A MYSTERIOUS SICK CALL

New Zealand Tablet, 19 April 1917, Page 7

A MYSTERIOUS SICK CALL

The incident I am about to relate is a true one; it was told me by the priest to whom it occurred, although I am not giving his name nor that of the town where his church was situated.

In a certain large English town where poverty and destitution were rife, was a crowded court in which none but the most indigent lived. All the houses in it had a squalid, forlorn appearance some apparently falling down and leaning one against the other as if for support, and most of them having broken windows the missing glass being replaced by many of the inmates, probably the more chilly ones, with brown paper or bits of rag. These houses were let to several families, each room being so overcrowded that it was a wonder fever and disease of every description were not more busy in supplementing what semi-starvation was daily doingdecreasing their number by death. Halfclothed and sickly-looking children played listlessly on the doorsteps, or floated their mimic boats of wood or paper on the stream of dirty water which from time to time took its course down the centre of the alley; but all the little ones were more or less too weak and weary for active exertion. Hardly any but its inhabitants passed through the court. Even the coster-mon-gers seldom visited it, excepting perhaps on a Saturday night when they wished to get rid of their refuse stock. Poverty was too apparent to make a sale a likely event.

In a tiny attic of one of the houses, on a little truckle bed, lay a poor woman, old and sick. Her surroundings, poor as they were, were scrupulously clean, and the room tolerably airy, for being at the top of the house (the highest the court could boast of) its little open window let in air. Seated by the bedside on the only chair which the room possessed was a little girl, who from her size appeared seven or eight years of age, although she bore upon her face that look of premature age so noticeable amongst very poor children, more especially girls. On a rickety table standing near the bed were a few slices of dry bread and a cup containing some very weak tea, which the girl now and again held with evident solicitude to the woman’s lips.

‘ Drink some yourself, Nellie,’ said she at last, with an effort, as if talking .pained her. ‘Oh, no, Grannie,’ replied the child, ‘l’m neither hungry nor thirsty. Don’t you know that* kind man

at the milk shop gave me such a nice drink of milk this morning, when he bought those flowers for me. I wanted to bring it home to you, and if he had lent me a jug I would, hut he made me drink it.’ ‘ He saw you were tired, dear,’ the woman said; ‘ but take a piece of bread with you when you go out, for you may get hungry before all your flowers are sold : and I’ll try and sleep whilst you are away.’ Upon this Nellie proceeded to tie up in bunches some cowslips, bluebells, and other field flowers, which were in a basin of water, and arranged them in a little shabby hand-basket. This done, she put on her tattered straw hat, and gently kissing the old woman, who was now asleep, she stole quietly out of the room. A few weeks later a Catholic priest might have been seen returning to his home after an evening spent in making sick calls amongst the poor. His church was the onlv one in the town, and he was the sole

priest. lie was tired and longing for a rest, so that his housekeeper’s words when she opened the door were a little disappointing to him.

1 There’s another sick call for you, Father,’ said, she, 1 and the young man who brought it said he hoped you would go soon.’ ‘ Of course, I’ll go at once, hen ; but where is it?-’ inquired Father Browne. 'ln Recket’s Court, Father; the other end of the town.’ ! Oh, I know the court,’ said the priest; ‘I once visited an old man there, but he is dead, and I did not think there were any Catholics there now. Did tb<?

messenger say the sick person was in danger of death ?’ 1 No, Father, nor did he give a name,’ replied the housekeeper, referring to thp slate on which she had written the address; he only said there was a woman ill at No. 4 Recket’s Court, and he hoped you would go soon.’

In a short time Father Browne had left the house again, and was on his way to Recket’s Court. The town was a very non-Catholic one and dissent was rampant in it, but even those who were the most bigoted in matters of religion felt a respect for the priest who who was so universally known for his kindness and benevolence, not only to his own flock, but also to those outside the Church, so that many a hat was raised, and many a word of greeting spoken to him as he made his way along the streets. It was spring time, but night was coming on, so that when he got to Recket’s Court, which was devoid of lamps, he could not find the number he sought, and had to inquire of a man who was leaning against a door-post smoking his pipe. ‘Oh! this is No. 4,’ replied ho to the question. ‘ Then it was to this house 1 was sent for,’ said Father Browne. ‘ Can you tell me who are Catholics here ?’

‘Catholics,’ echoed the man; ‘there b'aint no Catholics here, leastways I don’t know of none, nor if it come to that not of any other religion neither. Where can such as we find the dress to go to church ? When Sunday come round we’re only too glad for a little bit o’ rest.’

The man said this at intervals with his pipe between his lips, and puffing away as he spoke, and in a sullen, rather rude manner.

‘ But I was sent for, so I suppose there is someone ill in the house,’ said the priest.

1 I don’t know nothing about your being sent for, sir,’ replied the man; ‘and as to sickness, there’s always some one sad, sick, or sorry here : but there’s an old woman up top that’s mortal bad I believe —the child Nellie was crying about her this morning.’ This was enough for Father Browne, ho, after ascertaining which was the poor woman’s room, climbed the stairs to find it.

A knock at the door brought our little friend Nellie, and the priest walked to the bedside of the sick woman, who, to his question if she had sent for him, replied feebly that she had not. ‘ But you are a Catholic, I suppose?’ said Father Browne.

‘ No, sir, I am not ; I belong to no religion in particular, and there’s so many Churches one cannot tell which is the best ; but I ask God every day of my life, oh ! so earnestly, to lead me to do His will ; I want to do it, sir.’

The woman’s long speech had somewhat exhausted her, and the priest waited a few minutes before again addressing her. He then quietly spoke of religion in a general way —of God’s love for His creatures, etc., and not only this, but he inquired into her position, for, from what he saw of her surroundings, he feared that she must be suffering from the direst poverty, and that probably she was needing even food. It was too late then to buy anything, but he told Nellie to come to the presbytery early in the morning, when his housekeeper should have a few things ready for her to take to her grandmother. He then left, after promising at the sick woman’s earnest request to come again next day. His visits after that were frequent, for he here saw a soul longing to be saved, and notwithstanding his first hope that the food and comforts he was now supplying her might eventually restore her to health, he soon saw that her end was not far distant. Her spiritual condition was, however, a great consolation to him. She took in with avidity and childlike confidence all that he taught her; her simple faith was most touching, and when at last, after instructing in all that was necessary, he baptised her and brought her into the true fold, her expressions of gratitude for her

new-found happiness were a cause of great thankfulness to the priest, who had 'been God’s instrument. From time to time he had learned all her circumstances. She had been the wife of a clever, well-to-do workman, but one who had met with evil companions and lost all through drink, so that when he died he left her penniless and she had to support herself as a charwoman, until from age and sickness she lost most of her work, and was at length so reduced as to be compelled to rent that poor little room in the cheapest and worst neighborhood of the town. A neighbor in an ad joining room had been very kind to her and helped her much, although nearly as poor as herself. When this good neighbor died and left her little girl quite destitute and without kith or kin to take her, she had adopted her, though the little one was then only five years old, and needing food, which often she could scarcely give her. his latter part of her history the poor woman scarcely dwelt on, and evidently shrank from mentioning anything that might redound to her credit; but when she came to Nellie’s care of her, then, indeed, she was eloquent. ‘ For didn’t Nellie,’ as she said, provide for her now V —her Grannie, as she had taught her to call her—going out every morning into the fields, when the flowers were in bloom, and making up pretty little nosegays and selling them. And then' when there were no flowers to be had, she would go to the small houses on the outskirts and find employment cleaning doorsteps, running errands, .etc. There never was such another little maiden, by the old woman’s account, ami she loved her as though she were a child of her own. Now that she knew herself to be dying the little girl became her one anxiety. ‘ What would become of her?’

Good Father Browne soon eased her mind in that respect, He had been interesting himself about the child before her Grannie broached the subject, and had found a kind lady amongst his parishioners willing to befriend her. It was not long before this lady came and made friends both with Nellie and the dying woman. Nor did she content herself with one visit, but might have been frequently seen with Father Browne at the poor woman’s bedside, trying to make her last days on earth happy. When the end came she took the half broken-hearted child to her own home.

It was never discovered who brought the sick call, although Father Browne was most indefatigable in his search and inquiries. He at length began to look upon it as miraculous, for he said that if we are to believe that God would send an angel into the desert to baptise, rather than allow an earnest soul to lose salvation, might it not be that this poor woman, striving as she did to do God’s will, was saved in like manner? He used to say that her Angel Guardian was the messenger. —F. C. Davis, in the English Messenyer.