It was a clear, bright, frosty morning in the middle of winter. The frost made the sparkling snow crisp under the feet of many who were wending their way to the chapels and churches, for it was Sunday morning.
For some weeks I had been in the habit of visiting a little girl whose name was Kate. Kate was very sick, and the doctor told her she would surely die. For this reason her friends were the more anxious that she should come to Jesus, and trust Him as her Saviour. But, alas! when they spoke to her of the blessed Son of God coming down from heaven to this world because He loved little children, she would only turn away her head, and look out of the window; and though she was always ready and willing to talk about her toys and books, or the weather, or about the horses and dogs that passed along the street, yet the moment the loving Saviour’s name was mentioned, and she was told of His kindness to her in allowing Himself to be scourged, and spit upon, and crowned with thorns for her sake, she did not then care to listen any longer. No; she seemed quite indifferent to the story of Christ being nailed to the cruel cross, and suffering there for her sake. No, not a single tear did she shed, and not a sile “thanks” escaped Kate’s lips to Jesus, the Friend, and Shepherd, and Saviour of all those who trust in Him.
At last came the frosty Sunday morning of which I spoke, and I went as usual to ask how little Kate was that cold day. I pushed open the gate, which the snow had almost blocked up, and then I knocked at the door; the kind old nurse who was taking care of her came down herself to open the door for me. I asked her, “How is ... ?”
She knew, before I finished my sentence or spoke her name, who it was I was inquiring for; and shaking her head as the tears ran down her cheeks, she said,
“O, sir, she’s gone.”
“What!” I said, “do you mean Kate is dead?”
“Yes, sir; she died this morning between two and three hours ago.”
“Well,” I inquired, “what did she say at the last? Was her heart melted by the Saviour’s love?”
“No, no, indeed there was nothing happy in her death; it was an awful scene; her last words were, as she startled in bed and threw up her wasted hands,
‘O, what shall I do? what shall I do?’”
Such were the dying words of little Kate, and yet how often she had been told,
“Nothing either great or small,
Nothing, sinner, no;
Jesus did it, did it all,
Long, long ago!”
ML 12/10/1944