him in where it's cool." And then half a dozen excited people explaining what had hap- pened. "Hot ashes you say? How in the — " "Yes, the cook had just emptied them from the range" — "run- ning around barefoot" — "dirty shame" — "awful burns" — "all full of cinders." "Yes, both feet" — "no one to look after him" — "Yes, the cook's his grandmother" — "dead, I suppose" — "about four I should think" — "clever little beggar" — "bright as a whip" — "cripple for life, I guess." Frances was still sitting on the porch when Dr. Singleton came out an hour later. "How bad is it?" she asked anxiously. "Awful, worst burn I've ever dressed — all full of dirt and ashes. There's one chance in a hundred that his feet will get quite all right. The cords may draw up in healing. Then there's the danger from infection. I've got to go back to town today. If he's left here with- out care there's no chance — dirty mess — poor little kid. Why, Mrs. Weddern, you're taking this too hard. Such things do happen, you

AND GOD REMEMBERED HER 1143 know. Can't be helped. Surely you're not crying, why — " "No-oh-no — " Frances excused herself hurriedly. The doctor was musing abstractedly when Frances came back. "He's asleep. Poor little chap." "M-m — oh — yes I gave him a morphia." "Can he be moved today?" "Where to? Why?" A _. "I'll go up with him to town. You said you must go. We'll put him in the best hospital and get a specialist. I've been talking to his grandmother." "But the money? Mrs. Weddern you must realize it will be months, years, perhaps, and nothing certain." "That's all right, Dr. Singleton." Frances broke in sharply. "I'm going to adopt him. His grandmother's willing. She can't tend him and work too, and she can't live without work. What have I done since I lost my husband? Only tried to make myself happy and forgetful by killing time? I've no interest in the world. If my money or time can give this child a chance he shall have it." This was a very long emphatic speech for Frances and the doctor was literally shoved off the porch by it. He went murmuring some- thing about inquiring when the stage left. Long hard months followed, months fraught with anxiety, fatigue, disappointment, but through them all there was always some- thing to do. Tod, for that was what he had been called by his grand- mother and that was what he remained, was indeed a bright, cheerful little fellow. As the pain became more intermittent and the confine- ment a habit, he ceased fretting and was even talkative and gay. Too young to realize what affliction might be before him, he found joy in this strange new world where everyone seemed so solicitous for him. Everyday there was something for his beguiling. In song, in story, in picture, Frances quite outdid herself — and his little soul drank eagerly of this world of beauty. While in turn, his fertile imagination, the utter unexpectedness of his queries, the strange wisdom of his replies, his dear capacity for loving, were always to Frances a revelation and a delight. But there were times when he longed to run about in the woods as he used to do, when nothing but physical activity had an appeal. It was almost uncanny the way even his imaginary games found leap- ing and dancing and running the desired of all things. It was hard that first Christmas when he had ordered from Santa "a new pair of feet to dance in the puddles with." When they were not forthcoming the formidable array of toys before him failed even to bring a smile. * * * * It was Commencement week at one of our large high schools. Parents and friends were thronging the bleachers to witness a class Track Meet. A somewhat timid woman near fifty threaded her way through the noisy crowd. No one noticed her much for in that rush-

1144 IMPROVEMENT ERA ing merry throng everyone was engrossed with his own affairs. Had anyone stopped to notice they would have decided she was a fine-look- ing woman. The years had been kind to Frances Weddern. She arrived early at the bleachers and had no difficulty in finding a seat. There was something about this rowdy, jostling atmosphere that seemed foreign to her quiet dignity, and yet she seemed to be enjoying it all immensely. When the athletes came on the field a few minutes later she cheered lustily as a girl. It was one of those spring days when the sun seems to hold the earth lovingly in its hand. Away to the east, stretching out on the foothills, peach orchards were turning from softest pink to crimson. The scent of currant blossoms came alluringly on the breeze. The bleachers opposite Frances presented a seething sea of color, life and gayety. The multi-colored patches of color massed together reminded her of an old-fashioned crazy quilt. Crazy quilt, indeed. She laughed outright at the thought. And then she saw Tod walking across the field. The sight for which her eyes had been straining the last twenty minutes. How tall and straight he looked. He was running the "220" for the Juniors. He had developed wonderful "speed" and "form" in his four weeks training. After half an hour of what seemed merely preliminary to Frances his race was on. She sprang to her feet when the gun went off and it seemed her heart stopped beating till he breasted the tape. Bad start. He was third from the inside and the fourth and he ran breast to breast with the other two ahead for fifty yards. Then a sudden burst of speed, and he had cut in between the first and second runner but number one still held the inner track. Neck to neck! How beautifully he ran! The other was straining every muscle but his motion seemed easy and rhythmic as grass blades running in the wind. Gradually he gained on his opponent finishing two laps ahead. The bleachers rocked with applause. "Tod! Tod! Tod! Who said Tod? We said Tod. "Tod! Tod! Tod!" Frances' handkerchief was a tight little wad in her hand and two tears trickled ignominiously off her patrician nose. Oh! how wonder- ful that Tod should be running like this. God had indeed remem- bered her! Cedar City, Utah Bits of Philosophy Meanness is the mother of misery. Where policy begins principle ends. The character-builder is the master-builder. Pleasure, the modern idea: Getting to where you ain't in a hurry. When you forget self it is not difficult to remember someone else. He is successful who can truthfully say, "My work is my play." Preaching is the art of telling people what they do not want to hear in such a way that they will want to hear it. NEPHI JENSEN.