"My dear Little Bessie,—"Tell your mother I scorned her advice the day we were caught in the rain, and paid well for my folly, for I was very ill; but there was a good, kind doctor, who came and cured me, and now he is going to 'take care of me and my money, and make me behave myself.' Hethinks he can make the 'kitchen lady' less of a mad-cap; but I do not know but that my long illness has done that already. While I lay sick, I had time to think, and to feel sorry that I had acted so wildly and foolishly as to leave myself without a true friend in the world. I shall never forget you, Bessie, and I hope you will sometimes think kindly of me, and that you may do so, will you ask your mother to let you wear this bracelet in remembrance ofClara Adams."
"My dear Little Bessie,—
"Tell your mother I scorned her advice the day we were caught in the rain, and paid well for my folly, for I was very ill; but there was a good, kind doctor, who came and cured me, and now he is going to 'take care of me and my money, and make me behave myself.' Hethinks he can make the 'kitchen lady' less of a mad-cap; but I do not know but that my long illness has done that already. While I lay sick, I had time to think, and to feel sorry that I had acted so wildly and foolishly as to leave myself without a true friend in the world. I shall never forget you, Bessie, and I hope you will sometimes think kindly of me, and that you may do so, will you ask your mother to let you wear this bracelet in remembrance of
Clara Adams."
The little parcel contained a very beautiful and expensive bracelet with a clasp which made it smaller or larger, according to the size of the arm of the wearer.
But Mrs. Bradford did not think it a suitable thing for her little girl, and she told Bessie she should put it away till she was grown up.
"I sha'n't wear it then, mamma," said Bessie; "she never sent Maggie one, and I don't want to wear what she don't. We can bothlook at it sometimes, and then we can both think of Miss Adams: but we can't both wear it, and we don't want to be dresseddifferent alike."
T"THERE comes mamma with Mamie Stone," said Maggie, as they were going back to the hotel with Colonel and Mrs. Rush.
When Mamie saw the little girls, she ran to meet them, saying she was going home to spend the morning with them; and Mrs. Bradford took them all back with her. While Maggie and Bessie said their lessons, Mamie amused herself with Franky and Nellie and the baby; and she was delighted when nurse made her sit down on the floor, and putting the baby in her lap, let her hold her for a few minutes. Afterwards they all had a good play together, a doll's tea-party, and a fine swing.
Mamie stayed to dinner, and was very good all day; and very soon after dinner, Mr.Stone came to take his daughter home. He was a grave, serious man, and it was rather unusual to see him with such a bright smile, and looking so happy. He said a few words in a low tone to Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Duncan, and they seemed pleased too, and shook hands with him.
"Yes," he said, in answer to something Mrs. Bradford said to him, "I am glad of it; it is the best thing in the world for Mamie."
"What is it, papa?" said Mamie, springing forward; "have you got something for me?"
"Yes," he answered. "Will you come home and see it?"
"What is it,—a new toy?"
"The very prettiest plaything you ever had in your life," he answered, with a smile.
Mamie clapped her hands. "Can Maggie and Bessie come too?" she asked, turning to Mrs. Bradford.
"Not to-day," said Mrs. Bradford, "but they shall come soon."
Mamie went away with her father, whileMaggie and Bessie stood and watched her as she went skipping along by his side, looking very happy and eager.
But when an hour or two later they went down on the beach and found Mamie, she seemed anything but happy. Indeed, she looked as if nothing pleasant had ever happened to her in her life. She was sitting on a stone, the marks of tears all over her cheeks and now and then giving a loud, hard sob. It was more than sulkiness or ill-humor; any one who looked at the child could see that she was really unhappy. Martha, her nurse, was sitting a little way off knitting, and not taking the least notice of her.
Maggie and Bessie ran up to her. "What is the matter, Mamie?" asked Maggie.
"My nose is broken," sobbed Mamie, "and my father and mother don't love me any more."
"Oh," exclaimed Maggie, paying attention only to the first part of Mamie's speech, "how did it get broken?"
"Baby did it."
"What baby? Not ours?"
"No, an ugly, hateful little baby that's in my mother's room."
"How did it do it?"
"I don't know; but Martha says it did, and she says that's the reason my papa and mamma don't love me any more."
"Don't they love you?" asked Bessie.
"No, they don't," said Mamie, passionately. "Mamma tried to push me away, and papa scolded me and took me out of the room. He never scolded me before, and he was so angry, and it's all for that hateful little baby. Oh, dear, oh, dear! what shall I do?"
"Wasn't you naughty?" asked Maggie.
"I sha'n't tell you," said Mamie.
"Then I know you was. If you hadn't been, you'd say, 'No!'"
Mamie did not answer. Bessie walked round her, looking at her nose, first on one side, then on the other.
"I don't see where it's broken," she said. "It looks very good. Will it blow now?"
"I don't know," said Mamie. "I'm afraid to try. Oh, dear!"
"Does it hurt?" asked Bessie.
"No, not much; but I expect it's going to."
"Maybe we can feel where it's broken," said Maggie. "Let's squeeze it a little."
"I wont let you," said Mamie. "But I'll let Bessie, 'cause she's so softly."
Bessie squeezed the nose, first very gently, then a little harder, but it seemed all right, and felt just as a nose ought to feel. Then Mamie let Maggie squeeze; but she pinched harder than Bessie had done, and hurt it a little.
"Oh, you hurt! Go away!" said Mamie, and set up an angry cry.
Martha, who had been talking to Jane, rose at this. "Come, now," she said, "just have done with this. I wont have any more crying, you bad child."
"Go away!" screamed Mamie, as Martha came near; "you're bad yourself. Oh, I want my mamma!"
"Your mamma don't want you then, little broken nose. Have done with that crying."
"I'll tell mamma of you," said Mamie.
"Oh, you needn't be running with your tales now. Your mamma has got some one else to attend to."
"That's a shame, Martha," said Jane. "She's just teasing you, Miss Mamie; your mamma does care for you."
"Martha," said Bessie, "I'm glad you're not my nurse; I wouldn't love you if you were."
"There's no living with her. She'll be cured of her spoiled ways now," said Martha, as she tried to drag the struggling, screaming child away. But Mamie would not stir a step. She was in a great rage, and fought and kicked and struck Martha; but just then Mrs. Bradford was seen coming towards them.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"She's just going on this way because of the baby, ma'am," said Martha.
"Mamie," said Mrs. Bradford, "you don't look like the happy little girl who left us a short time ago."
Mamie stopped screaming, and held out one hand to Mrs. Bradford, but Martha kept fast hold of the other, and tried to make her come away.
"Let her come to me, Martha," said the lady; "I want to speak to her."
Martha looked sulky, but she let go of Mamie, and walked away muttering. Mrs. Bradford sat down on the rock and took Mamie on her lap.
"Now, Mamie, what is the matter?" she asked, kindly. "I thought I should find you so pleasant and happy."
"My nose is broken," sobbed Mamie, "and oh, dear! my papa and mamma don't love me any more. I would not care if my nose was broken, if they only loved me."
"They do love you just as much as they ever did," said Mrs. Bradford, "and your nose is not broken. How should it come to be broken?"
"There's an ugly baby in mamma's room," said Mamie. "The bad little thing did it."
"Oh, nonsense!" said Mrs. Bradford, "how could such a little thing break your nose? Even if it were to give you a blow, which I am sure it did not, that tiny fist could not hurt you much."
"Martha said it did," said Mamie.
"Then Martha told you what was not true. That is a very foolish, wicked way which some people have of telling a little child that its nose is broken, when a baby brother or sister comes to share its parents' love. And it is quite as untrue to say that your father and mother do not love you any longer. They love you just as much as they ever did, and will love you more if you are kind to the baby, and set it a good example."
"But I don't want it to be mamma's," said Mamie. "I'm her baby, and I don't want her to have another."
"But you are six years old," said Mrs. Bradford. "You surely do not want to becalled a baby now! Why, Franky would be quite offended if any one called him a baby. This morning, when you were playing with my little Annie, you said you did wish you had a baby at home, to play with all the time; and now, when God has sent you the very thing you wanted, you are making yourself miserable about it."
"But it isn't a nice, pretty baby like yours," said Mamie. "It don't play and crow like little Annie, and it don't love me either. It made a face and rolled up its fist at me."
"Poor little thing!" said Mrs. Bradford, "it did not know any better. Such very small babies do not know how to play. For some time this little sister must be watched and nursed very carefully by its mother, for it is weak and helpless; but when it is a little older, though it must be cared for still, it will begin to hold up its head and take notice, and play and crow, as Annie does. Then she will know you, and be pleased when you come, if you are kind to her. By and by you mayhelp to teach her to walk and talk. Think what a pleasure that will be! The first words Franky spoke were taught to him by Maggie, and the first one of all was 'Mag.'"
Mamie stopped crying, and sat leaning her head against Mrs. Bradford as she listened.
"But I know my father and mother don't love me so much now," she said. "Mamma did try to push me away, and papa scolded me so, and he never did it before."
"Then I am sure you deserved it. I am afraid you must have been very naughty. Now tell me all about it," said Mrs. Bradford, smoothing back Mamie's disordered hair, and wiping her heated, tear-stained face with her own soft, cool handkerchief. "Perhaps we can cure some of your troubles by talking a little about them. When your father came for you this afternoon, it seemed to me that half his own pleasure came from the thought that the baby was to bring so much happiness to you. That did not look as if he did not love you; did it?"
"No, but he was angry with me."
"Tell me what happened after you went home with him?"
Mamie put her finger in her mouth and hung her head, but after a moment she looked up and said,—
"He took me into mamma's room, and there was a woman there I did not know, and that baby was in the bed with mamma."
"And what then?"
"Mamma told me to come and see my darling little sister, and I cried and said I would not have her for my sister, and she should not stay there. And papa said I was naughty, and that woman said she would not have such a noise there, and I must go away if I was not quiet, and that made me madder. I wasn't going to be sent out of my own mamma's room for that baby. If she was its nurse, she could take it away. It hadn't any business there, and then—then—"
Mamie was beginning to feel ashamed, and to see that the most of her trouble came from her own naughtiness.
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Bradford, gently, "and then?"
"And then I tried to pull the baby away, and I tried to slap the bad little thing."
"Oh, Mamie!" exclaimed Maggie and Bessie.
"That was the reason your papa was angry, was it not?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
"Yes, ma'am. Mamma pushed me away, and papa carried me out of the room, and oh, he did scold me so! He called Martha, and told her to take me away. Then she said my nose was broken, and papa and mamma would not love me any more, because the baby had come. Oh! I would be good, if they would let me go back to mamma, and she would love me."
"She does love you just as much as ever. You see, my child, you frightened and disturbed her when you tried to hurt that tender little baby. She cares for you just as much as she did before, and I am sure she is grieving now because you were naughty, and hadto be sent away from her. And your papa, too, when you see him, only tell him you mean to be a good child, and kind to the baby, and you will find you are still his own little Mamie, whom he loves so dearly, and for whose comfort and pleasure he is always caring. I am sorry Martha has told you such cruel, wicked stories. There is not a word of truth in them, and you must always trust your father and mother. I am sure your dear little sister will be as great a delight to you as Annie is to Maggie and Bessie, and that you will learn to love her dearly; but you must be kind and loving yourself, dear, not selfish and jealous, if you should have to give up a little to baby. It was jealousy which made you so unhappy. Jealousy is a wicked, hateful feeling, one which is very displeasing in the sight of God, and which makes the person who gives way to it very miserable."
"It was Martha who made her jealous," said Maggie. "Martha is a very bad nurse; she is not fit to have the care of a child.Nurse said so, and that she told wicked stories; so she does, for I have heard her myself she is verydeceptious."
"Well," said her mother, "I hope Mamie will be too wise to mind what Martha says after this."
"I will try to be good," said Mamie, "and I do love you, Mrs. Bradford. Do you think, when the baby is older, I can hold her on my lap like I did Annie?"
"I have not a doubt of it. I cannot tell you in how many ways she will be a pleasure to you, if you teach her to be fond of you, and she will be, as your father said, the very prettiest plaything you have ever had. There comes your papa now;" and Mamie, looking up, saw her father coming towards them.
Mr. Stone looked grave and troubled, and turned his eyes anxiously towards Mamie as he spoke to Mrs. Bradford.
"Here is a little girl who thinks she has not behaved well, and wishes to tell you so," said Mrs. Bradford.
Mr. Stone held out his arms to Mamie, and in another moment she was clinging round his neck, with her face against his.
"Oh, I will be good! Will you please love me again?"
"Love you? and who ever thought of not loving you?" said Mr. Stone. "Poor little woman, you did not think your father would ever cease to love his own Mamie? Not if a dozen daughters came. No, indeed, my pet; and now do you not want to go and see your poor mamma again, and be a good, quiet girl? She is feeling very badly about you."
So Mamie went off with her father, feeling quite satisfied that her nose was as good as ever, and that her father and mother loved her just as much as they had done before the baby came to claim a share of their hearts.
OONE warm, bright Sunday morning, Mrs. Rush came over to the cottage. Old Mr. Duncan was sitting on the piazza reading to the children. On the grass in front of the porch, lay Uncle John, playing with Nellie. She shook hands with the gentlemen, and kissed the children—Bessie two or three times with long, tender kisses—and then went into the sitting-room to see their mother. There was no one there but Mr. and Mrs. Bradford.
"Mrs. Bradford," said Mrs. Rush, when she had bidden them good-morning, "I have come to ask you a favor. This is the first Sunday morning since we have been here that my husband has been able and willing to have me leave him to go to church, but to-day he is pretty well, and Mrs. Stanton has offeredme a seat in her carriage. I could not leave the colonel quite alone, and he wishes to have Bessie. Will you let her come over and stay with him while I am gone?"
"Certainly," said Mrs. Bradford. "I do not, as you know, approve of Sunday visiting for my children, except when they may be of some use or comfort, then, indeed, I should never hesitate to let them go."
"Bessie can indeed be of use, and oh! I trust a help and comfort to him. Dear Mrs. Bradford," she went on, the tears starting to her eyes, "I think, I am sure, that God's Spirit is striving with my dear husband, and he knows not where to look for help. But he has so long hardened his heart, so firmly closed his ears against all his friends could say to him, so coldly refused to hear one word on the subject, that he is now too proud to ask where he must seek it. I am sure, quite sure, that it has been your dear little Bessie's unquestioning faith, her love and trust in the power and goodness of the Almightyand, more than all, her firm belief that one for whom he had done so much, and preserved through so many dangers, must of necessity have a double share of faith and love, which has touched his heart. He is restless and unhappy, though he tries to hide it, and I think he is almost anxious to have me away this morning, that he may have her alone with him, in the hope that he may hear something in her simple talk which will show him where to go for aid. He will hear and ask from her what he will hear and ask from no one else."
"My little Bessie! That baby!" said Mrs. Bradford, in great surprise. "Do you mean to tell me that anything she has said has had power with him?"
"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Rush. "I think the first thing that roused him was one day when he was very ill, and she was in his room. She thought him asleep, and in her pretty, childish way spoke of the love she thought he had for his Saviour, and how he had been spared that he might love and serve him more andmore. Horace was touched then, and her words took hold of him I could see, though he tried to seem impatient and vexed, and would not permit me to allude to them. So it was again and again. She was always saying some little thing which would not let him forget or keep his heart closed. She was so fond of him, so pretty and sweet in all her ways, that he had not the heart to check her, even when it annoyed him. And besides, I know he could not bear that her trust in him should be shaken by the knowledge that he was not what she thought him,—a Christian. Then came the day when Bessie fell into such trouble with Miss Adams. Annie came to our room, telling of it, and of the poor child's touching repentance. Horace sat silent for a good while after Annie had gone away; at last he said, 'Poor innocent little lamb! and she is so earnestly seeking forgiveness for the trifling fault which is far more the sin of another than her own, while I—' There he stopped, and indeed it seemed as if he hadbeen speaking more to himself than to me. It was the first word I had ever heard from him which showed that he was allowing the thought of his own need of forgiveness, but I dared not speak. I felt that that baby was doing what I could not do. The tiny grain of mustard seed dropped by that little hand had taken root on a hard and stony ground, it might be; but I could only pray that the dews of heaven might fall upon it, and cause it to grow and bring forth fruit. It is years, I believe, since he has opened a Bible. He made me move mine from the table, for he said he did not want to see it about. I have almost feared he would forbid me to read it, and here I felt I must resist him. Even his wishes or commands must not come between me and the precious words in which I found so much comfort and strength. But the other day I had to leave him alone for a little while. I had been reading my Bible, and left it lying on my chair. When I came back, it lay upon the window-ledge. There had been no onethere to touch it but my husband, and he must have left his seat to reach it. With what purpose? I thought, with a sudden hope. Yesterday it was the same. I had been away for a few minutes, and when I came back, the colonel started from the window where he was standing, and walked as quickly as he could to his sofa. My Bible lay where I had left it, but a mark and a dried flower had fallen from it. I was sure now. He had been searching within for something which might help him, but was still unwilling to ask for human or divine guidance. Since then I have left it again on his table, but he has not made me move it, as he would have done a month ago. And this morning, when Mrs. Stanton sent for me, and I asked him if he could spare me, he said so kindly, but so sadly,—
"'Yes, yes, go. I fear I have too often thrown difficulties in your way, poor child; but I shall never do so again. Only, Marion, do not leave your husband too far behind.'
"Then I said I would not leave him, but he insisted, and went back to his careless manner, and said, if you would let him, he would have Bessie for his nurse this morning. I said I would ask, but he had better let Starr sit in the room, lest he should want anything she could not do. But he said no, he would have none but Bessie, and told me to send Starr at once. But I came myself, for I wanted to tell you all I felt and hoped. Now, if Bessie comes to him, and he opens the way, as he may with her, she will talk to him in her loving, trusting spirit, and perhaps bring him help and comfort."
Mr. Bradford had risen from his seat, and walked up and down the room as she talked. Now he stood still, and said, very low and gently, "And a little child shall lead them."
When Mrs. Rush had gone, Mrs. Bradford called Bessie. "Bessie," she said, taking her little daughter in her arms and holding her very closely, "how would you like to go over and take care of your soldier this morning, and let Mrs. Rush go to church?"
"All by myself, mamma?"
"Yes, dear. Do you think you will be tired? We shall be gone a good while. It is a long ride to church."
"Oh, no, I wont be tired a bit," said Bessie, "and I'll take such good care of him. Mamma, are you sorry about something?"
"No, dear, only very glad and happy."
"Oh," said Bessie, "I thought I saw a tear in your eye when you kissed me; I s'pose I didn't."
When the wagon started for church with the rest of the family, Bessie went with them as far as the hotel, where she was left, and taken to the colonel's room by Mrs. Rush.
"Now what shall I do to amuse you, Bessie?" said the colonel, when his wife had gone.
"Why, I don't want to be amused on Sunday," said Bessie, looking very grave. "Franky has his playthings, and baby has her yattle, 'cause they don't know any better. I used to have my toys, too, when I was young,but I am too big now. I mean I'm not very big, but I am pretty old, and I do know better. Besides, I must do something for you. I am to be your little nurse and take care of you, mamma said."
"What are you going to do for me?"
"Just what you want me to."
"Well, I think I should like you to talk to me a little."
"What shall I talk about? Shall I tell you my hymn for to-day?"
"Yes, if you like."
"Every day mamma teaches us a verse of a hymn," said Bessie, "till we know it all, and then on Sunday we say it to papa. I'll say the one for this week, to-night; but first I'll say it to you. It's such a pretty one. Sometimes mamma chooses our hymns, and sometimes she lets us choose them, but I choosed this myself. I heard mamma sing it, and I liked it so much I asked her to teach it to me, and she did. Shall I say it to you now?"
"Yes," said the colonel, and climbing onthe sofa on which he sat, she put one little arm over his shoulder, and repeated very slowly and correctly:—
"I was a wandering sheep;I did not love the fold;I did not love my Father's voice;I would not be controlled.I was a wayward child;I did not love my home;I did not love my Shepherd's voice;I loved afar to roam."The Shepherd sought his sheep;The Father sought his child;They followed me o'er vale and hill,O'er deserts waste and wild.They found me nigh to death;Famished and faint and lone;They bound me with the bands of love;They saved the wandering one."Jesus my Shepherd is;'Twas he that loved my soul;'Twas he that washed me in his blood;'Twas he that made me whole;'Twas he that sought the lost,That found the wandering sheep;'Twas he that brought me to the fold;'Tis he that still doth keep."No more a wandering sheep,I love to be controlled;I love my tender Shepherd's voice;I love the peaceful fold.No more a wayward child,I seek no more to roam;I love my heavenly Father's voice;I love, I love his home."
"I was a wandering sheep;I did not love the fold;I did not love my Father's voice;I would not be controlled.I was a wayward child;I did not love my home;I did not love my Shepherd's voice;I loved afar to roam."The Shepherd sought his sheep;The Father sought his child;They followed me o'er vale and hill,O'er deserts waste and wild.They found me nigh to death;Famished and faint and lone;They bound me with the bands of love;They saved the wandering one."Jesus my Shepherd is;'Twas he that loved my soul;'Twas he that washed me in his blood;'Twas he that made me whole;'Twas he that sought the lost,That found the wandering sheep;'Twas he that brought me to the fold;'Tis he that still doth keep."No more a wandering sheep,I love to be controlled;I love my tender Shepherd's voice;I love the peaceful fold.No more a wayward child,I seek no more to roam;I love my heavenly Father's voice;I love, I love his home."
"I was a wandering sheep;I did not love the fold;I did not love my Father's voice;I would not be controlled.I was a wayward child;I did not love my home;I did not love my Shepherd's voice;I loved afar to roam.
"The Shepherd sought his sheep;The Father sought his child;They followed me o'er vale and hill,O'er deserts waste and wild.They found me nigh to death;Famished and faint and lone;They bound me with the bands of love;They saved the wandering one.
"Jesus my Shepherd is;'Twas he that loved my soul;'Twas he that washed me in his blood;'Twas he that made me whole;'Twas he that sought the lost,That found the wandering sheep;'Twas he that brought me to the fold;'Tis he that still doth keep.
"No more a wandering sheep,I love to be controlled;I love my tender Shepherd's voice;I love the peaceful fold.No more a wayward child,I seek no more to roam;I love my heavenly Father's voice;I love, I love his home."
"Isn't it sweet?" she asked, when she had finished.
"Say it again, my darling," said the colonel.
She went through it once more.
"Where is that hymn?" asked the colonel. "Is it in that book of hymns Marion has?"
"I don't know," said Bessie. "Mamma did not say it out of that; but we will see."
She slipped down from the sofa, and going for the hymn-book, brought it to the colonel. He began slowly turning over the leaves, looking for the hymn.
"Why, that is not the way," said Bessie; "don't you know how to find a hymn yet? Here is the way:" and she turned to the endof the book, and showed him the table of first lines. No, it was not there. "I'll ask mamma to lend you her book, if you want to yead it for yourself," said Bessie. "She will, I know."
"No, no," said the colonel, "I do not wish you to."
"But she'd just as lief, I know."
"Never mind, darling; I would rather not," said Colonel Rush, as he laid down the book.
"Shall I say another?" asked Bessie.
"I should like to hear that one again," said the colonel, "if you do not mind saying it so often."
"Oh, no; I like to say it. I guess you like it as much as I do, you want to hear it so many times. I was glad that I learned it before, but I am gladder now when you like it so;" and the third time she repeated the hymn.
"The Shepherd," she said when she was through; "that means our Saviour,—does itnot?—and the big people are the sheep, and the children the lambs. Maggie and I are his lambs, and you are his sheep; and you are his soldier too. You are a little bit my soldier, but you are a great deal his soldier; are you not?"
The colonel did not answer. He was leaning his head on his hand, and his face was turned a little from her.
"Say, are you not?" repeated Bessie,—"are you not his soldier?"
"I'm afraid not, Bessie," he said, turning his face towards her, and speaking very slowly. "If I were his soldier, I should fight for him; but I have been fighting against him all my life."
"Why?" said the little girl, a good deal startled, but not quite understanding him; "don't you love him?"
"No, Bessie."
It was pitiful to see the look of distress and wonder which came over the child's face. "Don't you love him?" she said again,—"don'tyou love our Saviour? Oh, you don't mean that,—you only want to tease me. But you wouldn't make believe about such a thing as that. Don't you really love him? How can you help it?"
"Bessie," said the colonel, with a kind of groan, "I want to love him, but I don't know how. Don't cry so, my darling."
"Oh," said the child, stopping her sobs, "if you want to love him, he'll teach you how. Tell him you want to; ask him to make you love him, and he will. I know he will, 'cause he loves you so."
"Loves me?" said the colonel.
"Yes; he loves you all the time, even if you don't love him. I think that's what my hymn means. Even when we go away from him, he'll come after us, and try to make us love him. I know it's wicked and unkind not to love him, when he came and died for us. But if you're sorry, he wont mind about that any more, and he will forgive you. He will forgive every one when they ask him, andtell him they're sorry. The other day, when I was so wicked and in such a passion, and struck Mr. Lovatt, I asked Jesus to forgive me, and he did. I know he did. I used to be in passions very often, and he helped me when I asked him; and now he makes me better; and he'll forgive you too, and make you better."
"I fear there can be no forgiveness for me, Bessie. I have lived seven times as long as you, my child, and all that time, I have been sinning and sinning. I have driven God from me, and hardened my heart against the Lord Jesus. I would not even let any one speak to me of him."
"Never matter," said Bessie, tenderly. "I don't mean never matter, 'cause it is matter. But he will forgive that when he sees you are so sorry, and he will be sorry for you; and he does love you. If he didn't love you, he couldn't come to die for you, so his Father could forgive you, and take you to heaven. There's a verse, I know, about that; mammateached it to me a good while ago. It hangs in our nursery just like a picture, all in pretty bright letters; and we have 'Suffer little children,' too. It is 'God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life.' Mamma says the world means everybody."
"Could you find that verse for me, Bessie?" asked the colonel.
"I don't know, sir; I can't find things in the Bible,—only a few; but Jesus said it to a man named Nicodemus, who came to him and wanted to be teached. He'll teach you, too, out of his Bible. Oh, wont you ask him?"
"I will try, darling," he said.
"I'll get your Bible, and we'll see if we can find that verse," said Bessie. "Where is your Bible?"
"I have none," he answered; "at least, I have one somewhere at home, I believe, but I do not know where it is. My mother gave itto me, but I have never read it since I was a boy."
"Oh, here's Mrs. Yush's on the table," said Bessie; "she always keeps it on the window-seat, and she always made me put it back there; but I s'pose she forgot and left it here."
She brought the Bible, and sat down by the colonel.
"I can find, 'Suffer little children,'" she said, turning to the eighteenth chapter of Matthew. "I can yead you a little bit, if you tell me the big words: 'Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' Isn't it sweet?"
"Yes; and I can believe it," he said, laying his hand on Bessie's head; "of such is the kingdom of heaven."
Bessie turned to the fifteenth chapter of Luke. "Here's about the prodigal son," she said, "but it's too long for me. Will you please yead it?"
He took the Bible from her, and read the chapter very slowly and thoughtfully, reading the parable a second time. Then he turned the leaves over, stopping now and then to read a verse to himself.
"If you want what Jesus said to Nicodemus, look there," said Bessie, pointing to the headings of the chapters.
He soon found the third of John, and sat for a long time with his eyes fixed on the sixteenth and seventeenth verses. Bessie sat looking at him without speaking.
"What are you thinking of, my pet?" he asked at last, laying down the book.
"I was thinking how you could be so brave when you didn't love Him," she said "Didn't it make you afraid when you was in a danger?"
"No," he said; "I hadn't even faith enough to be afraid."
"And that night didn't you feel afraid you wouldn't go to heaven when you died?"
"The thought would come sometimes, Bessie,but I put it from me, as I had done all my life. I tried to think only of home and Marion and my sister. Will you say that hymn again for me, Bessie?"
"Shall I say, 'I need thee, precious Jesus'?" she asked, after she had again repeated, "I was a wandering sheep;" "I think you do need our precious Jesus."
"Yes," he said, and she said for him, "I need thee, precious Jesus."
"Shall I ask papa to come and see you, and tell you about Jesus?" she said, when her father and mother stopped for her on their way from church. "I am so little, I don't know much, but he knows a great deal."
"No, dear, I want no better teacher than I have had," said Colonel Rush.
"Who?" asked Bessie.
But the colonel only kissed her, and told her not to keep her father and mother waiting; and so she went away.
But that afternoon there came a little note to Mr. Bradford from Mrs. Rush:—
"Dear Friend,—"Can you come to my husband? He has opened his heart to me, and asked for you."Marion Rush."
"Dear Friend,—
"Can you come to my husband? He has opened his heart to me, and asked for you.
"Marion Rush."
Mr. Bradford went over directly.
The colonel looked pale and worn, and had a tired, anxious expression in his eye. But after Mr. Bradford came in, he talked of everything but that of which he was thinking so much, though it seemed as if he did not feel a great deal of interest in what he was saying. At last his wife rose to go away, but he called her back, and told her to stay. He was silent for a little while, till Mr. Bradford laid his hand on his arm.
"Rush, my friend," he said, "are you looking for the light?"
The colonel did not speak for a moment then he said in a low voice,—
"No; Iseethe light, but it is too far away I cannot reach to where its beams may fall upon me. I see it. It was a tiny hand, thatof your precious little child, which pointed it out, and showed me the way by which I must go; but my feet have so long trodden the road which leads to death, that now, when I would set my face the other way, they falter and stumble. I cannot even stand, much less go forward. Bradford, I am a far worse cripple there than I am in this outer world."
"There is one prop which cannot fail you," said Mr. Bradford. "Throw away all others, and cast yourself upon the almighty arm which is stretched out to sustain and aid you. You may not see it in the darkness which is about you, but it is surely there, ready to receive and uphold you. Only believe, and trust yourself to it, and it will bear you onwards and upwards to the light, unto the shining of the perfect day."
Colonel Rush did not answer, and Mr. Bradford, opening the Bible, read the 92d and 118th Psalms. Then he chose the chapter which the colonel and Bessie had read in the morning, and after he had talked a little,
"Marion," said the colonel, after some time, "do you know a hymn beginning
'I was a wandering sheep'?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Rush; and in her low, sweet voice, she sang it to him. Next she sang, "Just as I am," twice over,—for he asked for it a second time,—then both sat silent for a long while.
The rosy light of the August sunset died out of the west, the evening star which little Bessie had once said looked "like God's eye taking care of her when she went to sleep," shone out bright and peaceful; then, as it grew darker and darker, came forth another and another star, and looked down on the world which God had loved so much, till the whole sky was brilliant with them; the soft, cool sea-breeze came gently in at the windows, bringing with it the gentle plash of the waves upon the shore, mingled with the chirp of the crickets and the distant hum of voices from the far end of the piazza; but no one came near ordisturbed them; and still the colonel sat with his face turned towards the sea, without either speaking or moving, till his wife, as she sat with her hand in his, wondered if he could be asleep.
At last he spoke, "Marion."
"Yes, love."
"The light is shining all around me, and I can stand in it—with my hand upon the cross."
"Bessie," said the colonel, when she came to him the next morning, "I have found your Saviour. He is my Saviour now, and I shall be his soldier, and fight for him as long as I shall live."
530 Broadway, New York,
March, 1884.
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