A REFORM.
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth."
THROUGH many improvements had come in with the fresh growth of interest in the Sunday-school cause, Mr. Clarke had not yet seen his way clear to the establishment of regular teachers' meetings for prayer and study. Occasionally a meeting to talk over ways and means would be appointed, with the invitation extended to all interested in the school. The result of the call would be a thin attendance, the talking done by Superintendent Clarke, Deacon Griffin and Dr. Myers, with now and then a word from Deacon Holt and Mr. Earle. These proposed measures, discussed them, and then decided upon them, though, as a form, the questions might be put to vote, the popular side calling up two or three hands from the back seats.
It was some months after Mabel joined the working force of the school that one of these meetings was announced. To talk over the interests of the infant class and other matters connected with the school, Mr. Clarke had said, "Tuesday evening at seven o'clock," repeating the latter part of the announcement with considerable emphasis. Promptly at the hour Mabel Wynn was at the door. To her surprise she found it locked. She stood a moment in doubt, looking up and down the street, then seeing Lou Joslyn across the way she joined her.
"Why, Lou," she began, "is the meeting given up?"
"I think not. Why?"
"There is nobody there and the door is looked."
Lou laughed as she answered, "Oh, is that all? You are too early by half an hour!"
"That can't be," answered Mabel; "the meeting was to be at seven o'clock, and it is ten minutes after now."
"Oh, well, you see they come when they get ready. You'll soon find out. There's Deacon Griffin now; he has the key, and he will unlock the door, and go away. Deacon Holt will come pretty soon, and look in, and go away; then Mrs. Culver and Mrs. Gibson will go in, and wait, taking the opportunity to talk over the state of things in the church, and outside, too. Dr. Myers will come next, with the evening paper; he will lean against the fence and read while he waits. About half-past seven, Mr. Clarke will be on hand (he has tried the door once before you came); the deacons will come back, and a few more will drop in, and the meeting will begin."
"Dear me!" said Mabel, at the close of Lou's rattling explanation. "What shall I do? I don't like promenading up and down the street waiting for meeting to begin, and I don't like to go there and sit alone in that great forlorn room."
"I was going to call upon Mrs. Lewis," responded Lou, "but if you like, we will go in now and set a good example for the minister and the deacons."
"Is that the way you always do at your meetings?" asked Mabel, as she and Lou walked down the street toward Mr. Wynn's store, where Michael was to wait for her. "Don't any of the lady teachers ever say anything?"
"Why, no! That is, not aloud," answered Lou, laughing.
"I declare," continued Mabel. "I could hardly keep still. There were half a dozen things I wanted to ask, and one or two suggestions I should have made; but I was a newcomer, and no one else said anything, so I didn't dare."
"Well, you see," explained Lou, "when we have any plan we talk to Mr. Clarke beforehand; get things all worked up, you understand, and he pushes them through if he can. Then if any new idea comes up, we whisper it over, and somebody beckons to Dr. Myers, and he tiptoes over, listens to a whispered argument, and tiptoes back. Then pretty soon, he gets up and says, 'It has been suggested,' &c. Then we ladies nod and smile, and are very much gratified that our ideas are getting an airing."
Mabel was much amused at Lou's absurd way of putting it, though judging from the meeting she had just attended it was exactly true.
"Well," she said, "it is a queer way of doing things."
"So it is, Miss Wynn," said Mr. Clarke, coming up behind them. "Can't you and Lou bring about a reform?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Lou. "I am not of the stuff reformers are made of. New ways are so uncertain. We are all used to the old plan, and it works very well. We are pretty sure of getting our way, and I think it is the whispered consultations that bring it about."
"No doubt of it. I would not break those up for anything," responded Mr. Clarke, mischievously, as he hurried forward to overtake Deacon Holt.
One or two more meetings after the same pattern roused Mabel to action. First she talked it over with Lou, who liked her proposition "immensely," and to whom she said—
"I do not wish to push myself forward, and if you, who are an old teacher, will talk it over with the others, the lady teachers, I mean, and enlist them, I am sure we can bring it about."
"Splendid!" exclaimed Lou. "And we won't let the gentlemen know a thing about it until it is all done.
"Of course," continued the merry girl, "Mrs. Culver won't like it. She never wants us to get out of the old track."
Mabel had noticed that they all were free enough to express their opinions when they were clustered about the door or gathered in somebody's parlour, and she said to Lou— "If we only had a cozy little room where we could come together without so much stiffness, and talk over our affairs, we might get along better; but that great bare room chills everybody."
"That's so," replied Lou. "These straight, hard benches put 'yes, ma'am,' and 'no, ma'am,' into me, and scare everything else out."
Connected with the lecture room was an apartment that had been originally intended for a pastor's study, but owing to Mr. Earle's preference for a study in his own house, the room had long been unused except as a sort of lumber room. It had a bay window, the walls were unsoiled, the carpet stored away in a box, the curtains rolled up and shoved behind a book-case. The plan was to fit up this room as a church parlour. Miss Joslyn succeeded in her mission, though Mrs. Culver, as she had predicted, did not approve of church parlours, and declined to lend her assistance.
Armed with the proper authority, as well as with brooms and brushes, the other lady teachers entered upon the work of renovation. The stock in hand having been looked over, it was found that the carpet, though somewhat moth-eaten, could be made quite respectable; the curtains would do very well. Then arose the question of chairs, tables, &c. Of course the first thing thought of was a subscription or a church collection.
Now Mabel knew her father would give liberally if called upon; but she remembered the opposition she had met with when she entered upon her work, and thought it wise not to ask him, and was silent, waiting for Lou to speak. Said that young lady—
"I hate to go around and ask people for money."
"But," said Mrs. Gibson, "what will you do? We can't do it all ourselves."
"I know that," replied Lou; "but there are different grades of beggars. I don't know but it may be more respectable to beg for money, but those who go about asking for old clothes are more successful."
"I don't come at your idea yet," said Miss Fox. "Do you propose that we beg for old clothes, and sell them for money?" she asked, laughing.
"Not exactly," was the reply, and Lou proceeded at once to unfold their plan, which being approved was adopted.
In pursuance of this plan, she and Mabel sallied out the next morning to make a round of calls. Their first visit was at the house of Mr. Riggs, a wealthy manufacturer.
"Mrs. Riggs," said Mabel, "we want two chairs! We don't care for new ones, but they must be such as you would not be ashamed to have in your sitting room. They need not be alike, but must be comfortable."
It was a strange request, made without explanation; but Mr. Riggs turned at once to his wife.
"What can you spare, Lucy?"
Mrs. Riggs looked amused, and said—
"I wish, Mabel, that you had asked for the whole of the library furniture. I could spare that as well as not. I've been trying to coax Henry to get new for some time. Go in and make your selection."
"We could take the whole off your hands, and not encumber ourselves at all," responded Lou; "but we'll leave part for the next beggar."
"Well, Lucy, let the girls have what they want, and you may order the new furniture at once," and they proceeded to the library.
"What are those girls about!" exclaimed Mrs. Riggs, as they took their leave, after the easy chair and a pair of brackets had been promised.
"I'm sure I can't guess," responded the gentleman. "I should not think of trying to unravel any of Mabel's mysterious doings."
The next call was at Deacon Holt's.
"One chair here," said Mabel, as they waited upon the step. Making known their errand, they were answered by a hearty laugh from the good-natured deacon.
"Do tell! Are you girls going to set up house-keeping on your own hook?"
"You've guessed pretty close, and we want all our friends to furnish their own chairs, so that they will always be welcome."
Their requests were everywhere the same. "One or two chairs, new or old, easy and not shabby." Later in the day they all met at the new parlour to compare their lists of gifts, and found that enough had been donated to furnish the room handsomely. Mabel had instructed Michael to appear with the express wagon at four o'clock, and he was sent off with the list.
Two days later the room was ready for use. A dozen chairs, a sofa, a small round table which Mr. Riggs had added, some pictures and brackets, made a very pleasant and cosy parlour out of the old lumber room. A few camp chairs were stored in a closet, to be brought as occasion required.
Thus it happened that Westville had a church parlour.
A PRAYER ANSWERED.
"For pain is not the end of pain."
MR. TRAFTON kept a livery establishment which was extensively patronized by gay and fashionable people—people to whom the Sabbath was a day of pleasuring—and it was through this Sabbath-breaking that Henry Trafton's trial of faith was to come. It so happened that about the time of the summer school vacation they were short of help at the stables, and as Henry understood the management of horses remarkably well for a boy of fourteen, he was drafted into service. He was fond of horses and rather liked the employment, until one Sabbath morning a party wished to be driven to the lake, fifteen miles away.
"But, father," said Henry, "I can't go to-day."
"I'd like to know why?"
"Why, it's Sunday, and I must go to Sunday-school."
"Must, eh? Who says you must?" asked his father, half angrily.
"'Well, I always do. I—I never thought of driving out Sundays," said the boy, in a troubled tone.
"Well, suppose you never did think of it? The time has come now to do it. Don't let's have any nonsense about it," was the impatient reply.
Henry went to his mother with his trouble, who reasoned that it was necessary work, that it was their business, that it was a proper and useful business. He was not responsible for the way in which the party spent the day. He need not join in their frolics. And while they had their sail on the lake, he could rest in the grove and study the Bible lesson. It was very different from going for his own pleasure. If they kept horses to let, they must let them out on the Sabbath. If they let them to young Reeves to go to his mission school at the Ridge, could they refuse to drive young Golden and his friends to the lake? Should they dictate to their customers the direction and object of their drives?
This reasoning did not satisfy the boy. It was all a muddle. He could not tell exactly what would be the right way to conduct the business, and, besides, obedience to his parents was one of his strong points. If his father would not yield, he must. These were miserable Sabbaths. Sometimes he ventured to remonstrate, then his father grew angry, declaring that he should not go to Sunday-school any more even when he was at liberty.
"A pretty piece of business! Teaching a boy to set himself up for authority!"
"Father," said Henry, softly, "It is the Bible that is up for authority."
"Oh, you needn't quote Bible to me. I reckon I understand that quite as well as you do, or your saintly teacher. You have never been too nice to eat the bread or wear the clothes bought with the Sunday earnings of the horses and their drivers. Seems to me you are making extra fine distinctions. And, too, I wonder if your pious friends down there know any difference between my money and other people's? They are glad enough to have me pay twenty-five dollars for a pew that I never sit in, and in return they put nonsensical notions into your head. I believe in religion, but I don't believe in that kind. The whole concern is a humbug."
Now Mr. Trafton did not think any such thing as he indicated in his last remark. He did believe the very truths which had been put into Henry's heart through the teachings of the Sunday-school, though he had so long practically denied the gospel that it was only now and then that his conscience stirred, and then he grew bold and defiant.
Henry was very unhappy. He went to evening service, but hurried out to avoid an interview with Miss Wynn. Reaching home he went directly to his own room. He took his Bible, turned over the leaves, read a few verses here and there. There were plenty of promises, plenty of verses, that had comforted him at other times; but it seemed that there was no word for him now, and he closed the book, saying, "There's no promise to Sabbath-breakers, and that is just what I am. But father says it is not wicked, that it is necessary. And Mr. Brown came for a carriage to go to the springs this evening, and he is a member of our church. If he could go to ride instead of going to evening service, is it wrong for me to obey father and go off in the daytime? Dear me, I don't know anything about it. Anyway I can't stand it much longer. If God only would hear me."
And then the perplexed and troubled boy prayed, "O God, my Father, help me. I want to do right, but I am so miserably weak and cowardly that I am afraid to resist my father's will. O God, don't let me be so tempted. Take away my trouble. Deliver me out of this dark place. Please to show my father how wrong it is, and do not let him ask me to drive out any more upon the Sabbath." This was the burden of his prayer, not "Give me strength to follow the right," but "Deliver me out of my trouble."
Were the events of the week in answer to that prayer?
Wednesday morning Mr. Trafton said—
"Henry, a gentleman, a stranger in town, wants to go out to Crandall's. You may take the black horse and a light buggy and drive out for him."
"O father, that horse! Can't I have Lady Bess?"
"No; Mrs. Jenks wants Bess to drive out by herself this afternoon, and you will not be back in time," replied Mr. Trafton, adding, "You needn't be afraid to drive the black; he has been very sober lately. I am not afraid to trust you with him."
"Oh, I don't mind. I had a little rather drive Bess, but it's no matter."
As Henry was starting out his father said—
"See here, Henry, it is the day of the picnic, isn't it?"
"Yes," responded Henry; "but I don't care a great deal. It is a nice drive out to Crandall's. I think I shall enjoy it."
"Yell, I guess you can have the day's earnings for your lesson fund."
"Oh, that's grand! Thank you."
Henry Trafton cared very little for books; he hated study, and the weekly school reports showed a wretchedly low standing in his classes, but his knowledge of some particular branches was remarkable; for instance, natural history and physical geography. Some one once expressed surprise at this, when he responded, "I learned those things from pictures."
The walls of his room were covered with pictures; his table was strewed with them; his trunk and drawers were full; they overflowed and spread through the house; he carried them in his pocket and between the leaves of his books; pictures of all sorts and sizes, bought with his pocket-money, torn from magazines, cut from newspapers, and not a few drawn by himself, some in pencil and some in coloured crayons. It was plain that he was a lover of art. Whether he had a talent for picture making remained to be seen. He was anxious to take some lessons of an artist who had a studio in town, and his father, who thought it the merest nonsense and waste of time and money, had finally consented, provided Henry should save his pocket-money to pay for the lessons.
As the now delighted boy harnessed the spirited horse, he said, "Old fellow, the money you'll earn to-day will be a heavy lift for me. Five dollars! Whoa! You needn't prance about as if the ground wasn't good enough for you to step on. You're likely to get considerable of it into your shiny coat before night. I s'pect we'll make the dust fly, won't we, old fellow?"
In the course of that afternoon, a man came to the house to say that the horse which Henry had driven had just come panting to the stables without driver or carriage, and with part of the harness dragging, and that one of the men had gone out on horseback to look for the castaways.
"And," said the man, "I had just come from the depot with the carriage, and so I drove right up here, thinking maybe you'd want to follow. One can't tell what may have happened."
Mr. Trafton only delayed to go to the kitchen and give a few hasty orders. "You need not tell Mrs. Trafton," he said. "If anything serious has occurred, I will come or send some one to tell her."
Just as he was stepping into the carriage, Dr. Myers passed. "Here, doctor, we may need you. Just go along with us," was the abrupt invitation, which was promptly accepted.
It was a sad and almost silent party that came back two hours later. Very slowly and carefully the driver guided his horses; very tenderly Mr. Trafton supported his suffering boy, and very anxious was the expression of every face. The stranger, who had escaped with a sprain or two and a few bruises, stated that the horse had been very restive all day, but that Henry had managed him remarkably well until, on their return, frightened at a peddler's cart, he sprang down a steep bank, overturning the buggy, landing the gentleman upon the opposite bank, while Henry, holding on stoutly, was dragged some distance over brush and stones. He was insensible when picked up, but he had revived a little before reaching home, though not able to speak.
When Dr. Myers had made an examination of his patient's state, he said, "Mr. Trafton, I should like to have you call in a more experienced surgeon. I do not feel willing to take the responsibility of treating the case without counsel. If you will call Dr. Maxwell, and if his diagnosis agrees with mine, we shall all feel better satisfied."
"Tell me," began the father, and stopped, unable to ask the question.
"I do not think," replied the doctor, "that your son will die; but I tell you frankly that his injuries are very serious."
And the poor man understood then, quite as well as he did a week later when Dr. Maxwell told him, that his boy could never walk again without a crutch.
When gently and tenderly Dr. Myers told Henry the sad truth, he only said, "No matter, I don't think I shall mind so very much." Then seeing the doctor's look of surprise, he added, "I have just found out that God has his own way of answering prayers, and when we don't ask for the right thing, or forget to say, 'Thy will be done,' it seems as though he just took us at our word and gave us what we asked for, but it comes a little differently from the way we expected."
"You don't mean that you think your lying here with your broken bones is an answer to prayer! I'm sure I wouldn't pray any more in that case!" The speaker was Aunt Harriet, a sister of Mr. Trafton, who had come to help care for the sufferer. One might know by the tone in which she spoke that she knew nothing of the power of prayer.
"O auntie," said Henry, "I wouldn't stop praying, but just learn to pray right. I can't tell all that God means by this, but it puts an end to a great trouble. I had been praying over it, but I never once asked for help to follow the White Line—" (glancing at the framed motto which hung at the foot of the bed) "straight through it all. I just begged God would take away the trouble, and I rather think," he continued, smiling faintly, "that he has."
Dr. Myers interposed. "I must not let you talk too much, my boy. I think God has you in his keeping, and is leading you onward. This trial may prove the greatest blessing of your life. Good morning, now. Rest all you can."
"Blessing," muttered Aunt Harriet, as she followed the doctor into the next room for directions. "I must say it looks like it, having to hobble through life on a stick, with no chance to do anything or be anything."
"I think, Miss Trafton," responded the doctor, "that you will see it quite differently by and bye. It seems sad, but I am not sure that Henry's chances of doing and being something worthwhile are not better than they were a fortnight since. I met him three or four weeks ago, and a more discouraged, dispirited appearing boy I don't often see. He did not tell me the trouble he speaks of, but I think I guessed it. There are worse troubles than broken bones."
At the gate the doctor met Mabel Wynn. "You'd better not go in now," he said, "the boy needs rest."
"How is he to-day?" she asked.
"Improving," he replied. "And, Mabel, he looks and talks like one who has been lifted up to a higher plane than a good many of us have reached."
"Does he know?" she asked.
"Yes, I have just told him. He says it is all right. He has never uttered a complaining word from the beginning. Somehow I can't help thinking that he will grow to have a rarely beautiful Christian character."
"And I have been so anxious about him!" said Mabel. "So faithless. I have sometimes almost doubted if he really understood what it means to be a Christian. He always seemed interested and attentive; but I feared he did not comprehend the truth. And of late he has often been absent front the class, and seemed to avoid an explanation. I could not understand it at all. But," she added, after a pause, "I suppose it was not necessary that I should. God takes care of his own."
"Yes, he does," replied the doctor. "But, Mabel, he sometimes makes use of us in doing it. Perhaps your anxieties and your fears for your pupil made you more careful to explain the truth and make the way to Christ plain. Do you know, I think that motto a particularly happy thought, if they only get the sentiment into their hearts?"
Here their ways parted, and Mabel went home with a lighter heart than she had carried for many days, she had been so anxious for her pupil.
It was Saturday evening, a month after the accident. Mr. Trafton answered a ring at the door, and found it was young Golden, who had brought a basket of grapes for the invalid.
"Come in and present them yourself. Henry will be glad to see you," said Mr. Trafton.
"Thank you, I will."
Henry was now able to take a half-sitting posture, propped up by pillows, and was allowed to receive his friends. The three chatted cheerfully, even gaily, for some time. At length Mr. Golden turned to Henry.
"Well, I suppose you won't be ready to drive a party of us out to the lake to-morrow?"
The boy's cheeks flushed a little as he replied, smiling—
"Hardly."
The young man continued, turning now to Mr. Trafton—
"I would like to have a carriage to-morrow. We want to start at six. Can you accommodate us?"
"I am sorry," was the reply, "to refuse, Mr. Golden; but we have lately passed a resolution down at the office to let no more horses upon the Sabbath for secular business or pleasure excursions."
"Why, Mr. Trafton! Really—I—! You are not in earnest?"
"In serious earnest. Our notice was put in the 'Standard' this morning, and also posted on the doors at the office and the stables," replied Mr. Trafton.
"Really, this is very astonishing! What does it mean? Aren't you afraid your business will fall off seriously?" asked Mr. Golden.
"I presume it will. But you see I wanted to do something to please my boy here, and hit upon this thing."
"Too bad! I wish you could accommodate us this once. It will be a great disappointment, as our party is all made up."
"I am sorry for your disappointment," was the reply. "I meant to have got the notice in the paper early in the week, but by an oversight of Dalton's, it was omitted."
"Well, all I have to say," said Mr. Golden, half angrily, "is that you will lose by it. It is an unheard of proceeding. Mon who expect the public to patronize them must try to please the public."
At this indirect threat Mr. Trafton smiled, and replied—
"I am not obliged to continue this business. If it fails me, I can saw wood."
As the gentleman was the owner of a fine block of houses, which brought him a good rental, the danger of his being reduced to wood-sawing for a livelihood did not appear very imminent.
"Anyway," he continued, "I have decided to try the experiment."
As he came back, after showing his visitor out, Henry exclaimed—
"O father, I am so glad!"
A little while after, he said—
"I am glad I wasn't hurt on Sunday."
"So am I! It was the thought of what I must have suffered had it happened upon some of those Sabbaths when I sent you off so against your conscience that first led me to think of giving up Sunday business."
As he was bidding his father good night, Henry whispered—
"Do you know, father, what beautiful promises there are in the Bible for those who hallow the Sabbath?"
FRAGMENTS OF TALK.
"Step by step the journey's taken."
SUNDAY-SCHOOL was over. Mr. Clarke had shaken hands with the last teacher; answered the last question; smiled upon this or that group as he passed down the aisle; stopped a moment to speak a word of welcome to a new scholar; and then walked briskly up the street to overtake Miss Dare, who looked so tired to-day, as if she needed an encouraging word, a word which Mr. Clarke knew how to speak. The teachers had done their class-work for the day, whether well or ill, and gone their various ways; the sexton had closed the shutters and locked the door, but still that group of boys lingered.
A year had gone by since that Sabbath when Mabel Wynn was first sent to them. Two more had been added to their number, Arthur Knapp and Willy Loring, but one was not there, and the boys grew sad whenever Henry's name was mentioned; for it was now well understood that he would never be strong again. Arthur Knapp was a newcomer, and they had stopped to talk a little and get acquainted. Something had gone wrong with Perry Morse, and he was pulling at Herbert Bradford's sleeve, saying—
"Come, Bert; if you are going my way, come along."
"Don't be in a hurry; I want to talk a little while," replied Herbert.
Perry started down the walk, halted half-way, and turned back.
"You are so awful particular," he said, "I shouldn't think you'd think it quite the thing to stand there gossiping. Seems to me your white line has a good many curves in it. It leads you in a curious way."
"You are mistaken," responded Herbert. "The line is straight, but the trouble is, we boys get away from it—I mean I do."
"I should think you'd better speak for yourself," was the half-surly remark of Perry.
"Miss Wynn talked solemn to-day, didn't she?" broke in Willy.
"Yes, and you made a baby of yourself," said Perry, who seemed disposed to say hateful things.
Sensitive little Willy flushed and drew back, but Duncan McNair flashed out, saying—
"I tell you what it is, Perry Morse, I'd rather be a baby than a stone; and another thing, I don't think it is very good manners to be gazing about, or winking at somebody across the aisle, while Miss Wynn is talking."
"Nobody asked for your opinion upon good manners," retorted Perry.
"Come," said Herbert. "There will be a quarrel here, if we don't look-out."
"All your fault," growled Perry. "We should have been half-way home, if you had not been so slow."
Herbert gathered up his books as if about to start. A small box marked "Willing Workers" attracted Arthur's attention.
"Is that your class name?" he asked.
"Ha, ha!" laughed the provoking Perry. "Better be called 'Willing Idlers.' Class collection last month, thirty-five cents! That's a good one! I'd parade the name."
"Well," said Lewie Amesbury. "I was ashamed. Can't we do better next quarter? Let's pledge ourselves to do more."
"How much more?"
"Oh, make it the biggest of all!" said Perry.
"Suppose we calculate a little," said Lewie. "There are six of us, and twelve Sundays in quarter. Suppose we each give five cents a week—five times twelve are sixty, and six times sixty are three hundred and sixty. Three dollars and sixty cents! That would do. Miss Wynn would make it up to four dollars."
"Better make it up ourselves," said some one.
"Well, let's do it! All in favour of giving four dollars next quarter, say I."
There were fire prompt "I's."
"Arthur Knapp, why didn't you vote?" was asked.
"Because I am not sure that I can give so much," was the timid reply.
"Well, some of us will have to give more to make it up. I have plenty of money. I can put in more as well as not," said Perry, grandly.
The boys were used to his boasting and did not mind.
Lewie had a new idea. "I've heard," he said, "that it is a good rule to give one-tenth of a person's income. Who will do that—give one-tenth of all we get to the fund?"
"I will!" exclaimed one and another, until all seemed to agree.
"Well, here is the beginning," and Lewie turned out his pockets, counting his money rapidly. "Sixty-seven cents! I won't cheat the missionaries out of half a cent—here are seven cents." Duncan, following his example, handed over eleven cents to the treasurer. The rest had empty pockets, though Perry said he had five dollars at home.
"All right," said Duncan. "Hand over your fifty cents to-morrow morning. Jolly! Won't it count up?"
"I reckon you needn't count up quite so fast; I guess I see myself giving fifty cents to your eleven! I guess!"
"But that is according to the pledge."
"I don't care. I sha'n't do it. There goes Uncle John. I'll go home with him and get my dinner. Bert, you can talk until night, if you want to!"
"What is the matter with Perry to-day?" asked Lewie Amesbury.
"I don't see as anything unusual is the matter," responded Duncan. "I believe he likes to be as hateful as possible."
"Thinketh no evil," said Herbert softly.
"Well—I know, but I can't help it, he does provoke me so."
"Is not easily provoked," continued the same soft voice.
"Dear me!" said Duncan. "If you saw as much of him as I do, you'd get provoked. He never seems to care for anybody but himself, and don't mind hurting other folk's feelings one bit. A body can't stand everything."
"Beareth all things . . . Suffereth long."
"O Bert, you are determined to throw that lesson at me in pieces. Well, I own I haven't much of that precious article so much talked about to-day. I know people who do deal largely in it, get on a great deal better; somehow it smooths off a great many sharp edges. But when I can see as plain as day that a person means to be hateful (I am not talking about Perry Morse now), or says things that aren't true, or is tricky and dishonest, how am I going to think no evil?"
"I think Miss Wynn explained that a great deal better than I can," said Herbert. "You know she said we ought to have our hearts so full of love that we would be ready to think the very best of everybody; to put the best instead of the worst construction upon their acts, and remember that they may have a true motive in many things that seem to us altogether wrong."
"It was a beautiful lesson," said Willy Loring. "It made me feel as if I should never say or think evil of anybody again."
"Oh, you dear little innocent!" exclaimed Duncan. "It isn't necessary for you to turn over a new leaf. I'd like to hear you burst out with something dreadful about somebody just for once. Do you know, little one, that you are altogether too good now? Don't, I beg of you, go to getting any better. We shall all suffocate with goodness before long. But since Perry spoke of dinner I feel my need; so come on, Bert, I'll go around your way."
These two started off, leaving the others to go their ways, which they did at once.
Not long before this, the class had been talking of "opportunities," and now as they walked up the street, Herbert said to himself, "I wonder if this is my opportunity."
Duncan always seemed so careless. Could he say anything that would make him think? If Miss Wynn had failed, should he try? At length he said, not so much because he meant to use his opportunity as by way of saying something—
"Dunny, did you ever notice that, no matter what the lesson is about, Miss Wynn always brings the talk around to Christ?"
"Why, no. I never thought about it particularly," replied Duncan. "The fact is, I don't always pay attention."
"And you'll own that after the lecture you gave Perry," said Herbert.
"Oh, I just said that to give him a chance to explode. I know he was dying for an excuse. I don't pretend to do better myself," replied Duncan. "Hang it!" he continued. "I must have fun."
"But there are things that are better than fun," remarked Herbert.
"Yes, I know. Dinners, for instance!"
"Dear me," thought his friend, "he won't be serious." But he began again, this time coming to the point at once.
"Say, Danny, won't you be in earnest about following Christ?"
"Couldn't think of it at present," was the light reply. "I've got too many things on hand just now. Besides, it must be hard work. Christ was all the time going about preaching and helping folks. Everybody can't do that—somebody must stay at home; and if I should set out in earnest, I might be bothered to know whether I belonged to the preachers or the stay-at-home-ers."
"O Duncan! But don't you remember what Mr. Earle said in his sermon the other Sunday, that we could preach Christ in our homes sometimes to more purpose than we could in the pulpit?"
"I reckon my father wouldn't thank me to turn his house into a preaching chapel," said Duncan, laughing.
"But you know what he meant," replied Herbert. "Just to let our light shine."
"Well, you just go ahead with your lantern and light me along."
Herbert could not say another word, his heart was full, and presently Duncan said—
"Don't bother yourself, Bertie. Maybe some day I shall think as you do; but I really can't sober down just yet. Good-bye;" and he turned in at his father's gate.
As Herbert walked on alone, he said softly, "Dear Jesus, I wanted to do something for thee. I tried, but I failed. But I want Duncan to be thy disciple, and wilt thou send some one to say just the right word? He leads the boys at school, and if he were only a Christian, he could do so much to help others along. Don't let him slip away from the right path. Dear Saviour, hear my prayer for my friend."
Meantime Mabel and her friend Lou Joslyn walked home together. Lou taught a class of little girls—ten of them. Among them were Julia Bradford and Duncan McNair's sister Jenny. While the boys thought Miss Wynn perfection, the girls were equally certain that Miss Joslyn was the very best teacher in the world, and occasionally an excited discussion took place concerning this matter, ending of course, as such discussions generally do, each party sticking to their point. Both were earnest, faithful teachers, and they often took counsel together, comparing their experience, and laying out plans for further effort.
To-day Mabel was perplexed.
"I don't like," she said "the way our missionary collections are managed. I don't mean that the money is not taken care of and sent where it does good; but the trouble is, the scholars have no interest in the matter. Our class collection is almost nothing, and while I am mortified, I can't blame the boys, for after the quarterly report of the amount collected, they never hear anything more about it. Willy Loring asked me to-day where the money went to."
"That is just what my little girls are always asking," said Lou. "And you know it goes in with the church collection, and is divided up among the half dozen boards that we are supposed to be interested in; and where poor little Jenny's pennies finally find their destined work is more than I can tell. If I should grow pathetic over suffering Persia, or try to awaken an interest in these mission schools in Turkey, or tell them about the young Zulu that our church has undertaken to educate, Julia Bradford would be sure to ask, 'Are you certain that our money goes there?'"
"That is it," replied Mabel. "They want to know exactly what is done with it; and I wish we could have a different arrangement."
"I wish so too," responded Lou. "I did speak to Mrs. Culver about it a while ago, and she thought that it was best as it is; that the children ought to be trained to give from principle; that they understood perfectly well that it was given for the support of missionaries among the heathen, and that ought to satisfy them."
"Well," said Mabel, "that may satisfy Mrs. Culver's young ladies, but it does not satisfy my boys."
"Nor my girls; and I tell you, Mabel, we will have something done about it."
"We will try anyway," returned Miss Wynn. "I'm going to see Dr. Myers about it."
"I suppose you think it will go, if he takes hold of it," laughed Lou.
"Things generally do," was the quiet reply.
They walked on in silence for a few moments; then Lou spoke in a soft tone—
"Do you know, Mabel, I think that several of my little girls have learned the sweet lesson of trust in Jesus? I have known for a long time that Julia Bradford sang 'Jesus loves me' as if it had a meaning for her; and now there are three more who can join her. You don't know how glad I am."
"Yes, I do. I remember how I felt when Henry and Herbert made the decision," replied Mabel. "But why should the work stop there? Do you know," she continued, "I sometimes think that perhaps that motto was a mistake. I am afraid that some of the boys have fallen into the error of supposing that an outward observance of the rules and precepts which Christ laid down is sufficient. In their outward lives, they follow closely, but so far as I can judge, their hearts have not been opened to the Saviour. I try to make them understand how worthless is such service; but so far God seems to withhold his blessing. Pray for us, Lou."
"But you are aware, no doubt, that your plan will meet with opposition? Mrs. Culver, for one, will object to a change," said Dr. Myers the next afternoon, when Mabel had broached the subject of a Sunday-school missionary society.
"I know, but it seems as though the matter was of sufficient importance to warrant a moderate amount of pushing. It is very essential that our pupils be taught the right way of giving, and as the matter is at present conducted it is very difficult to interest them in the subject, especially the younger ones."
"Just so," replied the doctor. "Mr. Clarke has spoken of it, and I think we had better make a move. We will talk it over a little quietly, as we meet the other teachers, and see what can be done at the next meeting."
"Another thing," said Miss Wynn. "I am troubled about Perry Morse. He has grown very careless and reckless in manner, and I fear I am losing what little hold I have had upon him. Perhaps you may have an opportunity to influence and help him, when he would be quite beyond my reach. You will look-out for him?"
"Certainly, I will. I have noticed something of that recklessness. Perry has good capabilities, but I think his home-training is in fault. You have a new scholar in your class?"
"Yes, Arthur Knapp. Do you know anything of the family?"
"Not much," replied the doctor. "I was called there professionally. They seem to be quite poor. The father is employed in Miller's shop. He inquired about our schools, and said, as Arthur must go to a trade in the spring, he wanted to send him to a good school through the winter."
"Do they attend church?" asked Mabel.
"I conclude that they have not been church-going people. I invited them to our church, and Mr. Knapp was out last evening."
"I must call there at once," and taking the address from her friend, Mabel proceeded to carry out the intention.
Mrs. Knapp was a pale little woman, with a fretful and careworn expression. She was prepared to receive her visitor with pleasure, for Arthur had found things very much to his liking the previous day. Someway—neither of them knew how—Mabel walked right into the woman's heart, and soon found herself listening to the story of her trials, not the least of which seemed to be the boy Arthur.
"He was always a hard child to manage," said the mother. "He has a violent temper, and was always getting into trouble at school. If the boys provoked him, he would fly at them in a rage, and would just as quick fight a big boy as one of his own size; so he was always coming home with a bruised head and torn clothes, until we took him from school."
"I thought he appeared like a very pleasant boy," said Mabel.
"So he is, only when he is angry. If he could only control his temper! Sometimes I think perhaps we have not managed right. His father is very strict, and never overlooks any little fault in the children."
At this point, there came from the next room the sound of angry voices, and Mrs. Knapp stepped out to quell the disturbance.
"What is this all about?"
"Willy has put my dolly in a pail of water."
"Well! She got my pictures first, and made pencil marks on 'em."
"Helen!" said the mother. "Pick up those cards and give them to Willy."
"I sha'n't! Do it yourself!"
"No more of that! Obey me instantly, or I'll punish you," threatened Mrs. Knapp. "And, Willy, you may go out and fill the wood-box."
"I ain't ageing to fill the old wood-box. You can wait until Arthur comes," was the dutiful reply.
Mabel could not avoid hearing this colloquy, and even the mother's deep sigh reached her ear.
"The children have been out of school so long," said Mrs. Knapp, on re-entering the room, "that they have grown quite unmanageable. I must send them soon."
"I remember," said Mabel, smiling, "that I always got into mischief when I had nothing to do. Mother was always contriving things for me to do."
"But I haven't time for that," returned the mother, quickly. "There are so many things that must be done; so much that must be contrived."
Mabel was not prepared to solve the problem that vexes the lives of so many mothers—how to meet all the demands made upon them; or, if this is not possible, how to decide what shall be crowded out—so she said nothing, but soon took leave, pitying the mother and pitying the children, and wondering if there was any way to help them.
The next call was upon the Lorings. Willy was the pet and plaything of a group of grown-up brothers and sisters. These belonged to what Mrs. Wynn denominated "our circle," and were pleasant, agreeable people, without apparent thought of anything beyond the good things of this life.
"So you've coaxed Willie into your Sunday-school class!" said Louise, the gayest and prettiest of the group. "He is too good to live already."
"Well, we can't spare him just yet," said her sister Henrietta; "so don't go to making a saint of him. But, really, Mabel, aren't you a little fanatical upon that subject?"
"Hardly that," said Mabel; "though I think it a very important subject, and I am, perhaps, more interested in the work than in anything else in the world."
"Indeed!" laughed Louise. And, arching her eyebrows, she asked, "Isn't Dr. Myers still an inhabitant of this world?"
"Hush, Louise," interposed Henrietta. "Such allusions are not becoming."
"O, Mabel don't mind. But, seriously, have you declined Mrs. Granger's invitation because you would not leave your Sunday-school class?"
"That was my principal reason," replied Mabel.
"I am so sorry!" replied her friend. "It would be so pleasant to be in the city together. I shall spend the most of the winter with Cousin Fanny. Why, Mabel, think how nice it would be! Mrs. Granger moves in the highest circles!"
"I know—socially speaking—but—" Mabel hesitated. She felt, as she often did when talking with her mother, that her friends would not understand her should she explain all her motives. However, she went on after a moment's pause, "The atmosphere of Aunt Granger's home is not calculated to promote Christian growth. If I was called to go there, I should expect supplies of grace sufficient to withstand the many temptations; but if I ran away from my work here, for the sake of worldly pleasure, I should not look for God's blessing."
"Dear me! What notions you do have. If you are so anxious for work, as you call it, I suppose there is plenty in the city," said Louise almost pettishly.
"Very likely; but I might not get a chance at it; and don't you remember, Louise, that I always had a way of holding on to things?"
"Yes, I know; and I suppose there's no use in saying any more about it."
It must not be supposed that it cost Mabel Wynn nothing to decline her aunt's flattering invitation to spend six months in her beautiful home. She was fond of society, and the prospect of a whole winter in the city was very delightful; but, as she said, "she could not see her way clear to accept;" and I do not think she ever regretted her sacrifice.
HERBERT'S TRIAL.
"Stand by your conscience, your honour, your faith."
IT was a gala day in Westville. The people had gathered in crowds to attend the county fair. From "up the creek" and down the valley, from over the ridge and far up the mountain, from every nook and corner for miles around, they came in waggon-loads and car-loads. Fathers and mothers with troops of children came in family carry-alls; young men and maidens in carriages "just big enough for two," all out for a day's pleasuring.
To some of them, it was the one holiday of the year, to which they had looked forward for months. Many had brought the savings of the summer to spend in necessities or finery. Westville was full to overflowing. The fair grounds were full, the streets were full, the hotels and stores were full.
The speaker of the day announced to the few of the great crowd who could catch the words of wisdom which he poured out for a whole hour, that the "show was a success." And no doubt it was. Surely all the requisites were there—the products of farm and dairy, of orchard and garden, big squashes and overgrown pumpkins, golden butter and creamy cheese, luscious fruits and rare flowers, tidies and bed-quilts, wax fruit and feather flowers, the beautiful and the grotesque, marvels of skill, ingenuity, and patience. All trades and professions were represented; all grades of animals, from the high-bred pride of the dairy to the pet bantam chickens.
The balloon went up and out of sight of the wondering and admiring crowd. The "side shows," the steel-pen man, and the patent-rights man, and the ginger-bread and pop-corn boys, had each their share of patronage, and the merchants shared largely in the benefits of the occasion. Every clerk was at his post, with eyes and ears for half a dozen customers at once.
A showily and not very tastefully dressed girl stood at one of the counters in Mr. Wynn's store, looking over a box of nets for the hair.
"Are these the newest fashion?" she asked, holding up one of gay chenille, studded with glittering white beads.
Herbert Bradford was behind the counter, and he answered, frankly—
"No; these are not worn now. Very plain ones like this are the most stylish," and he held up a bit of fine netting that you might pack into a thimble. "But," he added, "we sell those very cheap if you like them."
"Oh, no!" quickly rejoined the girl. "If they are out of fashion, I am sure I don't want one, though the red one is powerful pretty," and she looked at it longingly; "but I want all my things right in the fashion."
Then she asked for other goods, and Herbert showed her the best styles, as he would, had it been Miss Mabel herself. Mr. Wynn was at the next counter, and watched the proceedings with disapproving glances. Finally dress silks were called for, and Herbert was about to open a drawer of new goods, when Mr. Wynn interfered.
"Excuse me, Herbert, but will you run up to the fourth story and tell Jenks to hasten, for customers are waiting? I will take your place while you are gone."
Herbert returned in time to hear his employer assuring the girl that the gay plaid silk which he had brought up from the depths of a drawer of old goods was "one of the most stylish patterns, very desirable, his own daughter had a dress nearly like it," (he should have added, "ten years ago"), "just the colours she ought to wear," and more of the same sort.
Herbert was astonished at what he heard, and more so when, after the customer had left with her gay dress-pattern, Mr. Wynn turned to him and said—
"Now, Herbert, when a customer like that comes in, it is the time to get off old goods. Those people that come from up the mountain know nothing about the styles, and we always depend upon selling our old stock out to that class of customers. That chenille net would have pleased the girl better and wore longer than the one she bought, and she would have taken it, if you had not been silly enough to tell her nobody wore them now."
"But she asked me if they were fashionable," said Herbert.
"Of course she did," returned Mr. Wynn. "They always ask such questions, and part of your business is to know how to answer them. We always have a great many of that class here upon holidays, and if you are shrewd, you may make large sales of goods desirable to be disposed of, and which will satisfy them quite as well as goods that are more constantly called for. You need not look so grave about it. Don't you see that we can sell these goods for less money, and often suit their tastes far better. And if they are satisfied, what is there wrong about it?"
Herbert made no reply, but the thought in his mind was, "I can't do it. I can't say a thing is so when it isn't."
A few days later, a similar circumstance occurred. Mr. Wynn was much displeased, and said, "I cannot allow this. If I have occasion to speak of the matter again, I shall feel obliged to ask your father to take you away."
Herbert had thought over the subject and prayed over it, and made his decision. "Mr. Wynn," he said, "I am sorry to displease you, but I think the only right way for me to do is to speak the truth, and I must do it, if I say anything."
Mr. Wynn was angry, but he was always calm and dignified; he said, quietly, "Very well; call things by whatever name you please. Your father placed you here to learn the business, but if you already know so much more than I do about the proper mode of conducting it, there is no necessity of your remaining here any longer. You are free to go at once. I will see your father this evening."
Poor Herbert! Discharged! Disgraced! He had not anticipated quite that. In resolving to do right, he had expected that God would stand by him and reward him for his faithfulness to the truth. He had asked God to show him the right way and to keep him from all evil as he walked therein. He had looked for deliverance in the hour of trial. Had God failed to hear?
He, too, had yet to learn something of God's ways of answering prayer. Mr. Bradford's office was two or three doors down the street from the store, and Herbert went at once to his father with his story, telling it in a straightforward style, without a word of exaggeration or blame. "Father, did I do right?" he asked.
Mr. Bradford hesitated. He was called an honest man; he called himself a Christian, and though less worldly-minded than Mr. Wynn, he had not Herbert's ardent love of truth, but he could not look in his boy's face and say that he preferred to have him retain his position at the expense of falsehood and trickery. When he spoke, it was with an embarrassed laugh.
"Well, Herbert, your idea about it is well enough, I suppose, but if I were a poor man, and you were depending upon your position for your bread, I should say you were rather over-nice. You will have trouble to find another place after being turned away from the largest store in town."
"I don't know as I want another place; I don't care about learning the business, if lying belongs to it," said Herbert, with some excitement.
"Tut! Tut! Boy, you mustn't be squeamish. There is considerable in the art of putting things." After a pause, he continued, "You know, Herbert, that I am not anxious about the matter. It was your own choice; I should much prefer to have you come into the office here."
As for Mr. Wynn, he was more disturbed by the event than he cared to own. He had been pleased with Herbert in most respects, and had resolved upon promoting him as fast as practicable, with a view to giving him a permanent position in the store.
"Queer, isn't it, that a fellow would spoil his prospects by such a bit of nonsense?" he said that day at dinner time. "I suspect, Mabel, it is some of your work."
"What, father?"
"Why, that boy Herbert thinks he knows all about the principles of business, and in carrying out his theories has forfeited his place, that is all."
"O father!" said Mabel, "Have you discharged him?"
"Well, yes. I tell you, Mabel, this mixing all sorts of fanciful ideas up with the matter of earning one's bread, won't answer. Herbert will find that success don't run in the same track with his sentimental religious notions. Business is one thing and religion is another."
"I confess that such seems to be the prevalent opinion," said Mabel, "but I—well, I like to see people carry their religion with them, not lay it upon the shelf. Our faith is given us to help over hard places, and if one does not keep it about him continually, it is pretty sure to be out of call when most needed. As for Herbert, if I have taught him this, I have not quite failed in my work."
"I supposed you were at the bottom of it, but I did not expect you to own it quite so readily," replied Mr. Wynn, with unusual warmth. "I don't think I shall be in a hurry to take another boy from your class."
"Well, father," responded Mabel, "all I can say is, that I have simply tried to show them what the life and teachings of Christ mean; and if Herbert has found anything required of him that conflicts with his understanding of the spirit of the gospels, you cannot wonder that he should be unwilling to conform to the requirements of the business."
"All a notion! All a notion! No need of being so strict. Besides, these people who are so over-nice, sometimes find that they have smutted their fingers in spite of their carefulness. And I can tell you that Master Herbert will find that such places are not vacant every day. He will have to drop some of his whims before he gets very high up in the world."
Mabel said softly,—
"'His delight is in the law of the Lord; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.'"
"Yes, yes! You quote Bible, but I quote facts," said Mr. Wynn.
"And don't you think that the facts will prove the Bible true."
"Of course the Bible is true, child, but not to be taken literally. Now look at old Jackson over there at the distillery. He hasn't much regard for Bible rules. I suspect that your nice distinctions between right and wrong would be quite too fine for his dull vision; but it looks very much as though the work of his hands was prospered; now don't it, Mabel?"
"That depends on what you call prosperity," replied Mabel. "I don't suppose that good Mr. Frink, old and poor as he is, would change places with Mr. Jackson. It was only the other day that, speaking of the abundance of work that had come in, he said, 'The Lord Lath dealt bountifully with me, Miss Mabel.' But I suppose that if things ended with this world, we might sometimes conclude that the wicked had the best of it. But 'riches profit not in the day of wrath.'
"Things don't come out quite straight," she continued; "but I can't help thinking that the Lord does repay, even in this life, those who delight to do him honour."
"Well, my dear, your theories are all very fine; but if you were a business man, you would find that a little coarse, rugged common sense mixes in very well in the concerns of this life."
"And is this life all?" asked Mabel.
Mr. Wynn had left the table, and at the last question, he said, with a forced laugh, something about a "woman's last word," and bowed himself out politely as ever; but, if the truth was told, he was slightly dissatisfied with himself, with Mabel, with the world generally, and especially with boys.
I suspect that he wished with all his heart that Herbert was back again in his place; for of course, he knew that the boy who braved his displeasure for the sake of the right as he saw it (that was the way Mr. Wynn put it) would make a trusty clerk. Besides, they were short of help, and now he must look-out for a new boy. What a bother these strict notions were! And what a nuisance such a tender conscience must be!
For his own part, Mr. Wynn was usually very well satisfied with his religion. It served him well as to reputation, it answered for Sundays, and, no doubt, would do for a dying day. He was willing to take the benefits of it; but as for personal work for the Master—why, that was for the ministers and deacons and women; only he couldn't see that there was any need of his daughter's enlisting in the cause.
I said he was willing to take the benefits. Of real personal religious experience, he knew very little. Once—a long time ago—he lived for a few months a different life—a life that now seemed to him like a dream. The spirit of worldliness had soon taken possession of his heart, and, gradually smothering the Christian graces that were springing up, now reigned supreme.
THE BOYS' MEETING.
"His grace descends; and, as of old,He walks with men apart,Keeping the promise, as foretold,With all the pure in heart."
THE experiment of a church parlour had proved a success. Both old and young found it a pleasant place for all sorts of church gatherings. The occasional teachers' meeting having been fully attended, and the discussions more free when held in the cosy, home-like little room, Mr. Clarke was encouraged to make regular appointments, and the teachers now met weekly for study and conference; and it could no longer be said that the talking was all done by two or three.
Here, too, teachers could meet their classes; and it was for this that Mabel Wynn came down to the church one evening about the time of Herbert Bradford's trouble at the store. She sat at the cabinet organ which had been added to the furnishings of the room, and around her were clustered the seven boys. It was not often that one was absent from this meeting—their own meeting. Mabel had long been the church organist, and of late, it was her custom to come down half an hour before the time of the Saturday evening rehearsal to meet any or all of her class.
It was an informal gathering. The boys dropped in, sometimes singly, sometimes by twos and threes, sometimes one came and went before the others appeared. It was not exactly a prayer-meeting, though there were prayers; nor exactly a conference-meeting, though many conferences were held. It was just the "boys' meeting." They talked of their trials (for boys do have trials), their perplexities, their wants, their failures and their triumphs, and they received—always sympathy, often help and counsel.
Doubtless good Mrs. Culver would have sighed over the worldliness of some of their talk, for Mabel was trying to teach these young friends of hers to put Christ into everything, to let his teachings, his words and his example get such a hold upon their young hearts, that in all their work and in all their play, the spirit of the gospel should be the controlling power.
Tonight they were all there, and as their leader played the accompaniment, they sang the hymn—
"Stand up! Stand up for Jesus!"
Then, while every head was bowed, Mabel uttered low and reverent words—
"Jesus, dear friend, we have come here to talk with Thee and with each other. Some of us have reached the hard places, and we need help and counsel. Some of us have been sorely tried, and we need help to go forward. Let our hearts be strengthened, our faltering steps steadied and upheld, and our weak faith increased. Let us realize that Thou art with us, leading our thoughts and inspiring our words. We do need Thy help, dear Christ. Answer us by Thy spirit and through Thy word. Give unto each of us as we are in need. Amen."
"Since we were here last week—" she said, taking Deacon Griffin's arm chair, while the boys took their favourite or characteristic positions—Perry Morse walked over to the further side of the room and established himself in the handsome easy chair which was a part of Mr. Riggs's gift; Willy Loring nestled upon a cushion at Mabel's feet; Herbert Bradford stood leaning against the organ, as he had done while they sang, but now he shaded his face with his hand and turned a little away from facing the boy across the room in the easy chair; the other boys formed a group around a small table—
"Since we met last week," Mabel was saying, "one of us has met a sharp trial, a temptation has been bravely met and conquered, a pleasant hope, perhaps a darling ambition, has been quietly set aside for the sake of right. You all know of the matter to which I refer; but, as I understand that there are several versions of the affair afloat, to set the matter right with you all, I will just say that Herbert lost his place simply because he refused to comply with one of the requirements which conflicted with the teachings of the gospel. There was no quarrel, no misunderstanding, just a disagreement as to the right and wrong of an established method of doing business. We must honour our friend for standing up firmly for the truth, and thank God that he gave him strength to live up to his convictions."
Turning to Herbert, "I have wanted to tell you that you have had my sympathy and my prayers. I know something of the cost of your course, of your disappointment and mortification. It has been a sore trial; but, Herbert, remember that Christ knows all about it, and he will not forget."
"Thank you," said Herbert. "It was your making things so plain that led me to take the stand I did. As you have just said, I refused to do what was required of me because I thought it was not right, not according to what Christ taught. Was that standing up for Jesus? We have sung that hymn a great many times, and I never thought much about it until tonight; now it seems as if I knew a little about what it means.
"But," he continued, after a moment's hesitation, "I don't want any of you to be deceived. I don't think I did meet the temptation very bravely. I am almost afraid I should not have had courage to do as I did, if I had thought it would turn out so. I prayed about it, and told God all my trouble; and while I promised to obey him, I asked to be shielded from the consequences, and I expected that Mr. Wynn would yield the point. I was quite astonished when I found that I was discharged. I thought God had forsaken me. I don't think so now. I believe he has only taken his own way to answer me, and that some time, I shall find out what it all means."
"It is a lesson we all have to learn," said Mabel, "this—that God does not always give us just what we ask for, because he sees a better way. Sometimes we wait long enough for the light that shows us what it all means. We are dull at learning these lessons of discipline, unless the Spirit enlightens us. But it may be that some of the whys are not meant for us to know until our trial is over. What is it, Willy?"
"I don't understand," replied the boy, whose questioning face Mabel had observed. "What did Herbert mean about standing up for Jesus? I thought that meant to speak in prayer-meeting, join the church, or maybe take his side when anybody spoke against him; but I don't see as there was anything said about Jesus or religion."
"Suppose, Willy, that your teacher, Miss Payne, gives out certain rules and counsels to guide her pupils during study and play hours, and suppose that Lewie here says to himself, 'No matter about the rules; they don't apply over on this side the fence, anyway. I shan't mind anything about them.' But you think, 'I am sure she meant us to do so and so, and I am going to carry it out;' and you both act according to your ideas and resolutions; neither of you say a word about Miss Payne, but are you not standing up for her honour and authority when you make her rule your guide?"
"I see," exclaimed Willy. "It is the principle, the truth."
"'I am the way, the truth,'" quoted Lewie.
"But, Miss Wynn—" began Willy, and stopping suddenly, his cheeks reddened.
"Well, what is it?"
"Will you please excuse me if I say something?"
"Why, that is just what we want you to do, dear boy," said Mabel kindly.
"I know; but what I want to say don't sound quite respectful—that is, I am afraid it won't."
"I understand," interrupted Mabel, smiling, "and I will excuse it. Go on."
"Well, you know the commandment says, 'Honour thy father.' Now is it just right for you to take sides against your father?"
Mabel's cheek flushed, and her voice trembled slightly, as she answered—