'Oh, it's nothing, I should think,' said she; 'it will be some one who has arrived by the train, and has come to the wrong door.'
Whilst they were talking, the bell rang again, more violently than before, and Betsey Ann opened the door. It was a dark night, but she could see a man standing on the doorstep.
'Is this Mrs. Joyce's?' he inquired.
'Yes,' said the girl; 'she lives here.'
'Then she's wanted,' said the man; 'tell her to be quick and come.'
'What's the matter?' asked Rosalie.
'It's an accident,' said the man. 'He's in the hospital, is her husband; he's been run over by a van. I'll take her there if she'll be quick; I'm a mate of Joyce's, and I was passing at the time.'
Rosalie stood as if she had been stunned, unable to speak or move, whilstBetsey Ann went upstairs to tell her mistress.
'It's all along of that drink,' said the man, more as if talking to himself than to Rosalie. 'It's an awful thing is drink. He never saw the van nor heard it, but rolled right under the wheels. I was passing by, I was, and I said to myself, "That's Joyce." So I followed him to the infirmary, and came to tell his wife. Dear me! it's a bad job, it is.'
In a few minutes Mrs. Augustus Joyce came downstairs dressed to go out. Rosalie ran up to her and begged to go with her, but she was ordered to go back to bed, and her stepmother hastened out with the man.
What a long night that seemed to Rosalie! How she longed for morning to dawn, and lay awake straining her ears for any sound which might tell her that her stepmother had returned.
At length, as the grey morning light was stealing into the room, the door-bell rang again, and Betsey Ann went to open the door for her mistress. Rosalie felt as if she did not dare to go downstairs to hear what had happened.
Presently the slipshod shoes came slowly upstairs, and Betsey Ann came into the attic.
'Tell me,' said the child, 'what is it?'
'He's dead,' said Betsey Ann solemnly; 'he was dead when she got there; he never knew nothing after the wheels went over him. Isn't it awful, though?'
Little Rosalie could not speak and could not cry; she sat quite still and motionless.
What of her father's soul? That was the thought uppermost in her mind. Oh, where was he now? Was his soul safe? Could she have any hope, even the faintest, that he was with her mother in the bright home above?
It was a terrible end to Augustus Joyce's ungodly and sinful life. Cut off in the midst of his sins, with no time for repentance, no time to take his heavy load of guilt to the Saviour, whose love he had scorned and rejected. Oh, how often had he been called and invited by the Good Shepherd's voice of love! but he would not hearken, and now it was too late.
It was the day after her father's funeral. Rosalie was busily engaged sweeping the high staircase, when her stepmother came out of the dingy parlour, and called to the child to come down.
As soon as Rosalie entered the room, Mrs. Joyce told her to shut the door, and then asked her in a sharp voice how long she intended to stop in her house.
'I don't know, ma'am,' said Rosalie timidly.
'Then you ought to know,' returned Mrs. Joyce. 'I suppose you don't expect me to keep you, and do for you? You're nothing to me, you know.'
'No,' said Rosalie; 'I know I'm not.'
'So I thought I'd better tell you at once,' she said,'that you might know what to expect. I'm going to speak to the workhouse about you—that's the best place for you now; they'll make you like hard work, and get a good place for you, like Betsey Ann.'
'Oh no!' said Rosalie quickly; 'no, I don't want to go there.'
'Don't want?' repeated Mrs. Joyce; 'I daresay you don't want; but beggars can't be choosers, you know. If you'd been a nice, smart, strong girl, I might have kept you instead of Betsey Ann; but a little puny thing like you wouldn't be worth her salt. No, no, miss; your fine days are over; to the house you'll go, sure as I'm alive.'
'Please, ma'am,' began Rosalie, 'my mother, I think, had some relations'—
'Rubbish, child!' said her stepmother, interrupting her. 'I never heard of your mother having any relations; I don't believe she had any, or if she had, they're not likely to have anything to say to you. No, no; the workhouse is the place for you, and I shall take care you go to it before you're a day older. Be off now, and finish the stairs.'
'Betsey Ann,' said Rosalie, as they went upstairs together that night, long after every one else in that large house was fast asleep—'Betsey Ann, dear Betsey Ann, I'm going away!'
'La, bless me!' said Betsey Ann; 'what do you say?'
'I'm going away to-morrow, dear!' whispered Rosalie; 'so come into my attic, and I'll tell you all about it.'
The two girls sat down on the bed, and Rosalie told Betsey Ann what her stepmother had said to her, and how she could not make up her mind to go into the workhouse, but had settled to leave the lodging-house before breakfast the next morning, and never to come back any more.
'But, Rosalie,' said Betsey Ann, 'whatever will you do?
You can't live on air, child; you'll die if you go away like that!'
'Look here,' said Rosalie, in a very low whisper, 'I can trust you, BetseyAnn, and I'll show you something.'
She put her hand in her bosom, and brought out a little parcel, and when she had opened it she handed the locket to Betsey Ann.
'La, how beautiful!' said the girl; 'I never saw it before.'
'No,' said Rosalie. 'I promised my mammie I would never lose it; and I've been so afraid lest some one should see it, and take it from me.'
'Whoever is this pretty little lady, Rosalie?'
'She's my mammie's sister. Oh, such a good, kind lady! That is her picture when she was quite young: she is married now, and has a little girl of her own. So now I'll tell you all about it,' said Rosalie. 'Just before my mammie died, she gave me that locket, and she said, if ever I had an opportunity, I was to go to my Aunt Lucy. She wrote a letter for me to take with me, to say who I am, and to ask my Aunt Lucy to be kind to me.
'Here's the letter,' said the child, taking it out of the parcel; 'that's my mammie's writing.
"MRS. LESLIE, Melton Parsonage."
Didn't she write beautifully?'
'Well, but Rosalie,' said Betsey Ann, 'what do you mean to do?'
'I mean to go to my Aunt Lucy, dear, and give her the letter.'
'She'll never let you go, Rosalie; it's no use trying. She said you should go to the workhouse, and she'll keep her word!'
'Yes, I know she'll never give me leave,' said Rosalie; 'so I'm going to-morrow morning before breakfast. She doesn't get up till eleven, and I shall be far away then.'
'But, Rosalie, do you know your way?'
'No,' said the child wearily; 'I shall have to ask, I suppose. How far isPendleton from here, Betsey Ann? Do you know?'
'Yes,' said Betsey Ann; 'there was a woman in the workhouse came from there. She often told us of how she walked the distance on a cold, snowy day; it's fourteen or fifteen miles, I think.'
'Well, that's the town,' said Rosalie, 'where the old man gave me my picture; and it was the first village we passed through after that where my Aunt Lucy lived. Melton must be about five miles farther than Pendleton.'
'Oh, Rosalie,' said Betsey Ann, 'that's near upon twenty miles! You'll never be able to walk all that way!'
'Oh yes,' said the child; 'I must try; because if once I get there—oh,Betsey Ann, just think—if once I get there, to my own dear Aunt Lucy!'
But Betsey Ann buried her face in her hands and began to sob.
'La, bless you, it's all right!' she said, as Rosalie tried to comfort her; 'you'll be happy there, and it will be all right. But, oh dear me! to think I've got to stay here without you!'
'Poor Betsey Ann!' said the child, as she laid her little hand on the girl's rough hair; 'what can I do?'
'Oh, I know it's all right, Rosalie; it's better than seeing you go to the workhouse; but I didn't think it would come so soon. Can't you tell the Good Shepherd, Rosalie, and ask Him to look after me a bit, when you're gone?'
'Yes, dear,' said the child; 'let us tell Him now.'
So they knelt down, hand in hand, on the attic floor, and Rosalie prayed—
'Oh, Good Shepherd, I am going away; please take care of Betsey Ann, and comfort her, and help her to do right, and never let her feel lonely or unhappy. And please take care of me, and bring me safe to my Aunt Lucy. And if Betsey Ann and I never meet again in this world, please may we meet in heaven. Amen.'
Then they rose from their knees comforted, and began to make preparations for Rosalie's departure.
She would take very little with her, for she had so far to walk that she could not carry much. She filled a very small bag with the things that she needed most; and wrapped her little Testament up, and put it in the centre, with the small pair of blue shoes which had belonged to her little brother. Her picture, too, was not forgotten, nor the card with the hymn upon it. When all was ready, they went to bed, but neither of them could sleep much that night.
As soon as it was light, Rosalie prepared to start. She wrapped herself in her mother's warm shawl, for it was a raw, chilly morning, and took her little bag in her hand. Then she went into Betsey Ann's attic to say good-bye.
'What am I to tell the missis, when she asks where you've gone?' said the girl.
'You can say, dear, that I've gone to my mother's relations, and am not coming back any more. She won't ask any more, if you say that; she'll only be too glad to get rid of me. But I'd rather she didn't know where my Aunt Lucy lives; so don't say anything about it, please, Betsey Ann, unless you're obliged.'
The girl promised, and then with many tears they took leave of each other.
Just as Rosalie was starting, and Betsey Ann was opening the door for her, she caught sight of something very black and soft under the child's large shawl.
'La, bless me!' she cried; 'what's that?'
'It's only the poor little kit,' said Rosalie; 'I couldn't leave her behind. She took a piece of fish the other day, and the mistress was so angry, and is going to give her poison. She said last night she would poison my kit to-day. She called out after me as I went out of the room, "Two pieces of rubbish got rid of in one day. To-morrowyoushall go to the workhouse, and that wretched little thief of a kitten shall be poisoned." And then she laughed, Betsey Ann. So I couldn't leave my dear little kit behind, could I?' and Rosalie stroked its black fur very lovingly as she spoke.
'But how will you ever carry it, Rosalie? It won't be good all that way, rolled up like that.'
'Oh, I shall manage, dear. It will walk a bit when we get in the country; it follows me just like a dog.'
'And what are you going to eat on the way, Rosalie? Let me fetch you a bit of something out of the pantry.'
'Oh no, dear!' said Rosalie decidedly; 'I won't take anything, because it isn't mine. But I have a piece of bread that I saved from breakfast, and I have twopence which my father gave me once, so I shall manage till I get there.'
So Rosalie went out into the great world alone, and Betsey Ann stood at the door to watch her go down the street. Over and over again did Rosalie come back to say good-bye, over and over again did she turn round to kiss her hand to the poor little servant-girl, who was watching her down the street. And then when she turned the corner, and could no longer see Betsey Ann's friendly face, Rosalie felt really alone. The streets looked very wide and dismal then, and Rosalie felt that she was only a little girl, and had no one to take care of her. And then she looked up to the blue sky, and asked the Good Shepherd to help her, and to bring her safely to her journey's end.
It was about six o'clock when Rosalie started, the men were going to their work, and were hurrying quickly past her. Rosalie did not like to stop any of them to ask them the way, they seemed too busy to have time to speak to her. She ventured timidly to put the question to a boy of fifteen, who was sauntering along, whistling, with his hands in his pockets; but he only laughed, and asked her why she wanted to know. So Rosalie walked on, very much afraid that after all she might be walking in the wrong direction. She next asked some children on a doorstep; but they were frightened at being spoken to, and ran indoors.
Then Rosalie went up to an old woman who was opening her shutters, and asked her if she would be so very good as to tell her the way to Pendleton.
'What, my dear?' said the old woman. 'Speak up. I'm deaf.'
But though Rosalie stood on tiptoe to reach up to her ear, and shouted again and again, she could not make the old woman hear, and at last had to give it up, and go on her way. She was feeling very lonely now, poor child, not knowing which way to turn, or to whom to go for help. True, there wore many people in the street, but they were walking quickly along, and Rosalie was discouraged by her unsuccessful attempts, and afraid to stop them. She had come some way from the street in which she had lived with her stepmother, and had never been in this part of the town before. She was feeling very faint and hungry, from having come so far before breakfast; but she did not like to eat her one piece of bread, for she would need it so much more later in the day. But she broke off a small piece and gave it to the poor hungry little kit, which was mewing under her shawl.
'Oh,' thought Rosalie, 'if I only had some one to help me just now-some one to show me where to go, and what to do!'
There was a story which the child had read in her little Testament, which came suddenly into her mind just then. It was a story of the Good Shepherd when He was on earth. The story told how He sent two of His disciples into the city of Jerusalem to find a place for Him and them, where they might eat the Passover. The two men did not know to which house to go; they did not know who, in the great city of Jerusalem, would be willing to give a room. But Jesus told them that as soon as they came inside the city gate they would see a man walking before them. He told them the man would be carrying a pitcher of water; and that when they saw this man, they were to follow him, and go down just the same streets as he did. He told them that by and by the man would stop in front of a house, and go into the house, and then, when they saw him go in, they were to know that that was the right house, the house in which they were to eat the Passover.
Rosalie remembered this story now, as she stood at the corner of a street, not knowing which way to turn. How she wished that a man with a pitcher of water would appear and walk in front of her, that she might know which way to go! But though she looked up and down the street, she saw no one at all like the man in the story. There were plenty of men, but none of them had pitchers, nor did they seem at all likely to guide her into the right way.
But the Good Shepherd was the same, Rosalie thought, as kind now as He was then, so she spoke to Him in her heart, in a very earnest little prayer.
'Oh, Good Shepherd, please send me a man with a pitcher of water to show me the way, for I am very unhappy, and I don't know what to do. Amen.'
Rosalie had shut her eyes as she said her little prayer; and when she opened them she saw before her a little girl about five years old, in a very clean print frock and white pinafore, with a pitcher in her hand. Rosalie almost felt as if she had fallen from heaven. She was not a man, to be sure, and the pitcher was filled full of milk, and not water; yet it seemed very strange that she should come up just then.
The little girl was gazing up into Rosalie's face, and wondering why she was shutting her eyes. As soon as Rosalie opened them, she said—
'Please, will you open our shop-door for me? I'm afraid of spilling the milk.'
Rosalie turned round, and behind where she was standing was a very small shop. In the window were children's slates and slate-pencils, with coloured paper twisted round them, and a few wooden tops, and balls of string, and little boxes of ninepins, and a basket full of marbles, and pink and blue shuttlecocks. It was a very quiet little shop indeed, and it looked as if very few customers ever entered it. The slate-pencils and battledores and marbles looked as if they had stood in exactly the same places long before the little girl was born.
Rosalie lifted the latch and opened the door of the little shop for the child to go in. And the little pitcher went in before her.
Rosalie felt sure she must follow it, and that here she would find some one to tell her the way.
'Popsey,' said a voice from the next room—'little Popsey, is that you?'
'Yes, grannie,' said the child; 'and I've not spilt a drop—not one single drop, grannie.'
'What a good, clever little Popsey!' said grannie, coming out of the back parlour to take the milk from the child's hands.
'Please, ma'am,' said Rosalie, seizing the opportunity, 'would you be so very kind as to tell me the way to Pendleton?'
'Yes, to be sure,' said the old woman. 'You're not far wrong here; take the first turn to the right, and you'll find yourself on the Pendleton road.'
'Oh, thank you very much,' said Rosalie. 'Is it a very long way toPendleton, please, ma'am?'
'Ay, my dear,' said the old woman; 'it's a good long step—Popsey, take the milk in to grandfather, he's waiting breakfast—it's a good long way to Pendleton, my dear, maybe fourteen or fifteen miles.'
'Oh dear! that sounds a very long way!' said Rosalie.
'Who wants to go there, my dear?' asked the old woman.
'I want to go,' said Rosalie sorrowfully.
'You want to go, child? Why, who are you going with? and how are you going?You're surely not going to walk?'
'Yes, I am,' said Rosalie. 'Thank you, ma'am; I must walk as fast as I can.'
'Why, you don't look fit to go, I'm sure!' said the old woman; 'such a poor little weakly thing as you look! Whatever is your mother about, to let you go?'
'I haven't got a mother!' said Rosalie, bursting into tears; 'she's dead, is my mother. I haven't got a mother any more.'
'Don't cry, my poor lamb!' said the old woman, wiping her eyes with her apron. 'Popsey hasn't got a mother neither—her mother's dead; she lives with us, does Popsey. Maybe your grandmother lives in Pendleton; does she?'
'No,' said Rosalie; 'I'm going to my mother's sister, who lives in a village near Pendleton. I was to have gone to the workhouse to-day, but I think perhaps she'll take care of me, if I only can get there.'
'Poor lamb!' said the old woman; 'what a way you have to go! Have you had your breakfast yet? You look fit to faint.'
'No,' said Rosalie; 'I have a piece of bread in my bag, but I was keeping it till I got out of the town.'
'Jonathan,' called out the old woman, 'come here.'
Rosalie could hear a chair being pushed from the table on the stone floor in the kitchen, and the next moment a little old man came into the shop, with spectacles on his nose, a blue handkerchief tied round his neck, and a black velvet waistcoat.
'Look ye here, Jonathan,' said his wife, 'did you ever hear the like? Here's this poor lamb going to walk all the way to Pendleton, and never had a bite of nothing all this blessed day! What do you say to that, Jonathan?'
'I say,' said the old man, 'that breakfast's all ready, and the coffee will be cold.'
'Yes; so do I, Jonathan,' said the old woman; 'so come along, child, and have a sup before you start.'
The next minute found Rosalie seated by the round table in the little back kitchen, with a cup of steaming coffee and a slice of hot cake before her. Such a cosy little kitchen it was, with a bright fire burning in the grate, and another hot cake standing on the top of the oven, to be kept hot until it was wanted. The fireirons shone like silver, and everything in the room was as neat and clean and bright as it was possible for them to be.
Popsey was sitting on a high chair between the old man and woman, and the pitcher of milk was just in front of her; she had been pouring some of it into her grandfather's coffee.
The old man was very attentive to Rosalie, and wanted her to eat of everything on the table. He had heard what she had told the old woman in the shop, for the kitchen was so near that every word could be heard distinctly.
But before Rosalie would eat a morsel herself, she said, looking up in the old woman's face, 'Please, ma'am, may my little kit have something to eat? it's so very, very hungry.'
'Your little kit?' exclaimed the old woman. 'Why, what do you mean, child?Where is it?'
But the kitten answered this question by peeping out from the child's shawl. They were all very much astonished to see it; but when Rosalie told its story, and the old woman heard that it was motherless, like Popsey, it received a warm welcome. The pitcher of milk was emptied for the hungry kitten, and when its breakfast was over, it sat purring in front of the bright fire.
It was a very cosy little party, and they all enjoyed themselves very much. Rosalie thought she had never tasted such good cakes, nor drunk such delicious coffee. Popsey was delighted with the kitten, and wanted to give all her breakfast to it.
When breakfast was over, Popsey got down from her high chair and went to a chest of drawers, which stood in a corner near the fireplace. It was a very old-fashioned chest of drawers, and on the top of it were arranged some equally old-fashioned books. In the middle of these was a large well-worn family Bible.
Popsey put a chair against the chest of drawers, and, standing on tiptoe on it, brought down the Bible from its place. It was almost as much as she could lift, but she put both her arms round it, and carried it to her grandfather. The old man cleared a space for it on the table, and laid it before him. Then, looking up at the old woman, he said—
'Are you ready, grandmother?'
To which the old woman answered, 'Yes, Jonathan, quite ready;' and pushed her chair a little way from the table, and folded her arms. Rosalie followed her example and did the same. Popsey had seated herself on a wooden stool at her grandfather's feet.
Then there was a pause, in which the old man took an extra pair of spectacles from a leathern case, fixed them on his nose, and turned over the leaves of his Bible. And then, when he had found his place, he began to read a psalm. The psalm might have been chosen on purpose for Rosalie; she almost started when the old man began—
'The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want.'
That was the first verse of the psalm; and it went on to tell how the Shepherd leads His sheep into green pastures, and makes them to lie down beside still waters; and how the sheep need fear no evil, for He is with them; His rod and His staff they comfort them.
Then, when he had finished reading, the old man offered up a very suitable little prayer, in which Rosalie and Popsey were both named, and committed to the Shepherd's care.
And then, when they rose from their knees, Rosalie felt it was high time she should go on her journey. But the old woman would not hear of her going till she had wrapped up all that was left of the cake in a little parcel, and slipped it into the child's bag. After this, they all three—the old man, the old woman, and Popsey—went to the door to see Rosalie start.
Popsey could hardly tear herself from the kitten, and the old woman could not make up her mind to stop kissing Rosalie. But at length the good-byes were over, and the child set off once more on her travels, feeling warmed and comforted and strengthened.
It was about eight o'clock now, so there was no time to lose. She easily found the Pendleton road, and the old man had directed her when she found it to go straight on, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, till she reached Pendleton itself. She would pass through several villages, he said, but she was not to turn aside in any direction. So Rosalie had no further anxiety about the way she was to go. All she had to do was to walk along as quickly as possible.
The first part of the road lay through the outskirts of the town; on either side of the way were rows of red-brick houses and small shops, and every now and then a patch of field or garden.
By degrees the houses and shops became fewer, and the patches of field and garden became more numerous.
And then, after a time, the houses disappeared altogether, and there was nothing on both sides of the road but fields and gardens.
The sun was shining now, and the hedges were covered with wild roses. Over Rosalie's head there was a lark singing in mid-air, and by the side of the path grew the small pink flowers of the wild convolvulus. Rosalie could not help stopping to gather some sprays of this, and to twist them round her hat. It was so many months since she had seen any flowers; and they brought the old days back to her, when Toby used to put her down from the caravan, that she might gather the flowers for her mother.
For the first few miles Rosalie enjoyed her walk very much, everything was so bright and pleasant. Every now and then she put the kitten on the ground, and it ran by her side.
Then the child sat on a bank and ate the cake which Popsey's grandmother had given her. And the little black kit had Benjamin's share of the little entertainment.
But as the day went on the poor little kit became tired, and would walk no more; and Rosalie grew tired also. Her feet went very slowly now, and she felt afraid that night would come on long before she reached Pendleton. Then the sun was hidden by clouds, and wind began to sweep through the trees, and blew against the child, so that she could hardly make any way against it.
And then came the rain, only a few drops at first, then quicker and quicker, till Rosalie's shawl became wet through, and her clothes clung heavily to her ankles. Still on she walked, very heavily and wearily, and the rain poured on, and the kitten shivered under the shawl. Rosalie did her very best to keep it warm, and every now and then she stroked its wet fur, and spoke a word of comfort to it.
How wearily the child's little feet pressed on, as she struggled against the cold and piercing wind!
How would she ever reach the town? How would she ever hold on till she arrived at her Aunt Lucy's?
Rosalie was almost in despair, almost ready to give up and sit down by the roadside, when she heard a sound behind her. It was the rumbling sound of wheels, and in another minute Rosalie saw coming up to her two large caravans, so [Illustration: A REST BY THE WAYSIDE.]
[Blank Page] like the caravan in which she used to travel with her mother, that the child felt as if she were dreaming as she looked at them.
The caravans were painted a brilliant yellow, just as her father's caravans used to be; and there were muslin curtains and pink bows in the little windows, just like those through which she had so often peeped.
When the caravans came up to Rosalie, she saw a woman standing at the door of the first one, and talking to the man who was driving.
The woman caught sight of the child as soon as they overtook her.
'Halloa!' she called out; 'where are you off to?'
'Please,' said Rosalie, 'I'm going to Pendleton, if only I can get there.'
'Give her a lift, John Thomas,' said the woman; 'give the child a lift.It's an awful day to be struggling along against wind and storm.'
'All right,' said John Thomas, pulling up; 'I've no objections, if the lass likes to get in.'
Rosalie was very grateful indeed for this offer, and climbed at once into the caravan.
The woman opened the door for her, and took off her wet shawl as she went in.
'Why, you've got a kitten there!' she said as she did so. 'Wherever are you taking it to? it's half drowned with the rain.'
'Yes, poor little kit!' said Rosalie; 'I must try to dry it, it is so cold!'
'Well, I'll make a place for both of you near the fire,' said the woman, 'if only my children will get out of the way.'
Rosalie looked in vain for any children in the caravan; but the woman pointed to a large black dog, a pigeon, and a kitten, which were sitting together on the floor.
'Come, Skirrywinks,' said the woman, addressing herself to the kitten; 'come to me.'
As soon as she said 'Skirrywinks,' the kitten, which had appeared to be asleep before, lifted up its head and jumped on her knee. The great black dog was ordered to the other end of the caravan, and the pigeon perched upon the dog's head.
Then the woman gave Rosalie a seat near the little stove, and the child warmed her hands and dried and comforted her poor little kitten. No words can tell how thankful she was for this help on her way. She felt sure that John Thomas must be a man with a pitcher of water, sent to help her on her journey.
For some time the woman leant out of the caravan, continuing her conversation with her husband, and Rosalie was able to look about her. The inside of the caravan was very like that in which she had been born, and had lived so many years. There was a little cooking-stove, just like that which her mother had used; and in the corner was a large cupboard, filled with cups and saucers and plates, just like the one which Rosalie herself had arranged so often. But what struck her more than anything else was that on the side of the caravan was nailed up her picture, the picture of the Good Shepherd and the sheep.
It was exactly the same picture, and the same text was underneath it—
'Rejoice with Me; for I have found My sheep which was lost.' 'There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.'
Rosalie could not help feeling in her bag to be sure that her own picture was safe, so precisely did the picture on the wall resemble it.
The picture seemed to have hung there for some time, for it was very smoky and discoloured, but still it looked very beautiful, Rosalie thought; and her eyes filled with tears as she gazed at it. Oh, how it brought her mother's dream to her mind, and carried her thoughts away from the caravan to the home above, where even now, perhaps, her mother was being called by the Good Shepherd to rejoice with Him over some sheep which was lost, but which the Good Shepherd had found again.
When the woman put her head into the caravan she began to talk to Rosalie, to ask her where she had come from, and where she was going, and what she was going to do. She seemed a friendly woman, though she spoke in a rough voice. All the time she was talking, Skirrywinks was sitting on her shoulder and the pigeon on her head. Rosalie's kitten seemed afraid of the large black dog, and crept into the child's arms.
When they had chatted together for some time, Rosalie ventured to mention the picture, saying that it seemed so strange to see it here, for that she had one exactly like it.
'Oh, have you?' said the woman. 'That's Jinx's picture. An old man gave it to him just a year ago, it will be; it was at Pendleton fair.'
'Why, that's where I got mine!' said Rosalie. 'It must be the same old man.'
'I should say it was,' said the woman; 'he came to the caravans on a Sunday afternoon.'
'Oh yes; it's the same old man,' said Rosalie. 'I have my picture here, in my bag. I wouldn't ever part with it.'
'Wouldn't you?' said the woman. 'Well, I don't believe Jinx would. He nailed it up that very Sunday, and there it's been ever since.'
'Who's Jinx?' asked Rosalie.
'He's our boy; at least he lives with us. Me and John Thomas haven't got any children of our own, so we keeps a few. There's Jinx, he's chief of them; and then there's Skirrywinks, and Tozer, and Spanco, and then there's Jeremiah—you haven't seen Jeremiah; he's in bed—you'll see him when Jinx comes.'
'Where is Jinx?' asked Rosalie, almost expecting he would turn out to be some kind of animal which was hidden away in a corner of the caravan.
'Oh, he's in the next van, with Lord Fatimore,' said the woman; 'he'll be here soon, when it's time for these young people to be fed and trained. He's very clever, is Jinx; you never saw any one so clever in all your life. I'll be bound he can make 'em do anything. We might just as well shut up, if we hadn't Jinx; it's a deal more popular than Lord Fatimore is—folks say they never saw such a sight as when Jeremiah and Skirrywinks dance the polka together; and it's all Jinx that has taught them.'
In about half an hour the caravans were stopped, and the wonderful Jinx arrived. He was very short, not taller than Rosalie; he was so humpbacked, that he seemed to have no neck at all; and he had a very old and wizened and careworn face. It was hard to tell whether he was a man or a boy, he was so small in stature, and yet so sunken and shrivelled in appearance.
'Jinx,' said the woman as he entered, 'here's a young lady come to your performance.'
'Most happy, miss,' said Jinx, with a bow.
The moment that he came into the caravan, Skirrywinks and the dog sat on their hind legs, and the pigeon alighted on his head. As soon as he spoke, Rosalie heard a noise in a basket behind her as of something struggling to get out.
'I hear you, Jeremiah,' said Jinx; 'you shall come, you shall.'
He took the basket, and put his hand inside.
'Now, Jeremiah,' he said—'now, Jeremiah, if I can find you, Jeremiah, come out, and show the company how you put on your new coat.'
Out of the basket he brought a hare, which was wonderfully tame, and allowed itself to be arrayed in a scarlet jacket.
And then Jinx made all the animals go through their several performances, after which each received his proper share of the mid-day meal. But Skirrywinks seemed to be Jinx's favourite; long after the others were dismissed she sat on his shoulders, watching his every movement.
'Well, what do you think of them?' he said, turning to Rosalie when he had finished.
'They're very clever,' said the child—'very clever indeed!'
'That kit of yours couldn't do as much,' said Jinx, looking scornfully at the kitten which lay in Rosalie's lap.
'No,' said the child; 'but she's a very dear little kit, though she doesn't jump through rings nor dance polkas.'
'Well, tastes differ,' said Jinx; 'I prefer Skirrywinks.'
'You've got a picture like mine,' said Rosalie, after a time, when she saw that Jinx seemed inclined to talk.
'Yes,' he said; 'have you one like it? I got it at Pendleton fair.'
'And so did I,' said Rosalie; the same old man gave one to me.
'Has He foundyou, Mr. Jinx?' said Rosalie, in a lower voice.
'Who found me? what do you mean?' said Jinx, with a laugh.
'Why, haven't you read the story about the picture?' said the child. 'It says where it is underneath.'
'No, not I,' said Jinx, laughing again; 'thinks I, when the old man gave it to me, it's a pretty picture, and I'll stick it on the wall; but I've never troubled my head any more about it.'
'Oh, my mother and I—we read it nearly every day,' said Rosalie; 'it's such a beautiful story!'
'Is it?' said Jinx. 'I should like to hear it; tell it to me; it will pass the time as we go along.'
'I can read it, if you like,' said Rosalie. 'I have it here in a book.'
'All right! read on,' said Jinx graciously.
Rosalie took her Testament from her bag; but before she began to read, Jinx called out to the woman, who was leaning out of the caravan talking to her husband.
'Old mother,' he called out, 'come and hear the little 'un read; she's going to give us the history of that there picture of mine. You know nothing about it, I'll be bound.'
But Jinx was wrong, for when Rosalie had finished reading, the woman said,'That will be the Bible you read out of. I've read that often when I was a girl. I went to a good Sunday school then.'
'And don't you ever read it now?' said Rosalie.
'Oh, I'm not so bad as you think,' said the woman, not answering her question; 'I think of all those things at times. I'm a decent woman in my way. I know the Bible well enough, and there's a many a deal worse than I am!'
'If you would like,' said Rosalie timidly, 'I'll find it for you in your Bible, and then you can read it again, as you used to do when you were a girl.'
The woman hesitated when Rosalie said this.
'Well, to tell you the truth, I haven't got my Bible here,' she said. 'My husband sent all the things we wasn't wanting at the time to his relations in Scotland; and somehow the Bible got packed up in the hamper. It will be a year since now. I was very vexed about it at the time.'
'Has the Good Shepherd found you, ma'am?' asked the child.
'Oh, I don't know, child; I don't want much finding. I'm not so bad as all that; I'm a very decent woman, I am. John Thomas will tell you that.'
'Then, I suppose,' said Rosalie, looking very puzzled, 'you must be one of the ninety-and-nine.'
'What do you mean, child?' asked she.
'I mean, one of the ninety-and-nine sheep which don't need any repentance, because they were never lost; and the Good Shepherd never found them, nor carried them home, nor said of them, "Rejoice with Me; for I have found My sheep which was lost."'
'Well,'said Jinx, looking at Rosalie with a half-amused face, if the old mother's one of the ninety-and-nine, what am I?'
'I don't know,' said Rosalie gravely; 'you must know better than I do, MrJinx.'
'Well, how is one to know?' he answered. 'If I'm not one of the ninety-and-nine, what am I, then?'
'Do you really want to know?' said the child gravely; 'because if not, we won't talk about it, please.'
'Yes,' said Jinx, in quite a different tone; 'I really do want to know about it.'
'My mother said one day,' said Rosalie, 'that she thought there were only three kinds of sheep in the parable. There are the ninety-and-nine sheep who were never lost, and who need no repentance, because they've never done anything wrong or said anything wrong, but have always been quite good, and holy, and pure. That'sonekind; my mother said she thought the ninety-and-nine must be the angels; she didn't think there were any in this world.'
'Hear that, old mother?' said Jinx; 'you must be an angel, you see. Well, little 'un, go on.'
'And then there are the lost sheep,' said Rosalie, 'full of sin, and far away from the fold; they don't love the Good Shepherd, and sometimes they don't even know that theyare lost. They are very far from the right way—very far from being perfectly good and holy.'
'Well,' said Jinx, 'and what's thethirdkind of sheep?'
'Oh, that's the sheep which was lost, but is found again!'
'And what are they like?' asked the lad.
'They love the Good Shepherd; they listen to His voice, and follow Him, and never, never want to wander from the fold.'
'Is thatallthe kinds?' asked Jinx.
'Yes,' said Rosalie, 'that's all.'
'Well,' said Jinx thoughtfully, 'I've made up my mind which I am.'
'Which, Mr. Jinx?' asked the child.
'Well,' he said, 'you see I can't be one of the ninety-and-nine, because I've done lots of bad things in my life. I've got into tempers, and I've sworn, and I've done heaps of bad things: sothat'sout of the question. And I can't be afoundsheep, because I don't love the Good Shepherd—I never think about Him at all; so I suppose I'm alostsheep. That's a very bad thing to be, isn't it?'
'Yes, very bad; if you are always a lost sheep,' said the child; 'but if you are one of the lost sheep, thenJesus came to seek youand tosave you.'
'Didn't He come to seek and save the old mother?' asked Jinx.
'Not if she's one of the ninety-and-nine,' said Rosalie. 'It says, "The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which waslost;" so if she isn't lost, it doesn't mean her.'
The woman looked very uncomfortable when Rosalie said this; she did not like to think that Jesus had not come to save her.
'Well, and suppose a fellow knows he's one of the lost sheep,' said Jinx, 'what has he got to do?'
'He must cry out to the Good Shepherd, and tell Him he's lost, and ask theGood Shepherd to find him.'
'Well, but first of all, I suppose,' said Jinx, 'he must make himself abit readyto go to the Good Shepherd—leave off a few of his bad ways, and make himself decent a bit?'
'Oh no!' said Rosalie; 'he'd never get back to the fold that way. First of all, he must tell the Shepherd he's lost; and then the Shepherd, who has been seeking him a long, long time, will find him at once, and carry him on His shoulders home; and then the Good Shepherd will help him to do all the rest.'
'Well, I'll think about what you've said,' Jinx replied. 'Thank you, little 'un.'
John Thomas here pulled up, saying it was two o'clock, and time they had dinner. So the caravans were drawn up by the roadside, and the woman took the dinner from the oven, and Jinx was sent to the next caravan with Lord Fatimore's dinner, and Rosalie, offering to help, was sent after him with the same gentleman's pipe and tobacco.
She found Lord Fatimore sitting in state in his own caravan. He was an immensely fat man, or rather an enormously overgrown boy, very swollen, and imbecile in appearance. He was lounging in an easy chair, looking the picture of indolence. He brightened up a little as he saw his dinner arriving—it was the great event of his day.
When Rosalie returned to the caravan, the woman was alone, stroking Skirrywinks, who was lying on her knee, but looking as if her thoughts were far away.
'Child,' she said to Rosalie, 'I'm not one of the ninety and-nine; Idoneed repentance; I'm one of the lost sheep.'
'I'm so glad,' said Rosalie; 'because then the Good Shepherd is seeking you: won't you ask Him to find you?'
But before she could answer John Thomas and Jinx came in for their dinner, and they all insisted on Rosalie joining them.
After dinner John Thomas sat in the caravan and smoked, and Jinx drove, andRosalie sat still thinking. But she was so tired and worn out, that after alittle time the picture on the wall, John Thomas, the woman, Skirrywinks,Tozer, and Spanco faded from her sight, and she fell fast asleep.
When Rosalie awoke it was almost dark. The woman was lighting the little oil-lamp, and filling the kettle from a large can of water, which stood in the corner of the caravan.
'Where are we?' said the child, in a sleepy voice.
'Close upon Pendleton, little 'un,' answered Jinx. 'Get up and see the lights in the distance.'
'Oh dear, and it's nearly dark!' said Rosalie.
'Never mind, my dear; we're just there,' said John Thomas. He did not know that she had five more miles to walk.
So the wheels of the caravan rumbled on, and in about a quarter of an hour they came into the streets of the town. It was quite dark now, and the lamps were all lighted, and the men were going home from work.
Then they arrived at the field where the fair was held; the very field where the old man had given Rosalie the picture. Not many caravans had arrived, for John Thomas had come in good time.
And now Rosalie must leave her kind friends, which she did with many grateful thanks. But before she said goodbye, she whispered a few words in the woman's ear.
To which she made answer, 'Yes, child; this very night I will;' and gaveRosalie a warm, loving kiss on her forehead.
Then the little girl went down the caravan steps, and turned into the neighbouring street. The Good Shepherd who had helped her so wonderfully as far as this would never leave her now. This was her one comfort. Yet she could not help feeling very lonely as she went down the street, and peeped in at the windows as she passed by. In nearly every house a bright fire was burning, and tea was ready on the table; in some, a happy family party was just sitting down to their evening meal; in all, there was an air of comfort and rest.
And Rosalie, little motherless Rosalie, was out in the cold, muddy, damp street alone, out in the darkness and the rain, and five miles from her Aunt Lucy's house! How could she ever walk so far, that cold, dark night? She trembled as she thought of going alone down those lonely country roads, without a light, without a friend to take care of her. And yet she would be still more afraid to wander about the streets of this great town, where she was sure there was so much wickedness and sin.
Even now there were very few people passing down the street, and Rosalie began to feel very much afraid of being out alone. She must find some one at once to show her the way to Melton.
The child was passing a small neat row of houses built close upon the street. Most of them were shut up for the night, but through the cracks of the shutters Rosalie could see the bright light within.
But the last house in the row was not yet shut up, and as Rosalie came near to it, she saw a childish figure come out of the door and go up to the shutters to close them. The fasteners of the shutters had caught in the hook on the wall, and the little thing was too short to unloose it. She was standing on tiptoe, trying to undo it, when Rosalie came up.
'Let me help you,' she said, running up and unfastening the shutter.
'I'm extremely obliged to you,' said a voice behind her which made Rosalie start.
It was no child's voice; it was a voice she knew well, a voice she had often longed to hear. It was little Mother Manikin's voice!
With one glad cry of joy, Rosalie flung herself into the little woman's arms.
Mother Manikin drew back at first; it was dark, and she could not seeRosalie's face.
But when the child said, in a tone of distress, 'Mother Manikin, dear Mother Manikin, don't you know me? I'm little Rosalie Joyce,' the dear little old woman was full of love and sympathy in a moment.
She dragged Rosalie indoors into a warm little kitchen at the back of the house, where the table was spread for tea, and a kettle was singing cheerily on the fire; and she sat on a stool beside her, with both her little hands grasping Rosalie's.
'And now, child,' she said, 'how ever did you find me out?'
'I didn't find you out, Mother Manikin,' said Rosalie; 'you found me out.'
'What do you mean, child?' said the old woman.
'Why, dear Mother Manikin, I didn't know you were here. I didn't know who it was till I had finished unfastening the shutter.'
'Bless me, child! then what makes you out at this time of night? Has your caravan just arrived at the fair?'
'No, dear Mother Manikin, I've not come to the fair. I'm quite alone, and I have five miles farther to walk.'
'Tell me all about it, child,' said Mother Manikin.
So Rosalie told her all—told her how and where her mammie had died; told her about the great lodging-house, and the lady of the house; told her about her father's marriage and death; told her of her Aunt Lucy, and the letter and the locket; told her everything, as she would have told her own mother. For Mother Manikin had a motherly heart, and Rosalie knew it; and the tired child felt a wonderful sense of comfort and rest in pouring out her sorrows into those sympathising ears.
But in the middle of Rosalie's story the little woman jumped up, saying hurriedly—
'Wait a minute, child; here's a strange kitten got in.'
She was just going to drive out the little black stranger, which was mewing loudly under the table, when the child stopped her.
'Please dear Mother Manikin, that's my little kit; she has come with me all the way, and she's very hungry—that's why she makes such a noise.'
In another minute a saucer of milk was placed on the rug before the fire, and the poor little kitten had enough and to spare.
Rosalie was very grateful to Mother Manikin, and very glad to be with her; but just as she was finishing her story, the large eight-day clock in the corner of the kitchen struck seven, and Rosalie started to her feet.
'Mother Manikin,' she said, 'I must be off. I've five miles farther to walk.'
'Stuff and nonsense, child!' said the old woman; 'do you think I'm going to let you go to-night? Not a bit of it, I can tell you. Old age must have its liberties, my dear, and I'm not going to allow it.'
'Oh, Mother Manikin,' said Rosalie, 'what do you mean?'
'What do I mean, child? Why, that you're to sleep here to-night, and then go, all rested and refreshed, to your aunt's to-morrow. That's what I mean. Why, I have ever such a nice little house here, bless you!' said the little woman. 'Just you come and look.'
So she took Rosalie upstairs, and showed her the neatest little bedroom in the front of the house, and another room over the kitchen which Mother Manikin called her greenhouse, for in it, arranged on boxes near the window, were all manner of flowerpots, containing all manner of flowers, ferns, and mosses.
'It's a nice sunny room, my dear,' said Mother Manikin, 'and it's my hobby, you see; and old age must have its liberties, and these little bits of plants are my hobby. I live here all alone, and they're company, you see. And now, come downstairs and see my little parlour.'
The parlour was in the front of the house, and it was the shutters of this room which Mother Manikin was closing as Rosalie came up. A bright lamp hung from the ceiling of the room, and white muslin curtains adorned the window; but what struck Rosalie most of all was that the parlour was full of chairs. There were rows and rows of chairs; indeed, the parlour was so full of them that Mother Manikin and Rosalie could hardly find a place to stand.
'What a number of chairs you have here, Mother Manikin!' said the child in amazement.
The old woman laughed at Rosalie's astonished face.
'Rosalie, child,' she said, 'do you remember how you talked to me that night—the night when we sat up in the caravan?'
Rosalie's eyes filled with tears at the thought of it.
'Yes, dear Mother Manikin,' she answered.
'Do you remember bow I looked at your picture, and you told me all about it?'
'Yes, Mother Manikin,' said the child, 'I remember that.'
'And do you remember aquestionthat you asked me then, Rosalie, child! "Mother Manikin," you said, "hasHe, foundyou?" And I thought about it a long time; and then I told you the truth. I said, "No, child, He hasn't found me." But if you asked me that question to-night, Rosalie, child, if you asked little Mother Manikin, "Do you think the Good Shepherd has found younow, Mother Manikin?" I should tell you, Rosalie child, I should tell you that He went about to seek and save them which were lost, and that one day, when He was seeking, He found little Mother Manikin.
'Yes, my dear,' said the old woman; 'He found me. I cried out to Him that I was lost, and wanted finding; and He heard me, child. He heard me, and He carried me on His shoulders rejoicing.'
Little Rosalie could not help crying when she heard this, but they were tears of joy.
'So I gave up the fairs, child; it didn't seem as if I could follow the Good Shepherd there. There was a lot of foolishness, and nonsense, and distraction; so I left them. I told them old age must have its liberties; and I brought away my savings, and a little sum of money I had of my own, and I took this little house. So that's how it is, child,' said the little old woman.
'But about the chairs?' said Rosalie.
'Yes, about the chairs,' repeated the old woman; 'I'm coming to that now. I was sitting one night thinking, my dear, over the kitchen fire. I was thinking about the Good Shepherd, and how He had died for me, just that I might be found and brought back to the fold. And I thought, child, when He had been so good to me, it was very bad of me to do nothing for Him in return; nothing to show Him I'm grateful, you see. I shook my fist, and I said to myself, You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mother Manikin! you little idle, ungrateful old thing!
'But then, Rosalie, child, I began to think, What can I do? I'm so little, you see, and folks laugh at me, and run after me when I go out; and so all things seemed closed upon me. There seemed nothing for little Mother Manikin to do for the Good Shepherd. So I knelt down, child, and I asked Him. I said—
'"Oh, Good Shepherd, have you got any work for a woman that's only three feet high? because I do love you, and want to do it."
'Well, Rosalie, child, it came quite quick after that. Mr. Westerdale called, and, said he—
'"Mother Manikin, I want to have a little Bible Meeting for some of the poor things round here—the mothers who have little babies, and can't get to any place of worship, and a few more, who are often ill, and can't walk far. Do you know," he said, "anybody in this row who would let me have a room for my class?"
'Well, child, I danced for joy; I really did, child. I danced like I hadn't danced since I left the Royal Show. So Mr. Westerdale, he says, "What's the matter, Mother Manikin?" He thought I'd gone clean off my head!
'"Why, Mr. Westerdale," I cried, "there's something I can do for the GoodShepherd, though I'm only three feet high!"
'So then he understood, child; and he finds the parlour very convenient, and the people come so nicely, and it's a happy night for me. So that's what the chairs are for.
'Mr. Westerdale will be here in a minute, child; he always gets a cup of tea with me before the folks come. That's why I'm so late to-night; I always wait till he comes.'
She had no sooner said the words than a rap was heard at the door, and the little woman ran to open it for Mr. Westerdale. He was an old man, with a rosy, good-tempered face, and a kind and cheerful voice.
'Well, Mother Manikin,' he said, as he came into the kitchen, 'a good cup of tea ready for me as usual! What a good, kind woman you are!'
'This is a little friend of mine, Mr. Westerdale,' said Mother Manikin, introducing Rosalie.
But Rosalie needed no introduction. She shook hands with the old man, and then darted out of the room, and in another minute returned with her small bag, which she had left upstairs. Hastily unfastening it, she took from it her dear picture—the picture which had done so much for her and her mother and little Mother Manikin—and, holding it up before the old man, she cried out—
'Please, sir, it's quite safe. I've kept it all this time; and, please, I do love it so!'
For Mr. Westerdale was Rosalie's old friend, who had come to see her in the fair, just a year ago. He did not remember her, but he remembered the picture; and when Rosalie told him where she had seen him, a recollection of the sick woman and her pretty child came back to his mind. As they sat over their comfortable little tea, and Rosalie told how that picture had been the messenger of mercy to her dying mother, the old man's face became brighter than ever.
And after tea the people began to arrive. It was a pleasant sight to see how little Mother Manikin welcomed them, one by one, as they came in. They all seemed to know her well, and to love her, and trust her. She had so many questions to ask them, and they had so much to tell her. There was Freddy's cough to be inquired after, and grandfather's rheumatism, and the baby's chickenpox. And Mother Manikin must be told how Willie had got that situation he was trying for, and how old Mrs. Joyce had got a letter from her daughter at last; and how Mrs. Price's daughter had broken her leg, and Mrs. Price had told them to say how glad she would be if Mother Manikin could go in to see her for a few minutes sometimes.
Little Mother Manikin had 'a heart at leisure from itself, to soothe and sympathise,' and their troubles were her troubles, their joys her joys.
At last every one had arrived, and the chairs in the sitting-room were all filled. Then the clock struck eight, and they were all quite still as Mr. Westerdale gave out the hymn. And when the hymn and the prayer were ended, Mr. Westerdale began to speak. Rosalie was sitting close to Mother Manikin, and she listened very attentively to all that her old friend said.
'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow:' that was the text of the sermon.
'A long way from here, my friends,' said Mr. Westerdale, 'a long way from here, in the land of Palestine, is a beautiful mountain, the top of which is covered with the purest, whitest snow. One day, a very great many years ago, the Apostle John and two of his friends were lying on the mountain asleep, and when they awoke, they saw a wonderful sight. They saw the Lord Jesus in His glory, and His raiment was exceeding white—as white as snow.
'A few years later, God let this same Apostle John look into heaven; and there he saw everything the same colour—pure, unstained white. The Lord Jesus had His head and His hair as white as wool, as white as snow. He was sitting on a white throne, and all the vast multitude standing round the throne had white robes on—pure, spotless white; as white as snow.
'Nothing, my friends, that is not perfect white can enter heaven, for pure, perfect white is heaven's colour.
'What does all this mean? It means that nothing can enter that holy heaven that is not perfectly pure, perfectly holy, perfectly free from sin.
'For there is another colour mentioned in my text, a colour which is just the opposite to white—scarlet—glaring scarlet. And this colour is used as a picture of that which is not pure, not holy, that upon which God cannot look—I mean sin.
'Your sins are as scarlet, God says; and no scarlet can enter heaven; nothing is found within the gates of heaven but pure white, as white as snow. Nothing short of perfect holiness can admit you or me into heaven. When we stand before the gate, it will be no good our pleading, I'm almost white, I'm nearly white, I'm whiter than my neighbours; nothing but pure white, nay, white as snow, will avail us anything. One single scarlet spot is enough to shut the gates of heaven against us.
'Oh, dear friends, this is a very solemn thought. For who in this room, which of you mothers, which of you young girls, can stand up and say, There is no scarlet spot on me, I am free from sin. Heaven's gate would be opened to me, for I have never done anything wrong—I am quite white, as white as snow.
'Which of you can say that? Which of you would dare to say it, if you stood before the gate of heaven to-night?
'There is no hope, then, you say, for me; heaven's gates are for ever closed against me. I have sinned over and over again. I am covered with scarlet spots, nay, I am altogether scarlet.
"Red like crimson, deep as scarlet,Scarlet of the deepest dye,Are the manifold transgressionsWhich upon my conscience lie!
"God alone can count their number!God alone can look within;Oh, the sinfulness of sinning!Oh, the guilt of every sin!"
'So there is no hope, not the least, for me! Only spotless white can enter heaven, so I must be for ever shut out!
'Must you? Is there indeed no hope?
'Listen, oh, listen again to the text—"though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow."
'Then there is a way of changing the scarlet into white; there is a way of making the deep, glaring scarlet turn into pure white, as white as snow.
'Oh, what good news for us! What glad tidings of great joy!
'But how is it done? How can you or I, who are so covered with scarlet stains of sin, be made as white as snow?
'Dear friends,thisis the way. There is One, the Lord Jesus Christ, who has been punished instead of us, who has taken all our sins upon Him, just as if they were His own sins, and has been punished for them, as if He had really done them. The great God who loved us so planned all this. And now He can forgive us our sins, for the punishment is over. He can not only forgive, but He can forget. He can blot them out. He can make us clean and white, as white as snow.
'This then is His offer to you to-night. "Come now," He cries, "only accept My offer." Only take the Lord Jesus Christ as your Saviour; only ask Him to wash you in His blood; only see, by faith, that He died in your place, instead of you; and your sins—your scarlet sins—shall be made as white as snow. This very night, before you lie down to sleep, you may be made so white, that heaven's gate will, when you stand before it, be thrown wide open to you; so white, that you will be fit to stand amongst that great multitude which no man can number, who have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
'My dear friends, will you accept God's offer? Will you come to the Lord Jesus to be made white? Will you plead this promise, the promise in my text? Will you, before you lie down to sleep, say—
'O Lord, my sins are indeed as scarlet, make them, in the blood of Christ, as white as snow.
'Will you, I ask you again, accept God's offer? Yes, or No?'