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<p>"A strange, sad providence!" sighed one of a company of mourners, assembled to pay the last tribute of respect and affection to a departed sister, who had been cut down in the very flower of womanhood, and at a time when a thousand of the tenderest ties were binding her to the earth. "What a <em>strange, sad, mysterious </em>providence!"<br><br>
"Strange and sad enough," was the sober response. "Ah, me! the ways of Him who sits amid clouds and shadows are dark and impenetrable. She was a thoughtful, loving mother."<br><br>
"None could have been more so," answered the first speaker.<br><br>
"And her little ones need her care now, perhaps, more than they will ever need it again. Tender, innocent lambs! the <em>chilling winds </em>will blow too roughly upon them."<br><br>
"Ah, me! it is strange! very strange?" added the other. "I cannot comprehend it. Why should God remove a true-hearted mother from the guardianship of her children?"<br><br>
"Often have I asked myself that question; but there has come no satisfactory reply."<br><br>
But, while these friends of the departed one are vainly striving to <em>penetrate this mysterious providence</em>, let us glance back a little, and see if some incidents in her life will not throw light upon the subject.<br><br>
It was an evening in early spring. The day was warm for the season; so warm that the lingering fires of the departed winter oppressed the atmosphere, and the windows and doors were, in consequence, thrown open to admit the fresher air without.<br><br>
It was early in the evening, and Mrs. Carlton, a bride of a few weeks, had seated herself at an open window, with her neck and shoulders bared to the in-pressing air, that came cool and loaded with vapor.<br><br>
"Why, Clara!" exclaimed Mr. Carlton, on entering the room, and seeing the exposed condition of his thoughtless young wife. "How imprudent you are!" And he came forward quickly to close the window.<br><br>
"Oh, don't shut it down, don't!" interposed Clara. "The air is so refreshing!"<br><br>
There was a slight huskiness in her voice as she spoke, which was perceived by her husband, who, without hesitating, closed the windows, remarking, as he did so —<br><br>
"It is wrong to expose yourself in this way, Clara, dear; you might take a cold that would cost you your life."<br><br>
Mr. Carlton spoke seriously, and he felt as he spoke.<br><br>
"Oh, dear, no!" lightly returned the young bride. "I'm not so tender as that. Fresh air will never kill me."<br><br>
"No, not dry, fresh air, blowing upon your hands and face. But this evening the atmosphere is loaded with humidity, and you have thrown your handkerchief from your neck. Already I can perceive that you have taken cold."<br><br>
But Mrs. Carlton made light of her husband's concern, and, soon after, went and stood in the door without protecting her neck and shoulders with a shawl or handkerchief. The consequences were such as might have been naturally expected. On the next morning she had a cough, with slight febrile symptoms, and a pain and soreness in her chest. Her form being slight, her chest somewhat narrow, and her constitution by no means robust, the effects of this cold were more painfully marked than is ordinarily the case in such forms of indisposition. Several weeks passed before she recovered from its effects; or, we might say, from its apparent effects — the seeds of disease, which had been sown in her system, remained.<br><br>
A few weeks later, at a large party given to Mrs. Carlton by a friend, as a bridal party, she danced till nearly two o'clock, notwithstanding a slight indisposition which had manifested itself early on the previous day. Moreover, she ate several times of rich cake, and other indigestible things, drank wine, and, to add the last "pound to the camel's back," took freely of coffee and oysters at the close of the party.<br><br>
On the morning that followed, in attempting to rise about ten o'clock, she felt a sharp pain through her left temple. Soon followed an attack of dim-sightedness, accompanied by a sense of numbness in her tongue and along one of her arms. Faintness and a deathly sickness succeeded; and Mrs. Carlton threw herself back upon her pillow with a groan. For hours she suffered from this sickness, which was accompanied by a most distressing pain through her left eye, that went deeply boring into her temple. When, at length, under the active treatment of a physician — which active treatment was added to the exhausting effects of the sickness — the violence of the attack abated, Mrs. Carlton was in a low, weak, nervous state, from which she did not recover for some time. The least exertion was accompanied by a tremor and feeling of lassitude.<br><br>
Undeterred by this serious reaction upon a delicate constitution, Mrs. Carlton, in the face of warning and remonstrance on the part of her husband, continued to expose herself to cold, damp airs, while unprotected with proper clothing; and to over-fatigue, when tempted by the allurements of pleasure. And thus it went on, from month to month, and from year to year, her frame gradually losing its vigor, and the beautiful freshness of her young cheeks fading away into a sickly paleness. Yet, strange to say, Mrs. Carlton was as little mindful of her health as before, and expressed herself with impatience when her husband sought to check her imprudence.<br><br>
Three days after Mrs. Carlton's first sweet babe saw the light, her husband, on returning home, found her sitting up in bed and hem-stitching a fine cambric handkerchief.<br><br>
"Why, Clara!" he exclaimed. "Isn't that very imprudent?"<br><br>
"Oh, dear, no!" she returned. "I feel almost as well as ever I did. And it's impossible for me to lie here and do nothing."<br><br>
"It is very imprudent, Mr. Carlton," said the nurse, seriously. "I have tried my best to induce her to remain perfectly quiet. But she will not listen to me. It will be all the worse for her. I've known many a woman to shorten her life by just such conduct as this."<br><br>
"Come! Give me that work." And as Mr, Carlton said this, in a firm voice, he took the sewing from his wife's hands, and then, with a gentle pressure, forced her back upon the pillow. This done, he added —<br><br>
"How can you be so thoughtless, Clara? Are health and life of so little value, that you hold them in light estimation?"<br><br>
"Oh, dear! You're always croaking about health," returned Mrs. Carlton, in a half playful, half serious manner. "I'm well enough. It's all nonsense to keep me lying here."<br><br>
"No, madam; take my word for it, that it is not," spoke up the nurse. "Upon perfect quiet, freedom from excitement, and bodily exertion, depends your future health. Disregard the injunction of your physician — he spoke very plainly to you today — and you not only shorten your life, but mar your happiness by bodily pain and self-upbraidings, during the brief years that are left to you."<br><br>
The manner as well as the words of the nurse rather startled the imprudent young mother, and she turned to where her sleeping babe lay by her side, and, taking it in her arms, drew it with an emotion of tenderness to her bosom.<br><br>
On the next morning, it was with Mrs. Carlton as the nurse had told her, over and over again, it would be. This over-exertion had produced fever, and she was so sick, that she could not raise herself from her pillow. When the doctor came, and saw her condition, he looked sober, and rather sharply reproved the nurse, on learning the cause of this change, for having permitted his patient to do herself so serious an injury.<br><br>
A day or two elapsed, and the worst symptoms abated; but Mrs. Carlton remained very weak, and could only sit up in her bed for a few minutes at a time. After that, her strength began to return, but it came back slowly. Imprudent as before, she over-exerted herself at every stage of her convalescence, so that at the time when full health should have been regained, she was yet a drooping invalid.<br><br>
And so it went on. The wife and mother, upon whose life and health hung the comfort and happiness of the dearest objects in life, continued, almost daily, to violate the commonest laws of physical health; and daily, in consequence, was she undermining the foundations of health.<br><br>
Five years have elapsed since Mrs. Carlton became a mother; and again she has given birth to a lovely babe, the third that has blessed her union.<br><br>
Four days have elapsed since the birth of this child, and, earlier by some hours than is usual for him, Mr. Carlton has returned from business. He has walked the streets hurriedly, and his face wears an anxious expression. As he enters, he meets the doctor, who is just leaving.<br><br>
"How is Mrs. Carlton?" he asks, in a voice of concern.<br><br>
The doctor looks serious and shakes his head.<br><br>
"No worse, I hope!"<br><br>
"She is no better."<br><br>
"There seemed to be a favorable change at dinner-time."<br><br>
"So there was, but — "<br><br>
There is a pause. The doctor adds — "But she would get up for a little while, insisting that she felt strong enough to do so. In consequence, all her worst symptoms have returned, and we have now everything to fear. Keep her very quiet, as you value her life. I will come around again before nine o'clock."<br><br>
A long, tremulous sigh comes up from the oppressed and troubled bosom of Mr. Carlton, and he passes up to the sick chamber of his wife. He starts, and a cold fear runs through his veins, as his eyes rest upon her countenance, for he sees therein a great change. There is a deeper shadow upon it; and his stricken heart tells him that it has fallen from the wing of death. With his lips he touches her forehead — it is cold and clammy, and he almost startles at the chilling contact. He takes her thin and colorless hand — it, too, is cold. With a strong effort he masters his feelings, lest their exhibition should disturb, and thus injure his wife, in whose pulses life was beating with but a feeble motion.<br><br>
The hours pass on. There is a stillness through the house, for the inhabitants speak to each other in low whispers, or walk through the rooms and passages stealthily and noiselessly. Alas! hope had failed. The wife and mother is about to die. Hark! She is uttering something in a low, murmuring voice, and a sudden light has flashed over her face. What does she say?<br><br>
"My children!"<br><br>
She is looking around, eagerly.<br><br>
One by one they are brought to her. Willy — sweet-faced, bright-eyed, loving-hearted Willy — is lifted, sleeping, from his little bed, and laid beside his dying mother. Grace, with her long, dark lashes resting upon her sweet young cheeks, and all unconscious of the sad loss she is about to sustain, is held for her to impress a last kiss on lips and brow and cheek; and then the feeble infant, to which she gave birth a few days before, and towards which her mother's heart is yearning with a most intense affection, is laid against her bosom. A little while she looks upon these <em>treasures of her heart</em>, and then lifts her tearful eyes to the face of her husband. Her lips quiver for a moment, and then come forth, sobbing, the words —<br><br>
"Oh, how can I leave you all! Who will be a mother to my children? — who will love them as I love them? Oh! it is hard! It is hard!"<br><br>
Her lids have closed, and her voice has sunk into silence. But tears glisten on her cheeks, and the expression of her pale face is sad beyond conception.<br><br>
For half an hour a stillness like that of death broods over the chamber; and now the last struggle has come. The overtried and overworked physical system can no longer react upon the life of the spirit, and death quickly closes the brief earthly existence of one who hoped to live for her husband and children, yet committed, daily, some act of violence against the unchanging laws of health.<br><br>
There is a bereaved husband and three motherless children left in the hushed and lonely house. "What a strange, sad providence!" This is said on every side.<br><br>
Is it strange? Was it Providence?<br><br>
Let the reader glance back at the brief history of Mrs. Carlton, and answer these questions for himself.<br>
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