"Let me arrange them," Louise said in a flutter of satisfaction, lifting her heart in prayer as she worked.
Praying about a lace ruffle! Oh yes, indeed; why not? If they are proper to wear, why not proper to speak of to the Father who clothes the lilies and numbers the very hairs of our head? Actually praying that the delicate laces might aid in lifting Dorothy into a reasonable degree of self-appreciation, and so relieve, somewhat, the excessive timidity which Satan was successfully using against her. I wonder, has it ever occurred to young people that Satan can make use of timidity as well as boldness?
"There," said Louise, as she arranged the puffy knots, giving those curious little touches which the tasteful woman understands so well and finds so impossible to teach.
"Aren't they pretty?" And she stood back to view the effect.
The pink glow on Dorothy's cheeks showed that she thought they were.
With the details of the supper Louise did not in the least concern herself; she knew that food would be abundant and well prepared, and the linen would be snowy, and the dishes shining. What more need mortal want?
As for the minister, truth to tell, he spent his leisure moments during the day in dreading his visit. He had heard so much of the Morgans—of their coldness and indifference, of their holding themselves aloof from every influence, either social or spiritual. The few sentences that had ever passed between himself and Farmer Morgan had been so tinged with sarcasm on the latter's part, and had served to make him feel so thoroughly uncomfortable, that he shrank from all contact with the entire family, always excepting the fair-faced, sweet-voiced stranger; not her husband, for something about the grave, rather cold face of Lewis Morgan made his young pastor pick him out as merciless intellectual critic. However, it transpired that most of his forebodings were unrealized.
It suited Mrs. Morgan, senior, to array herself in a fresh calico, neatly made, relieved from severe plainness by a very shining linen collar; and though her manner was nearly as cold as the collar, yet there was a certain air of hospitality about it that made the minister feel not unwelcome. Dorothy, under the influence of her becoming laces, or some other influence, was certainly less awkward than usual. And fair, curly-haired, sweet-faced Nellie caught the young man's heart at once, and was enthroned upon his knee when Farmer Morgan came to shake hands before proceeding to supper. If there was one thing on earth more than another that Farmer Morgan did admire, it was his own beautiful little Nellie. If the minister saw that she was an uncommon child, why, in his heart, he believed it to be a proof positive that the minister was an uncommon man. Altogether, Mr. Butler's opinion of the Morgan family was very different by six o'clock from what it had been at four. Just a word alone with him Louise had, when Farmer Morgan suddenly remembered an unforgotten duty and went away, while Mrs. Morgan and Dorothy were putting the finishing touches to the supper-table. Lewis was detained with a business caller at one of the large barns, and John had not presented himself at all. This was one of her present sources of anxiety. She turned to the minister the moment they were alone.
"We need your help so much," she began eagerly. "My husband and I are the only Christians in this family. I am specially and almost painfully interested in both John and Dorothy; they need Christ so much, and apparently are so far from him. Is the Christian influence of the young people decided in this society?"
"I hardly know how to answer you," he said hesitatingly. "If I were to tell you the simple truth, I seem better able to influence the young in almost any other direction than I do in anything that pertains to religion." And if the poor young man had but known it, he was more natural and winning in regard to any other topic than he was with that one. "I have hardly a young man in my congregation on whom I can depend in the least," he continued sadly, "and I do not see any gain in this respect."
"He is in earnest," said Louise mentally, in answer to this. "He wants to help them; he doesn't quite see how. But if he is willing to be enough in earnest his Master can teach him." Then, before there was opportunity for the half-dozen other things that she wanted to say, they were summoned to the tea-table.
John was there in his Sunday coat and his hair brushed carefully; it was more than could have been expected. Moreover, almost immediately, by one of those chance remarks that seem of no importance, an item of political news was started for discussion, and behold the father and Lewis were stanchly on one side, and the minister and John on the other. John, roused by a nettlesome speech of his brother, gave bold utterance to opposing views, and was strongly approved and supported by Mr. Butler. The interest deepened and the arguers waxed earnest; but all the while there was in Farmer Morgan's face, veiled to any but a close observer, such as Louise was that day, a sense of surprised satisfaction over the fact that his boy John had such clear views of things, and could talk as well as the minister; and the minister, whether he was to win souls or not, surely knew one step of the way—he was winning hearts. They went, all of them together, to the bright parlour again, and when presently the discussion calmed, and the subject changed to the delights of corn-popping and apples roasted in the ashes, Mr. Butler said with zest,—
"John, let's try some. Suppose you get the apples and superintend the roasting; and, Miss Dorothy, can't you and I pop some corn?"
Dorothy's cheeks were aflame; but the corn was brought, and the evening waned before even Nellie knew it was late. "He's a good deal likelier chap than I thought from his sermons," was Farmer Morgan heard to remark to his wife when the minister had finally bade them good-evening and departed.
"O Lewis," said Louise, when they were alone again, "if he had only asked to read a few verses in the Bible and offered prayer before he went. I certainly thought he would do it; isn't it strange that he did not?"
"Why, yes," said Lewis. "As a minister it would have been entirely in keeping. I wonder he did not suggest it."
"Why didn't you suggest it, Lewis? I was hoping you would; that was what I meant by all those telegraphic communications I was trying to make."
"My dear Louise," said her husband, "that was my father's place, not mine."
THE scheme to visit the dingy church on Wednesday afternoon, and contribute somewhat to its attractiveness, was carried out to the very letter. Mrs. Morgan, senior, made sundry dry remarks about not being aware that any of her family had been hired to put the church in order; but Farmer Morgan declared that it certainly needed it as much as any place he ever saw—that he would be ashamed to have a barn look as that did; and John declared that he had promised to stop the squeak in that old organ, and he meant to do it, hired or not hired.
Louise, who had not heard him promise, and who had felt much anxiety lest he would refuse to perform, was so elated over this declaration that, with her husband's help, she parried her mother-in-law's thrusts with the utmost good-humour, helped by the fact that, whatever she might say, that strange woman actually felt glad over the thought of her young people going off together like other folks.
The efforts of Mrs. Morgan's life had been spent in keeping her children from being "like other folks," and yet, with strange inconsistency, she liked to see these approaches to other people's ways of doing things.
If she could have explained what her sore and disappointed heart had meant, it would have revealed the fact that she intended her children to be superior to; not isolated from, the society around them.
Wednesday afternoon proved a real gala time to Dorothy. She entered with zest into the lamp-cleaning, and after a few lessons from Louise, developed a remarkable talent for making the chimneys glitter in the sunlight. The surprised and smiling sexton had done his share, and the dust from the long unswept room lay thick on pulpit and seat-rail. The room was comparatively warm too, which, if Louise had but known it, was a rare thing on Wednesday evening. John swung the old organ around in a business-like manner, and applied a drop of oil here and another there, then gave himself to the mending of one of the stops; while Lewis tacked on the new binding for the desk, and whistled softly an old tune. Altogether, Louise's plans were working royally. She had managed a difficult bit of business in the shape of a lunch, which had been smuggled into the buggy with them.
"What on earth do you want of that!" had Mrs. Morgan exclaimed in astonishment, when she had been appealed to. "You don't expect to work so hard that you will get hungry before supper, do you?"
"Why, we want it for our supper," said Louise. "You know we shall not have time to come back before prayer-meeting, and that will make us late for supper."
"Prayer-meeting!" No words on paper can express to you the surprise in the questioner's voice. "Are you going to stay to prayer-meeting?"
"Why, certainly; we want to see whether the lamps are improved. If Dorrie leaves lint on the glass it will show splendidly when they are lighted. Besides, I want to hear how that organ will sound when it doesn't squeak."
"And what is going to become of John-while you are staying to meeting?"
Mrs. Morgan's face had taken on a deeper cloud of disapprobation, and her voice was glumness intensified.
"Why, John will stay to meeting with us, of course."
This from Louise, in positive tone, albeit she was painfully uncertain about that very thing; certain only of this, that if John would not stay, the rest would not. It was no part of her plan to carry him down to the village, simply to be tempted of Satan, as he always was, at the street corners.
"Humph!" said Mrs. Morgan, senior, and she went her way, giving no sign of relief or approval, save that the lunch she prepared and packed for their united suppers was bountiful and inviting.
So Louise dusted and advised as to lamps and pulpit, and prayed heartily meanwhile. How was she to prevail on John to stay to prayer-meeting? Was it a foolish scheme? Would it be better to abandon it and go home? What if, at the last moment, he should rebel, and go away and spend the evening in that horrid corner grocery? Recent though her introduction into the family was, she had already learned how they dreaded the influence of that corner grocery. She lingered near her husband and consulted.
"Lewis, how can we prevail on John to be willing to stay to-night until after the meeting?"
"Oh, he'll be willing enough; no danger of him. He hasn't had an opportunity to visit his friends at the corner for some time; he will catch at the chance."
"Oh, but we mustn't have that kind of staying. I mean how can we coax him to stay here at the prayer-meeting?"
Her husband regarded her curiously. "I don't believe even you can accomplish such a result as that," he said at last; "and I am willing to admit that you do accomplish some very extraordinary things."
"Lewis, why do you speak in that way, as though I were trying to do anything wonderful? Can any work be simpler than to seek to get one interested in prayer-meetings who has no natural interest in such things? I want you to ask him to stay. You said yesterday that you had never invited him to attend. Tell him we have a nice lunch, and want him to stay with us and enjoy the meeting. Perhaps all he is waiting for is an invitation."
"Louise clear, you don't know John. He would have no enjoyment from this meeting, even if he stayed, which he will not do; and now, in all sincerity, I believe he would be much less likely to stay if I were to ask him than he would under almost any other circumstances. It is a humiliating fact that he doesn't care to do anything to please me."
Louise turned away with a sigh. Her work was growing complicated. Meantime the dusting and cleansing went steadily on, and when all was accomplished the church was certainly improved.
A somewhat weary but gay little company gather under one of the renovated lamps just at nightfall, and having made their toilets by folding away large aprons and sweeping-caps and donning hats and shawls again, sat down to eat the generous lunch.
"Queer way of having a picnic," said John. "I've always supposed the woods was the place for such gatherings. We might as well go home for all I can see; our work is about done."
Lewis glanced significantly at his wife. Her face expressed doubt and anxiety. Certainly it would be better for them all to go home at once rather than that John should spend his evening at the corners. Just what should she say at this juncture? She hesitated but a moment, then said quickly,—
"Why, we are going to stay to prayer-meeting; don't you suppose we want to see the effect of these improvements on the people?"
"To prayer-meeting!" echoed John; then, beyond a low, suddenly suppressed whistle, he said no more.
Their departure for the church had been delayed, and the work there had taken longer than had been anticipated, so that as the short winter day drew rapidly to its close, the lunch had finally to be disposed of in haste, in order that two or three unfinished matters might be accomplished before the hour for prayer-meeting. With very little idea as to what she should say, or whether it would be wise to say anything, Louise followed John to the organ corner, while he struggled to make the organist's broken seat less objectionable.
"The idea of allowing a church to run into shabbiness in this fashion!" he said with energy, a sneer in his voice; "shows how interested the people are in it."
"Why doesn't the sexton light the lamps on the other side?" questioned Louise, unwilling to enter into a discussion concerning the inconsistencies of the church, and really curious to understand the movements of that worthy the sexton.
"More than I know. They are all filled and trimmed, I am sure; perhaps he doesn't know that. He probably economizes by using the lamps on one side until they are empty, and then taking the other row."
"No," said Louise; "I see what it is done for—to compel the people to sit close together, and not spread over the entire church. It is a good idea, too."
"Yes," said John; "shows how many they expect!"
What strange power John had to throw meaning into a few words. This simple sentence started Louise; she glanced over the large church. What a very small corner of it was lighted and made habitable. Yet she felt her own faith was equal to even less than that amount of room; she struggled for some satisfying explanation.
"But, John, you know this room has to be large enough for the entire congregation; and a great many of them are in the country, and could hardly be expected, I suppose, to attend prayer-meeting."
"I know it," said John; "twice as far down to the village on Wednesday evening as it is on Saturday. On Saturday evenings the stores have to be kept open until eleven o'clock, so many country people are in town; but none of them are affected in that way on Wednesday."
"Well," said Louise, trying to speak lightly, "our party will count four more than are usually here; that is one comfort."
John regarded her furtively from under lowering eyebrows.
"Have you any kind of a notion that I intend to stay to this meeting?" he asked at last, a curious mixture of sarcasm and sneer in his tones. There was something in John's voice that was constantly reminding one of sneers.
A sudden reaction of feeling swept over Louise, or rather the feeling that she had held in check rose to the surface. A vision of John at the corner, playing cards, smoking, drinking beer; of the mother at home, sick at heart, when she saw him and smelled his breath; of the father's anger and Lewis's gravity, appeared before her, and her voice faltered and her eyes were full of tears as she answered, from a full heart—
"No, I am afraid you are not going to; and I am so disappointed about it that I feel as though I could hardly—"
Here the words stopped, and the tears actually dropped—one of them on John's hand, that was outstretched just at the moment to grasp the hammer lying beside her. He withdrew it suddenly, a strange expression crossing his face; he looked at his hand doubtfully, gravely, then looked back at Louise.
"Why in the name of common sense do you care whether I stay to prayer-meeting or where I go?"
"I care," said Louise, brushing away the treacherous tears and raising earnest eyes to his face, "a great deal more than I can explain to you. I never had a brother; I have always wanted one, and I looked forward to having pleasant times together with my brother John. But you won't do anything to please me."
"How do you know I won't?" His voice was gruff now, gruffer than it had been during the day, and he seized the hammer and pounded so vigorously that she could neither speak nor hear. She turned from him in doubt and anxiety still, and immediately joined her husband, who had come to say that the pounding must cease—the people were beginning to come to prayer-meeting. Nevertheless the pounding did not cease until two more nails were in place. Then did John, without any effort at quiet, stalk down the uncarpeted aisle and seat himself in the Morgan pew, Dorothy edging along for the purpose, and looking her undisguised astonishment.
Louise tried to feel triumphant; but as the hour dragged its slow length along her heart was very heavy. What a strange meeting it was—strange, at least, to her who had been used to better things. In the first place, the number, all told, counting the four who filled the Morgan pew, amounted to twenty-three. Now, when twenty-three people are placed in a room designed for the accommodation of three hundred, the effect, to say the least, is not social. Then these twenty-three seemed to have made a study of seating themselves in as widespread a manner as the conditions of light and darkness would admit. Dorothy saw this, and lost herself in trying to plan where the congregation would have been likely to sit had the other lamps been lighted. That condition of inability to sing, which seems to be the chronic state of many prayer-meetings, was in full force here. Mr. Butler announced a hymn, read it, and earnestly invited a leader; but none responded. Louise felt her cheeks flushing in sympathy with the minister's embarrassment, and never more earnestly wished that she could sing. Even Dorothy, conscious that she could sing, was so far roused by sympathy that she felt the bumpings of her frightened heart, caused by the courageous question, "What if I should?" Not that she had the least idea of doing so, but the bare thought made her blood race through her veins at lightning speed. At last a quavering voice took up the cross, and made a cross for every one who tried to join in the unknown and uninviting melody.
This prayer-meeting does not need a lengthy description; there are, alas! too many like it:—Two long prayers, called for by the pastor, between two silences, which waited for some one to "occupy the time." A few dreary sentences from Deacon Jones, who is always in every meeting, detailing his weary story of how things used to be when Mr. Somebody Else was our pastor. Another attempt at a song of praise, which made John's lip curl more emphatically than the first one had; and then the pastor arose to make some remarks. How interesting he could be at the supper-table; how bright and pleasant he could be when roasting apples and popping corn! These things the Morgans knew; so did nearly every one of the other nineteen.
Why was he so uninteresting in the prayer-meeting? Louise tried to analyze it. What he said was true and good; why did it fall like empty bubbles on her heart or vanish away? His theme was prayer. Did he mean the words he was repeating, "If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it"? Did he understand what those words meant? If so, why did not he explain them to others? Dorothy wondered at this; she had not gotten so far as to doubt them—that is, she knew they were Bible words; she saw Mr. Butler open his Bible and read them from it; but, of course, it didn't mean what it said. "If it did," said poor Dorothy to herself, "I would ask—oh, I would ask for ever so many things." And then her mind went off in a dream of what it would ask for, if only those words meant what they said! And Mr. Butler talked, generalized, told wonderful and blessed, ay, and solemn truths, much as a boy might tell over the words of his spelling lesson. Did the pastor feel those words? Did he realize their meaning? Had he been asking? If so, for what? Had he received it? If he had not received, and still believed the words he read, why did not he set himself to find the reason for the delay? Poor Louise! Her mind roved almost as badly as Dorothy's, only over more solemn ground. As for John, his face told, to a close observer, just what he thought: he did not believe a word, not a word, of what had been read, nor of what was being said. More than that, he did not believe that the minister believed it. Was there any good in getting John to stay to prayer-meeting?
A CHURCH social had been one of the places against which the senior Morgans had set their faces like flints. Not that there had been much occasion for peremptory decisions. John, when he arrived at the proper age for attending, had grown away from the church into a lower circle, and Dorothy was frightened at the mere thought of going anywhere alone. So occasional sharp criticisms as to the proceedings, reports of which floated to them from time to time, was the extent of their interference. But Louise had weighed the matter carefully, and was bent on an attendance at the church social. Had she taken time to notice it, she might have been amused over the various forms of objection that met her plans.
"I'm afraid they will think the Morgan family have turned out en masse," had her husband said when he listened to the scheme. "I'm in favour of our going, because I think the people will like to meet you, and you will like some of them very well; but wouldn't it be better to get acquainted with them ourselves before getting Dorothy into society? She will be frightened and awkward, and will be very far from enjoying it. John won't go, of course."
"Lewis," his wife said impressively, "I believe John will go; I am very anxious to have him, and I feel impressed with the belief that God will put it into his heart." The curious look on her husband's face emboldened her to ask a question which had been troubling her. "Lewis, you sometimes act almost as though you didn't believe such matters were subjects of prayer at all. Are these things too small for His notice, when he himself refers us to the fading wild flowers for lessons?"
Lewis studied his answer carefully; he admitted that, of course, we had a right to pray about everything; but then—well, the truth was, she certainly had a way of attaching importance to matters which seemed to him trivial. Take, for instance, that tea: he had not understood then, did not now, why she should have been so anxious about it; and as for this matter, what particular good was it going to do to take John to the church social?
"Don't you see," his wife asked earnestly, "that we must get John into a different circle, if we would draw him away from the one he has fallen into?"
Yes, he admitted that; in fact, he admitted everything that she could possibly desire, and yet she knew he went away feeling that it was, after all, of exceeding little consequence whether John went or stayed.
Nevertheless her desire for the accomplishment of this matter remained firm. She studied many ways for winning John's consent to the plan, seeking counsel on her knees, and wondering much that no way opened to her, until she discovered, on the day in question, that there was no need for an opening. John, for reasons best known to himself, had settled the matter, and himself broached the subject by inquiring whether she still believed that the pleasantest thing she could do was to walk.
"Walk where?" questioned the mother, and the subject was before them.
"Why, to the social this evening," explained Louise quickly. "I propose a walk. The evenings are perfect now, and I'm a first-class walker; I feel anxious to show my skill in that line."
"To the church fiddlestick!" said Father Morgan, with more than usual asperity; and Mother Morgan added—
"I wonder if you and Lewis are going to countenance those gatherings?"
"Why," said innocent Louise, "of course we must sustain the social gatherings of our church; I think them very important aids."
"Aids to what, I'd like to know? They are just dancing parties, and nothing else. I'm not a church member, to be sure, but I know what church members ought to be; and to see them standing up for the world in that way, and helping it along, is sickening, to say the least." This from Farmer Morgan.
Then Mrs. Morgan, senior—
"They stay until near morning, and dress, and gossip, and giggle, and dance; if that is sustaining the church, the less it is sustained the better, according to my notion."
Then Louise—
"May not part of the trouble be that those who do not approve of such management stand aloof and let Satan manage it his own way, and lead the young people whither he will?"
"Humph!" said Farmer Morgan (and there is hardly in our language one syllable more expressive than that in the mouths of some people). "The minister goes."
"I know, but he cannot do much alone."
"In my opinion," said Mrs. Morgan firmly, "he enjoys it all too well to want to do anything." Her firm lips and eyes said as plainly as words could have done: "You will do as you like, no doubt, but you won't get my Dorothy to help to sustain any such thing."
"Well, mother, we are going to-night, to see what we can do toward sustaining, or something else. I hardly know what we are going for, I'm sure; but I know this much, we are going."
Perhaps of all the group no one was more surprised than Louise at this statement from John's lips.
She hesitated, and her heart beat high with anxiety and doubt. John meant to go, then; but ought he to speak so to his mother? And ought she to seem to approve of such speaking? Only a second of thought, then she said—
"O John, we wouldn't go if mother disapproved, would we? Lewis says he always minds his mother, and I'm sure I always minded mine."
This sentence, half-laughing, yet inwardly wholly earnest, was sent forth in much anxiety, the speaker remembering the fifth commandment, even though she wished most earnestly, just then, that it were not made so difficult a duty by the mother in question.
But a change had suddenly come over that mother. To have the boy John even at a church social, disreputable as she believed those places to be, was much better than to have him at the corner grocery, or in any of his favourite haunts. The moment there dawned upon her the idea that he really meant to go, her objections softened.
"Oh, I don't want to keep any of you from going, sure. Go if you want to, of course. A church gathering ought to be a nice place, and if it isn't what it ought to be; it isn't your fault, I suppose. I shan't make any objections."
Which was a remarkable concession when we consider the woman who made it. So they went to the social; also they walked—Lewis and Louise stepping briskly along together over the moon-lighted earth, and enjoying every step of the way, as only those can who have little opportunity for long, quiet walks together, even though they are bound by the closest ties.
The large modern farmhouse where the gathering was held was a surprise to Louise; unconsciously she had gauged all farmhouses by her father-in-law's. But here she was introduced to one of those fair country homes with which our land abounds—bright and tasteful, and, in its free and easy, home-like way, beautiful. The large rooms were carefully arranged, and little works of art and souvenirs of celebrated spots and scenes were freely scattered, and the books, displayed lavishly, spoke of cultured tastes and leisure for their indulgence. A large company was gathered, and the scene was social in the extreme. The new-comers were very heartily greeted, it being evident to all but herself that Mrs. Lewis Morgan was looked upon as an acquisition to the society much to be desired. As for that lady, she was so engrossed in making Dorothy feel at home and have a good time, and so anxious that John should not slip away in disgust before the evening was over, that she forgot her position as a stranger, and, with an end in view, made acquaintances eagerly and searchingly, looking everywhere for the helpers that she hoped to find in these young people.
Meantime she studied the actual scene, trying to fit it to the reports which had come to her. The company was very merry. They talked a good deal of nonsense, no doubt, and it was possible that a sort of giggly, good-natured gossip came in for its share; and they were, at least the younger portion, too much dressed for a church social; but though the evening was advancing, she had as yet seen no indications of the amusement which Father and Mother Morgan found so objectionable.
During a moment's leisure Mr. Butler came over to her. He had been among the young people all the evening, the favourite centre of the merriest circles. It was evident that these young people enjoyed their pastor at a church social, whatever opinion they might have of him elsewhere.
"I am so glad you came out to our gathering," he said to her cordially. "It was very kind in you to overlook our lack of courtesy in the matter of calls and come at once. Our ladies will call on you promptly enough now. Some of them had the impression that you might not care to make new acquaintances."
"I wonder why?" said Louise in surprise. "My old friends are too far-away to be made available. Mr. Butler, what a great company of young people! Do these all belong to your congregation Where were they on Wednesday night?"
"Well," said Mr. Butler, "the plain and painful truth is, that wherever they are on Wednesday evenings, at one place they are not, and that is the prayer-meeting. Some of them are church members, but it never seems to be convenient for country people to come to town on Wednesdays, nor to be out so late as is necessary in order to attendance at prayer-meeting."
"Yet they come to the church socials?"
"Oh yes, indeed. That is another matter; they have no objection to being social."
"Then, what a pity it is that we couldn't have our prayer-meeting social, isn't it?"
Mr. Butler laughed, then grew grave.
"Well, but, Mrs. Morgan, you do not suppose it is possible to make prayer-meetings into places where those who have no love for Christ will like to come?"
"Perhaps not; though more might be done for even that class, I suspect, than is. But some of these young people belong to Christ, do they not?"
He shook his head.
"Very few. I never knew a church with such a large class of indifferent young people in it. Oh, some of them are members, to be sure; but the large majority of those here to-night, the young ones, have no sympathy with the church, except in its socials."
"Then what a doubly important opportunity this church social is," said Louise, with kindling eyes. "This is really almost your only chance with the young people, then, save in calls. How do you manage the work? Or is that too close a question to answer?"
The bright eyes of the young minister dropped before her. He felt, in truth, that the question was too close, though not in the sense that she meant it. He wished, in his truthful heart, that he could just leave her to think that his ways of working were too intermingled to be explained; but whatever faults he may have had, deception was not one of them.
He hesitated and flushed, then met her gaze squarely, as he said—
"The simple truth is, Mrs. Morgan, I am doing just nothing with these young people, and I don't know what to do."
"I know," she said quickly; "the work is immense, and little patient efforts sometimes seem like 'just nothing.' But, after all, how can you tell? The earnest words dropped here and there, even in such soil as this, may spring up and bear fruit; so long as you meet your people in this way, once a week, and can gather them about you as you do, I shouldn't allow myself to get discouraged."
Evidently she did not understand him. He was leaving her to suppose that he was moving quietly around among them dropping seed, when, in reality, he had been chatting with them about the skating and the sleighing, and the coming festival, and the recent party, and had dropped no earnest, honest seed of any sort. His honest heart shrank from bearing unmerited approval.
"I am literal in my statement," he said earnestly, "though you are kind enough to translate it figuratively. I do not feel that I am saying anything to help these young people, save as I am helping them to have a pleasant evening. I don't know how that is going to tell for the future, and I don't know what I can do to tell toward that. I cannot get one into a corner and preach a sermon to him at such a time as this; now, can I?"
"I shouldn't think it would be a good place in which to read sermons," said Louise, with smiling eyes and grave mouth. "But, then, we who never preach at all will not allow you to profess that the sermon is the only way of seed-sowing."
"I did not mean literal preaching, of course," he said, a trifle annoyed; "but what I mean is, there is no opportunity here for personal effort of any sort. I am always afraid to attempt anything of the kind, lest I may prejudice people against the whole subject. Don't you think there is danger of that?"
"Well, I don't know," Louise said thoughtfully. "If I were to talk with one of my friends who is not acquainted with you, and tell her how kind you were, and how interested in all young people, and how pleasant and helpful you were, it doesn't seem to me that I should prejudice that friend against you. Why should I feel afraid of prejudicing them against my Saviour?"
He looked at her doubtfully.
"Don't you think that young people look upon this question with different eyes from that which they give to any other? Aren't they more afraid of hearing it talked about?"
"Aren't they more unaccustomed to hearing it talked about?" was Louise's earnest answer. "Have we, as Christians, tried the experiment fully of talking freely, brightly, socially about this matter, about our joys and hopes and prospects? What do you suppose the effect would be? Suppose, for instance, Mr. Butler, you and I were in the midst of that circle across from us where there is just now a lull in the conversation, and you should say to me: 'Mrs. Morgan, what have you found to-day that affects our plans?' and I should answer: 'Why, I found that our Father loves us even better than I had supposed. I found to-day that he says he blots out our transgressions for his own sake!' I did find that to-day, Mr. Butler, and it is as news to me. He really loves us so much that, for his own sake, he forgives us. What if I should say that to you in the presence of these others?"
"They would consider us a couple of fanatics," said Mr. Butler quickly.
"Well," said Louise, with bright eyes and smiling mouth, "that, certainly, wouldn't hurt us. But why should we be called fanatics? I heard you telling what Professor Proctor says he has recently decided in regard to a scientific matter, and the young men about you listened and questioned, and didn't act as though you were a fanatic at all."
JOHN came over to her, speaking abruptly, recognizing the presence of the pastor only by a nod:—
"They want to know whether you dance."
The minister flushed over the question, as though it had been personal; but Louise laughed.
"Can't you tell them, John?"
"How should I know?" given in his gruffest tones.
"Now, John! didn't you tell me only a few days ago what you expected of me in that regard? Do you think I want to disappoint your expectations?"
"Well, then, what is the reason that you don't?"
"Mr. Butler, think of my being called upon to answer such an immense question as that at a church social. John, you will have to be my champion, and explain, if you are hard pressed, that the reasons are too numerous to be given now and here. Meantime, you may vouch for me that I have excellent ones."
John turned away, a grim smile on his face. Louise, looking after him, feeling much less bright and undisturbed than she appeared, saw that he was not displeased with her answers, but wondered uneasily what he might be enduring, in the way of banter, for her sake. She had grown to have that degree of confidence in him; she believed that he would endure something for her sake. She need not have been disturbed; there had been no bantering; Mrs. Lewis Morgan was at present held in too great respect for that. Still, John had been surprised into some abrupt admissions, which he had felt obliged to have corroborated by her.
"Does your sister dance?" had been asked him abruptly by one of the pretty visions in curls whom his eyes had been following half the evening. He had given a confused little start, and glanced instinctively at the corner where Dorothy sat, being kindly talked to by a nice old lady.
"Dorothy!" he exclaimed, a surprise note in his voice. How absurd it seemed to suppose such a thing! "No; she never dances."
"Oh, I don't mean Dorothy," and the pretty vision echoed his surprise in her voice; "I mean your brother's wife."
Then did John turn and look at her as she stood a little at one side, conversing animatedly with the minister. How pretty she was; how unlike any one that he knew! What a strange sound it had to him, that sentence, "your sister," when he applied it to this fair young woman! She was his acknowledged sister, then, in the eyes of all his people. He had not realized it before—to be sure she had called him her brother, and it had pleased him; but, at the same time, the idea that other people so spoke had not before occurred to him. It certainly was by no means an unpleasant idea. He was in danger of wandering off over the strangeness of this relation and its possible pleasantness, unmindful of the small questioner who waited.
"Well," she said inquiringly, a little laugh closing the word, "are you trying to decide the momentous question?"
"No," he said with emphasis, "she doesn't dance."
"Never!"
"Of course not."
"Dear me! Why 'of course'? You speak as if it were the unpardonable sin!" The very words that John had used in speaking of this very subject, yet he disliked this speaker for these words which slipped so smoothly from her pretty lips. All unconscious of this, however, she continued: "I shall be greatly surprised if you are not mistaken. She is from the city, and in cities all the young people dance; the old country ideas on that subject are thought to be absurd. I believe she would like a little refreshment from this dulness, and really I think she looks too sensible to have any such silly notions as some of our deacons indulge. I don't suppose you ever asked her point-blank, did you?"
John did not choose to tell how nearly he had done just this, did not choose to be catechised longer, so he turned from her with this parting sentence—
"If you are anxious about the matter, it is easy enough to ask her; she can speak for herself." And his mental addition was, with a curling lip—"She is one of their Christians!" Though why John Morgan should have any right to pass judgment upon her for disgracing a profession in which he did not believe is more than I can understand. This, however, I know—they nearly all do it.
No sooner was he left to himself than it occurred to him that he had been very emphatic; after all, what ground had he for his positive statements? He recalled the brief conversation which he had held with Louise on the subject; what had she said? Not much besides asking him a question or two. He did not believe that she ever joined in that amusement; he felt positive about it; at the same time he could not have told why he felt so. Suppose he should be mistaken? Suppose they should get up a dance here and now, and she should join them? He grew hot over the thought. "She needn't try to cajole me into her prayer-meetings or organ-mendings after that," he told himself in indignation. But then, John Morgan, why not? You believe in dancing; you know you have sneered at your mother for her views on this subject.
Never mind; whatever he believed, he assuredly did not believe in having this new sister of his take such a position before this public. A desire to have the proof of her own words, added to his feelings, sent him across the room to interrupt that conversation between her and the minister. And though she certainly did not say much, he had turned from her satisfied that "city lady though she was, that pert little yellow-curled girl would find herself mistaken."
Meantime Mr. Butler regarded the lady with a curious blending of amusement and anxiety on his face.
"Your brother has evidently assumed your defence," he said lightly; and then, as if with a sudden resolution to be earnest, he added; "I could find it in my heart to repeat and press the question that has just been asked you if I thought you were willing to enter into the discussion with me. Not—" he added, with a slightly flushing face, as she turned surprised eyes on him, "not as to why you do not dance, for of course your position and mine are answer enough to this question, but as to what reasons you give to others for taking such views of the question. I confess to you frankly that it puzzles me beyond almost any other that I meet, how to explain to those bright young girls and pleasant-faced boys, who gather in this congregational capacity every two weeks, and who are well acquainted with each other, that there is any harm in having a promenade together, for really that is all that the sort of dancing in which they indulge amounts to. Positively, when they say to me, 'What is the harm?' I am nonplussed. I feel the inconsistency, but am at an utter loss how to explain it. Now, may I ask you what you do with such questions when they are asked you?"
"Well," said Louise thoughtfully, "it depends upon the standpoint from which I am to talk; by which I mean there are various presentations of the subject. You do not expect to influence one who has no love for Christ with the same motives that you do an earnest Christian, you know."
"Certainly not; but it is from a Christian standpoint that I want you to speak now. I have some young Christians here who say to me, 'Now, Mr. Butler, what harm can there be in our dancing together occasionally, we boys and girls who know each other so well? We don't go to balls or large parties, but when we meet in this way, please tell us the harm?' And while it may be a very humiliating confession, I have never been able to answer them satisfactorily to myself. Suppose that a young girl who professed to belong to Christ should ask you the question, what would you say?"
"I should say, 'Whether, therefore, ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.' And then I should ask her to tell me how dancing could be made subservient to his glory."
"But, Mrs. Morgan, isn't that very high ground?"
"Certainly it is; is it higher than a follower of Christ ought to take?"
"Well, but the difficulty with such reasoning is that it condemns so many things which we consider innocent; for instance, that corn which Miss Dorothy and I popped the other evening, would it be possible to fit that to God's glory?"
"I find it by no means difficult," Louise said, giving him a bright smile. "I am not sure but that, while the corn popped, avenues were opened in the family which may lead to hearts, and make a road for you to lead them to your Master. I assure you that I believe even such trivialities as kernels of corn may tend to his glory. But then, if we became, as a family, infatuated with corn-popping, so that we spent our evenings away into the midnight, if not away beyond it, in popping corn, and unfitted ourselves for the next day's duties; and if some people, or occasionally one person, had been led by the popping of corn into temptation and danger and death, I should feel that you ought to use your influence against our amusement in that direction. And this world is in such a cranky state of mind that in order to use your influence against my excesses, you would have to refrain from ever popping one single kernel. Now, wouldn't you?"
"I might say," he answered, laughing, "that if you were so extremely foolish as to be led astray by such an innocent amusement as that, it was your own fault, and I was not responsible."
"And I should ask, 'Shall the weak sister perish for whom Christ died?'"
"But, Mrs. Morgan, seriously, many of our young people, or at least some of them, have so slight a knowledge of the world that they really cannot realize the possibility of persons being led astray by such causes; and where they have not wise mothers and tender fathers to influence them, in whose superior wisdom they can trust, how can I reach such?"
"There is one line of argument that ought to reach all such, I think. Take, for instance, my brother John; isn't it evident, Mr. Butler, that he doesn't consider dancing consistent with a Christian profession?"
"Oh, of course," said Mr. Butler promptly; "there is hardly an unconverted man or woman in the world who does. We are sure to find sneerers among that class, but I had always supposed that was rather because they had caught the impression from some advanced Christians, and, being always ready to sneer, were glad to have this to sneer about."
"Now, we might go off on a side issue, and try to discover where these advanced Christians got their views. But suppose we do not; suppose we grant that such is the case, what then? Have I, as a Christian, any right to indulge in that which is not in itself a duty, and which may cause me to be a stumbling-block in the way of another? Why, the argument is very old: 'By meat destroy not the work of God.' If I may not do it for meat, can I possibly see a right to do it for amusement?"
"Well," said Mr. Butler, after a long pause, "I see the line of argument; it is capable of covering very broad ground. What do you say to an unconverted person on this subject?"
"Various things," said Louise, smiling; "among others I try to persuade them to love the Lord Jesus, and then when he makes it plain to them that there are greater pleasures in store than these can give, they will be enabled even to give up dancing for his sake! If the Christian world were a unit on this question, do you really think it would give us much trouble, Mr. Butler?"
"No," said Mr. Butler gravely; "the trouble grows out of a divided host. Yet there are arguments against dancing on the side of morals and propriety, but it is exceedingly difficult to make pure-hearted young girls understand this."
"I know, and herein lies so much of the mischief; because, Mr. Butler, young men like my brother John know only too well the arguments which might be advanced in that direction.—Now, tell me, please, who is that young man who seems to stand aloof? I have noticed him several times this evening; he appears like a stranger; he is standing now, near the sitting-room door, quite alone."
"I don't know who he is," said Mr. Butler; "I have noticed him at the socials once or twice before, but I don't know his name, and can't imagine where he belongs."
"Won't you please find out for me, if you can, and introduce us?"
Thus commissioned, the minister turned away with heightened colour. Not a word had Mrs. Morgan said as to the strangeness of having a young man appear in his church socials two or three times without discovering who he was. Nevertheless an uncomfortable sense of having appeared indifferent to his flock haunted the minister as he looked about for ways and means of making the acquaintance of the stranger.
"That?" said Deacon Shirley's son, to whom he appealed. "Oh, that is young Martyn; he is a farm hand in summer, and a—well, anything he can find to be in winter. He is doing odd jobs for Mr. Capron now, on the farm, working for his board, I believe, and attending the school in the village. I don't know him. Keeps himself to himself."
"Hasn't he been to our socials before?"
"Oh yes; twice, I think. Jennie Capron has to depend on him for an escort; and so he comes in the line of his work, just as he does everything else. He doesn't seem to enjoy them much."
"Suppose you introduce me?" said the minister; and young Shirley, much amazed, complied.
Meantime, while they were making their way to his side, little Minnie Capron, who had been standing near them, sped away to the young man, who was a friend of hers, and whispered—
"Callie! O Callie! Mr. Butler has been asking Ben Shirley all about you, and he wants to be introduced to you, and they are coming now."
"All right, little one," said the young man cheerily; "only don't tell them we know it," and he received the promised introduction with a broad smile on his face.
Nobody knew better than Mr. Butler how to be genial when he chose, or, more properly speaking, when he thought of it; so young Carey Martyn, who had felt somewhat sore over the thought that even the minister had overlooked him, thawed under the bright and cordial greeting, and was presently willing to cross the room to Louise and receive another introduction.
"Mrs. Morgan wants to meet you," said the minister as they went toward her. "She specially desired an introduction."
And the young fellow's heart warmed at the idea: he was not to be quite left out in the cold, then, if he did drive Mr. Capron's horses and work for his board. That is the way in which he had interpreted the thoughtlessness of the young people. He was proud, this young man—a good many young men are, intensely and sensitively proud, about a hundred little things of which no one save themselves is thinking; and thus they make hard places in their lives which might just as well be smooth.
Mr. Butler, having performed his duty, immediately left the two to make each other's acquaintance, and went himself to hunt out a new face that he had seen in the crowd. He was beginning to feel that there were ways of making church socials helpful.
A little touch of pride, mingled with a frank desire not to sail into society under false colours, made young Martyn say, in answer to Louise's kindly cross-questioning—
"Oh no, I don't live here; my home is a hundred miles away; I am, really, only a servant."
"To be a servant, under some masters, is a very high position," Louise answered quickly. "May I hope that you are a servant of the great King?"
Then you should have seen Carey Martyn's gray eyes flash.
"I believe I am," he said proudly. "I wear his uniform, and I try to serve him."
"Then we are brother and sister," said Louise. "Let us shake hands in honour of the relationship," and she held out her fair hand and grasped the roughened one, and the young man's heart warmed, and his face brightened as it hardly had since he left his mother.
"LEWIS," said his wife, as she came to him in the hall, robed for walking, "I have a little plan: I want you to walk home with Dorothy to-night, and let me go with John; I would like to have a talk with him. But more than that, I want you to have a talk with Dorothy, and you never get opportunity to see her alone."
"O Louise!" said her husband, undisguised dismay in voice and manner; yet he tried to disguise it—he did not want her to know how entirely he shrank from such a plan.
"I don't think, dear, that it will be wise. Dorothy is at all times afraid of me, and a long walk alone with me would be a terrible undertaking in her eyes; and, besides, Louise dear, I am not like you—I cannot talk familiarly with people on these topics as you can."
"Don't talk any more than you think wise; get acquainted with Dorrie, and drop one little seed that may spring up and bear fruit. I want you to try it, Lewis."
There was something in her face and voice when she said such things that had often moved Lewis before to go contrary to his own wishes. It worked the same spell over him now; without another word of objection he turned away—though the walk home in the starlight had been a delightful prospect—and went to do what was a real cross to him.
What had he and Dorothy in common? What could they say to each other?
"What is all this?" John questioned sharply as Lewis strode out of the gate with the frightened Dorothy tucked under his arm. He suspected a trap, and he had all a young man's horror of being caught with cunningly-devised plans. He was quick-witted; if this were one of Louise's schemes to lecture him under pretence of enjoying a walk, she would find him very hard to reach.
Fortunately for her, Louise was also quick-witted. He was not one to be caught with guile, at least not guile of this sort. She answered his question promptly and frankly.
"It is a plan of mine, John: I wanted to talk with you, and it seemed to me this would be a good opportunity. You do not mind walking with me, do you?"
Thus squarely met, what was John to say? He said nothing, but he reasoned in his heart that this was a straightforward way of doing things, anyhow—no "sneaking" about it.
"Well," he said, as, after offering his arm, they walked over the frozen earth for a little in silence, "what have you got to say to me? Why don't you begin your lecture?"
"O John! It isn't in the least like a lecture; it is a simple thing, very easily said: I wish you were a Christian man; that comprises the whole story."
What a simple story it was! What was there in it that made John's heart beat quicker?
"What do you care?" he asked her.
"Why, isn't that a singular question? If I love my King, don't I want all the world to be loyal to him? Besides, if I love my friends, don't I desire for them that which will alone give them happiness?"
"What do you mean by 'being a Christian'?"
"I mean following Christ."
"What does that mean? I don't understand those cant phrases, and I don't believe anybody else does."
"Never mind 'anybody else;' what is there in that phrase which you don't understand?"
"I don't understand anything about it, and never saw anything in any one's religion to make me want to; I believe less in religion than I do in anything else in life. It is a great humbug. Half your Christians are making believe to their neighbours, and the other half are making believe not only to their neighbours but to themselves. Now you have my opinion in plain English."
And John drew himself up proudly, after the manner of a young man who thinks he has advanced some unanswerable arguments.
"Never mind 'other people's religion' just now, John; I don't want you to be like a single person whom you ever saw. I am not anxious just now to know whether you believe in religion or not. Do you believe there is such a person as Jesus Christ?"
Then there was utter silence. John, who had a hundred ways of twisting this subject, and was ready with his lancet to probe the outer covering of all professions, and who believed that he could meet all arguments with sneers; was silenced by a name. He did not believe in religion, nor in churches, nor in ministers, nor in the Bible; at least he had sharply told himself that he did not. But was he prepared to say plainly, here in the stillness of the winter night, under the gaze of the solemn stars, that he did not believe there was such a person as Jesus Christ?
Foolish disciple of a foolish infidel though he thought he was, something, he did not know what, some unseen, unrealized power, kept him from speaking those blasphemous and false words; yes, for he knew in his heart that to deny his belief in the existence of such a person would be as false as it was foolish.
He would have been glad to have had Louise advance her arguments, press the subject, be as personal as she pleased—anything rather than this solemn silence; it made him strangely uneasy.
But Louise only waited; then presently she repeated her question.
"Why, of course, I suppose so," was at last John's unwilling admission.
"Are you very familiar with his history?"
Another trying question. Why could not she argue, if she wanted to, like a sensible person? He was willing to meet her half-way; but these short, simple, straightforward questions were very trying.
"Not remarkably, I guess," he answered at last with a half-laugh.
What an admission for a man to have to make who was expected to prove why he did not believe in anything!
But Louise had apparently no intention of making him prove anything.
"Well," she said simply, "then we have reached our starting-point. I wished that you were a follower of Christ; in order to follow him, of course, you will have to know him intimately."
"Who follows him?"
The question was asked almost fiercely. Oh, if Louise could only have reminded him of his mother, could have brought her forth as an unanswerable argument against this foolish attempt at scepticism! She knew mothers who could have been so brought forward, but, alas for him! John Morgan's mother was not one of them. The minister? She thought of him quickly, and as quickly laid his name aside. He was a "good fellow," a genial man; John already half fancied him; but it would not do to bring him forward as a model of one who was following Christ. Alas, again, for John that his pastor could not have been a satisfactory pattern! She thought of her husband, and with a throb of wifely pain realized that she must not produce his name. Not, indeed, because he was not a follower, but because this unreasonable boy could so readily detect flaws, and was fiercely claiming a perfect pattern. She must answer something.
"O John!" she said, and her voice was full of feeling, "very many are, in weakness and with stumblings; but what has that to do with the subject? Suppose there is not a single honest follower on earth, does that destroy you and Christ? To point out my follies to Jesus Christ will not excuse you, for he does not ask you to follow me. John, don't let us argue these questions that are as plain as sunlight. You believe in Jesus Christ; will you study him, and take him for your model?"
"Not until I see somebody accomplish something in the world who pretends to have done so."
He said it with his accustomed sneer; he knew it was weak and foolish—was in a sense unanswerable because of its utter puerility; yet, all the same, he repeated it in varied forms during that walk, harping continually on the old key—the inconsistencies of others. In part he believed his own statements; in fact he was at work at what he had accused Christians of doing—"making believe" to himself that the fault lay all outside of himself.
Louise said very little more; she had not the least desire to argue. She believed that John, like many other young men in his position, knew altogether too little about the matter to be capable of honest argument. She believed he was, like many another, very far from being sincerely anxious to reach the truth, else he would not have had to make that humiliating admission that he was unacquainted with the character of Jesus Christ.
He talked a good deal during the rest of the way; waxed fierce over the real or fancied sins of his neighbours; instanced numerous examples, and seemed surprised and provoked that she made not the slightest attempt to controvert his statements.
"Upon my word!" he said at last, "you are easily vanquished. You have never lived in such an interesting community of Christians as this, I fancy. So you haven't a word to say for them?"
"I didn't know we were talking about them," she answered quietly; "I thought we were talking about Jesus Christ. I am not acquainted with them, and in one sense they are really of no consequence; but I do know Jesus, and can say a word for him, if you will present anything against him. Still, as you seem very anxious to talk of these others, I want to ask one question—Do you believe these traits of character which you have mentioned were developed by religion?"
"Of course not, at least I should hope not; it is the absurdity of their professions, in view of such lives, to which I was trying to call your attention."
"Well, suppose we grant that their professions are absurd, what have you and I gained what has that to do with the personal question which rests between us and Christ?"
"Oh well," he said, sneering, "that is begging the question. Of course if the life is such an important one, the fruit ought to be worth noticing. Anyhow, I don't intend to swell the army of pretenders until they can make a better showing than they do now."
It was precisely in this way that he swung around the subject, always glancing away from a personal issue. You have doubtless heard them, these arguers, going over the same ground, again and again, exactly as though it had never been touched before. Louise was sore-hearted; she began to question, miserably, as to whether she had made a mistake. Was not this talk worse than profitless? Was he not even being strengthened in his own follies? She had so wanted to help him, and he really seemed farther away from her reach than when they had started on this walk. She was glad when they neared their own gate. John had relapsed into silence, whether sullen or otherwise she had no means of knowing. They had walked rapidly at last, and gained upon Dorothy and Lewis, who were now coming up the walk.
"Good-night," said Louise gently.
"Good-night," he answered. Then, hesitating, "I'm rather sorry, on your account, that I am such a good-for-nothing. Perhaps, if I had had a specimen of your sort about me earlier, it might have made a difference; but I'm soured now beyond even your reach. I'd advise you to let me go to decay as fast as possible;" and he pushed past her into the hall, up the stairs, leaving her standing in the doorway waiting for her husband.
Meantime, in silence and embarrassment, Lewis and Dorothy had trudged along. At least he was embarrassed; he had no means of knowing what she was feeling, save that the hand which rested on his arm trembled. This very fact disturbed him; why had she need to be afraid of him? Was he a monster, that she should shrink and tremble whenever he spoke to her? Still, conscience told him plainly that he had never exerted himself greatly to make her feel at ease with him. Then he fell to thinking over her emotionless weariness of a life. What was there for her anywhere in the future more than in the present? She would, probably, stagnate early, if the process were not already completed, and settle down into hopeless listlessness. Much he knew about life, especially the life of a girl not yet nearly out of her teens!
Still his view of it gave him a feeling of unutterable pity for the sister of whom he had hitherto thought but little connectedly, except to admit a general disappointment in her. Now he began to say to himself, "What if she should awaken to a new life in Christ? What a restful, hopeful life it might give her! She will never be able to do much for him, but what wonderful things he could do for her!" This was a new standpoint from which to look at it. Heretofore he had thought of her as one who would be nothing but a passive traveller to heaven, even if she were converted, and therefore not of much consequence! Was that it? Oh no; he shrank from that way of putting it. He had really not been so indifferent as he had been hopeless. If he had put the thought into words, he would have had to admit that there had not seemed to him enough of Dorothy for Christ to save! Something very like that, at least. Still he had honestly meant to try to say a word to her. Not so much for her sake, nor even for the Master's sake, but because of his wife's eager face and earnest voice. He had determined to talk pleasantly to her, to tell her some bright and interesting thing connected with his long absences from home, and then, when he got her self-forgetful and interested, drop just a word for Christ in a very faint and faithless sort of hope that it might, possibly some time, bear fruit.
He did nothing of the sort. Some feeling, new and masterful, took possession of him, made him have a desire for fruit; made him anxious, for the sake of this desolate outlook in her life, to brighten it with Christ. So the first words he spoke, and they were spoken very soon after the walk commenced, were,—
"Do you know, Dorothy, I can't help wishing with all my heart that you belonged to Christ!"
Then the hand on his arm trembled violently; and while he was thinking how he should quiet her tremor, and chiding himself for having been so abrupt, Dorothy made answer with a burst of tears,—
"O Lewis, I never wished anything so much in my life! Will you show me how?"
"Did you know how Dorothy felt?" Lewis said, beginning the moment the door of their room closed on himself and wife. There was a new look on his face, an eager, almost an exalted look, and a ring in his voice that made Louise turn and regard him half curiously as she said,—
"Nothing beyond the fact that she has seemed to me very impressible for a day or two, and that I have had strong faith in praying for her. Why?"
"Why, Louise, she melted right down at the first word. She is very deeply impressed, and wonderfully in earnest; and I half believe she is a Christian' at this moment. I found her in bewilderment as to just what conversion meant, but she grasped at my explanation like one who saw with the eyes of her soul. I was so surprised and humiliated and grateful!"
All these phases of emotion showed in his prayer. Louise, who had believed him much in earnest for years, had never heard him pray as he did that evening for his sister Dorothy. As she listened and joined in the petitions, her faith, too, grew strong to grasp the thought that there was a new name written in heaven that night and rejoiced over among the angels. And yet her heart was sad. In vain she chid it for ungratefulness, and dimly suspected selfish motives at the bottom. But it did seem so strange to her that John, for whom she had felt such a constantly increasing anxiety, for whom she had prayed as she could not pray even for Dorothy, held aloof, and was even farther away to-night than she had felt him to be before; and Dorothy, at a word from the brother who had hardly given her two connected thoughts for years, had come joyfully into the kingdom!
Was Louise jealous? She would have been shocked at the thought; and yet, in what strange and subtle ways the tempter can lend us unawares, even when we believe ourselves to be almost in a line with Christ.