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Not very long ago a valued friend requested me to visit a young woman, lodging in an alley in Holborn, who was dying of the most painful of all diseases. The small room was delicately clean and neat; and on the little table stood a jar adorned with a few country flowers, the offering of an early friend. By the bedside stood a pale young woman, with a gentle and sympathising countenance, smoothing the sufferer's pillow. It was scarcely whiter than her face; the mouth and chin of which were covered by a cambric handkerchief, to veil the ravages which her terrible disease had made. After a few inquiries of the nurse, I spoke a little to the sufferer; and then remembering that it must seem so easy for one in comparative health to speak to her of the goodness of God, but how much harder it must be for her to believe it, lying there, hour after hour, in anguish, which suffered her scarcely to sleep by night or by day, increasing during the thirteen months past, and leaving no hope of alleviation in the future but by death, I thought it best to tell her all that was passing in my mind. And then I added, "If you can believe that the blessed Saviour, who, when He was on earth, healed all manner of disease with a touch or a word, and who has the same healing power now, yet withholds it from you, does so from some infinitely wise and loving reason, it would do me good to know it. If it be so, will you just lift up your finger in assent?" She raised her pale, transparent hand, and waved it over her head with an expression in her sunken eyes which almost glorified her face. I could not help saying to her, when I could command my voice enough to speak, "I believe that one wave of your hand gives more honour to your Saviour in the sight of all the angels of heaven, than whole years of any little services which He might permit me to render Him, in comparative health and ease; because your faith is so much more severely tried." It seemed a new and delightful thought to her, that patience having its perfect work, would glorify her Saviour. She had just meekly borne, because it was His will. The tears gathered in her eyes, and she made sign for her slate, and wrote upon it, "This makes me so happy. How wonderful and how kind, if He will make glory for Himself out of such a poor creature as me!" Soon after she added, "He has taught me to say of Him, My Beloved is mine, and I am His. He has forgiven all my sins. He loves me freely. He fills me with peace and joy in believing." When her companion came downstairs, I asked her if she tried to go out for a little fresh air sometimes, and had any one to relieve her occasionally of the nursing by night. She said, "I take a turn in the alley to get a little fresh air now and then; but I should not like to leave her for many minutes, nor to be sleeping much, while she is suffering." "Is she your sister?" I inquired. "No, ma'am, we are no relations," was her answer; "we were fellow-servants together at an hotel in the West End. And once, when I was ill, she nursed me very kindly; so when this terrible illness came on her, I could not let her leave her place alone to go among strangers — for she's an orphan; so I left with her." "And may I venture to ask, how are you both supported?" "She had saved a good bit, which lasted some time; and now I have still some left of my own savings whilst I was a housemaid." "A housemaid! a queen!" I thought to myself, and could have laid down my hand for her to walk over, and felt it honoured by her touch. That woman of a royal heart sent me through London that day feeling the whole world better, because I had met with such an instance of disinterested, self-sacrificing love. One word revealed its inner secret. "We are as good as sisters," she said; "we both know that our Saviour loves us, and we love Him, and want to love Him better."

(English Hearts and English Hands.)

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KJV: We then that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please ourselves.

WEB: Now we who are strong ought to bear the weaknesses of the weak, and not to please ourselves.