Madge was leaning over the sick boy, holding a glass of water to his lips; and
as she looked round, Mr. Smith thought he had never seen a face so strangely
and sadly altered as hers. It had lost nearly all its childishness—it looked so old,
and womanly, with a weight of care in it that was pitiable to see; and yet, with all
this, it was so calm and still, so composed, that any one would have imagined
that her one thought was how to nurse her patient. And so it was. Madge felt that
a great deal depended upon her fortitude and self-control. Had she lost this, she
could not have attended upon Raymond; and though she was only a weak little
girl in herself, God gave her the strength she needed. She did not spend her time
in idly fretting, or in gloomy thoughts about the future; she just did the duties
that came in her way, one by one, and left the rest trustfully to God.

The Boy-Artist

by – F. M. S.