"I am glad you put your question, Willy. The Book says, too, 'Children, obey your parents in the Lord;' and also, 'He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.' We must, if we are Christians, put Christ first, and regulate our lives according to the tenor of the gospel, though we may sometimes be obliged in doing so to oppose the will of those in authority. The word of God is our highest authority. But in this matter, my father knows that I take Herbert's view of the right, and he does not try to bind my conscience."
"It seems to me," said Perry Morse—and his position in his great sleepy-looking chair seemed to indicate that he would be glad if somebody would take the trouble of making conscientious decisions for him—"it seems to me that older and more experienced persons should know better than us boys what is right and what is wrong, and that we ought not to set our judgment up against theirs."
But Mabel remembered that Perry had a will of his own when he chose to exercise it, and a quiet smile accompanied her reply.
"Perry, that argument would have more force if it came from a boy who was always willing to listen to the opinions of older people, and ready to heed their counsels."
The boys laughed, and Perry looked a little embarrassed, but she continued, "Suppose we take up one or two of Christ's sayings, and see how it would do to put your conscience in another's keeping. This, for instance, 'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy soul, and thy neighbour as thyself.' Who will help you to obey that command? Upon whom can you shift the responsibility, if you fail to fulfil the obligation?
"Or this, 'Do unto others as ye would that they should do unto you.' How will another's judgment or experience serve you here? Who knows so well as yourself what you would desire under the same circumstances? Of course there are times when we need the counsel and advice of our friends. But, after all, the decision rests with our own consciences. The Word and the Spirit are given to enlighten and guide; and we should keep our consciences tender and pure, that they may not fail us in the hour of doubt and temptation. Led by the Spirit, we are sure to go right, but human counsel may lead us astray."
"How shall we know for certain?" asked Willy.
"By the gospel test," answered Miss Wynn. "Bring all doubtful questions to the Book, and settle them by its measure. This is only another way of bringing out our motto.
"My dear boys," continued the teacher, after a few moments, "I am always very glad when I see you trying to order your lives according to the spirit of our chosen motto. But I am often disturbed by the fear that some of you may make a merit of your following. I want to make you understand that a mere outward observance of the precepts given us is not sufficient. Christ asks for a complete surrender of self, a laying aside of selfish motives, a belief and trust in Him as a present Saviour. To really and truly follow Christ, we must first accept the pardon he offers us. Scorning that, refusing to be first reconciled to Him, how can we render acceptable service?"
As they separated after singing again, Lewie Amesbury walked away with an incredulous look upon his face, and his thoughts ran on something in this wise: "I'm sure I don't quite know what Miss Wynn is driving at. She tells us to follow Christ, and then says it is of no account after all. As for accepting pardon, I can't see what a fellow wants to be pardoned for, if he keeps on about right. Seems to me that it's kind of an unfair thing to haul him up, when he is doing his very best, and tell him it all goes for nothing. Folks that belong to the church always talk just so. If some people that I know would try living up to the Bible, maybe they would find out whether it amounts to anything or not. I'd like to have the experiment tried in our house. Seems to me that a little following would make a pleasanter home of it."
And the incredulous look changed to one of sadness. Lewie's home was not a happy one. She who had made its brightness had several years ago been called from earth, and the woman who filled her place seemed to care very little for the comfort of the lonely boy. While professing to follow Christ, she followed the world, and unlike the mild and gentle teacher, she was harsh and uncharitable in her opinions, cold and haughty in her manner. Selfish and worldly, the religion of Christ manifested in her life did not recommend itself to her stepson.
"Oh, yes," she would say, "Mr. Earle is a very good man, no doubt, but quite too strict for the place he occupies. There are so many people of wealth and culture in our church who will not be pinned down to such narrow notions. A man who could adapt himself to the wants of the people would be more successful." As for Mabel Wynn, she was "absurd and fanatical. It must be a great trial to Mrs. Wynn to see her go on in the way she does. There's Mr. Amesbury's son Lewie. She is trying to make a saint of him, and has succeeded so well that his long face drives me half wild. Really I don't believe in making such a fuss about one's religion. I never make a parade of what little I possess."
Mrs. Amesbury has spoken for herself: We will not judge her further; but we need not be surprised that with a few exceptions, Lewie did not believe in "church member's religion." Having adopted the watchword of the class, he was in a sense trying to follow. Studying carefully the life and character of Christ, he fancied that he could model his own after that perfect pattern.
A LESSON OF WAITING.
"Shall we grow weary in our watch,And murmur at the long delay,Impatient of our Father's timeAnd his appointed way?"
"How do you like your new clerk?" asked Mrs. Wynn, as she poured out the coffee one morning few months later.
"Pretty well," replied her husband. "He is teachable and improves; he has made some good sales already. To be sure he is not quite so prompt nor so industrious as Herbert, but then few boys are. I will say that for Master Herbert, if only he had not been quite so certain that his own way was the best. It would have been a costly experiment, but I should have liked to have kept him, just to see how far he would carry his notions, and what they would amount to."
"His way? His notions?" thought Mabel. "Why don't father say God's way?" But she did not speak her thought. She know it was useless to argue the question, and she was only too thankful that her father allowed her liberty of conscience, and seldom interfered with her plans.
The new clerk with whom Mr. Wynn had just expressed his satisfaction was Perry Morse, who now filled the place made vacant by Herbert Bradford's dismissal, notwithstanding Mr. Wynn had declared his determination not to take another boy from Mabel's class. It came about naturally enough. Mr. Morse had intimate business connections with Mr. Wynn, and the vacancy occurring just us he was looking about for a position of the sort for his son, the place was easily secured, to the present satisfaction of all parties. Very likely Mr. Wynn never knew that Perry belonged to those boys, or had forgotten a resolution made in a moment of intense disgust and vexation.
Mabel had listened eagerly for the reply to her mother's question (a question she would not have put herself for a small fortune). She was not surprised at the answer. Yet some way it saddened her, and as she went up to her room when breakfast was over, the old questions came up, "Have I done all I could for my class? Why does failure seem to be written upon my work?"
She had met with many discouragements of late. Having determined to remain at her post through the winter, she had laboured diligently and prayerfully for her beloved class with little apparent success. True, Herbert went steadily forward in the path he had chosen, and quiet, thoughtful Willy was ever anxious to know and to do the will of Christ; then there was the suffering Henry, whose faith grew stronger and brighter. Surely the heart of the teacher might have rejoiced over these souls saved!
But the others seemed slipping away from her and from Christ. Satan was determined to have them, and Mabel sometimes thought that everything conspired to favour the enemy's plans. Something had gone wrong with Mr. Morse. There had been a warm debate in regard to some proposed Sunday-school measure. Perhaps it was the question of "old or young first in the distribution of library books," or it may have been in regard to the propriety of electing a lady to fill the office of assistant superintendent. I cannot say that it was not some really important question. At all events, as one of the defeated party, Mr. Morse was displeased, and declared that "if Dr. Myers was going to run the school, he would do it without any of his (Mr. Morse's) help," and by way of punishing the offenders, he absented himself. Perry had just reached the age when boys (some boys) are apt to think themselves too old to go to Sunday-school, and now that he had his father's example before him, he became very irregular in attendance.
In vain, Mabel sought him out and redoubled her efforts to interest him. He would not be interested, only when the little quiet talk among the teachers and Dr. Myers's energetic moves had done their work, and the Sabbath-School Missionary Association was formed, with Mr. Burns (a member of Dr. Myers's class) as president, Miss Joslyn secretary, and Perry Morse treasurer. He condescended to accept his appointment, and made a great display of business, but paid little attention to the main work of the hour.
As for Lewie Amesbury, he was diligent as ever, but drew his self-righteousness more closely about him, spoke bitterly of those who, proposing to live by faith and to be actuated by love for Jesus, failed in their lives to honour their Master—as he expressed it—"Keeping their religion for communion Sundays, and doing like other people the rest of the time." His interest in sacred themes, his study, his following, was all of the intellect, his heart was untouched; as Mabel said often and sadly to herself, "I cannot reach him."
With Duncan McNair, it was different. He had no interest of any sort. He came to Sunday-school sometimes with and sometimes without a lesson; he came because he liked to be with the boys, liked Miss Wynn, liked the library books, and, like every other boy in the congregation, he liked Mr. Earle. But first in his list of saints and heroes was Dr. Myers, who had once helped him out of some boyish scrape; for that matter, somebody might have a chance to help him out of a scrape almost any day, for he was generally in one. His mother had died so long ago that he scarcely remembered her. He had been petted and spoiled as well as cared for, by his grandmother, until she too, was called away when he was twelve years old. Since then, he had lived at home with his father and the housekeeper.
Judge McNair was a wealthy and influential lawyer, and a man of much culture, both intellectual and spiritual. Duncan was his only son, and of late, from being more constantly with the boy, he noticed with pain the careless habits of thought and speech which he had been suffered to acquire. He said, too, that though openhearted and generous, Duncan was wilful and passionate, and that very few people seemed to have any influence over him. From the first, Mabel was one of these few; but though he was always ready to serve her, he would not listen to serious conversation. Scenting the most distant approach to it, he brought out his keenest weapons of nonsense and adroitness, and invariably managed to turn aside every attempt at a personal appeal.
Just once that winter, Mabel grew hopeful. It was the Sabbath of the Week of Prayer. She had gone from her closet to her class; gone with the lesson not more in her mind than in her heart, and had taught as one who teaches for eternity. Duncan forgot to be nonsensical. Lewie seemed to realize that there might be a depth of meaning in their watchword which he had not fathomed, and even Perry was less alive to the importance of his official duties. Referring to the notices of religious services every evening during the week, the teacher expressed the hope that they would all attend the meetings, and was gratified at the promptness with which they responded to the request.
But it turned out that of all the class, only Herbert and Arthur Knapp were present upon Monday evening. Some trifle kept Perry away, Mrs. Amesbury sent Lewie upon an errand to her milliner, and Duncan forgot all about the meeting until it was too late; his father being out of town, he was not reminded by him as he would otherwise have been. As for Miss Wynn herself, she was detained at home by an attack of nervous headache. So it chanced that none of those four heard of a singular discussion which arose at the close of the evening's service, nor of the result. It appeared that a popular lecturer, who regarded not the appointments of the "Evangelical Alliance," proposed to occupy Tuesday evening in speaking in the hall upon a scientific subject, and Mr. Morse suggested that the meeting for that evening be given up. Though Mr. Earle and others were opposed, the majority were in favour of the arrangement, and carried that point. They argued that a great many would go to the lecture anyway who ought to go to the meeting, if there were one, and it was better to give it up entirely.
Said Mr. Earle, "If it were a question of making an appointment there might be room for hesitation, but in the case of one already made, and by us at second hand, I must protest against recalling the notice."
But, as I have said, the majority ruled, and the lecturer was sure of an audience. Strangely enough, Mr. Morse did not speak of the matter at home. It is not so very strange either, for Mrs. Morse never went out evenings, and Perry was not supposed to be interested in prayer-meetings. Ah, if we only knew sometimes what people were interested in!
"Want to go to the lecture tonight, Perry?" asked Mr. Morse at tea-time. "I'm going to get tickets. Get one for you?"
"No, sir. I've another engagement," answered Perry.
"Better give it up. This will be best one of the season."
"Well, I don't care about going," replied Perry.
And a little later, he started out to go to a prayer-meeting! As he reached the corner, he stopped suddenly, saying to himself, "Catch me stalking in there alone. I'll just run around and see if Art will go."
"Why couldn't father have told me?" he exclaimed, ten minutes later, when Arthur Knapp had explained the state of affairs.
Ah! Why couldn't he? It is safe to say that if he had, Perry might have gone to the lecture instead of a worse place, and the first downward step would not have been taken that night. And, to go a little further back, why couldn't he have been satisfied with things as they were, letting the meeting have its chance. Then, perhaps, it might have been an upward step.
Lewie and Duncan met somewhere in the street, and decided to go to meeting together, but soon learned that there was none to go to; and presently they met Miss Wynn coming from the darkened church, herself quite in the dark.
"I wonder what it means," she said. "I thought there was to be service every evening!"
"So there was," Lewie replied. "I couldn't come last night, but I came tonight, to keep my promise. But it seems that science is better than religion—for some folks," he added quickly, as Mabel said, "O Lewie!" in a troubled tone.
"Don't be cross about it," said Duncan. "If they had only known that you and I were coming, they'd had a meeting sure. We'll let them know beforehand next time. They didn't expect us out, you know."
"But I don't understand," said Mabel.
"Why, you see," replied Lewie, "Professor A. is going to demonstrate the problem of the man in the moon's mode of existence, or some other puzzle, so the meeting is given up. I suppose people can sing and pray any evening, but they can't hear Professor A., except tonight. Still I think it is queer, and the Week of Prayer, too!
"I tell you, Miss Wynn," he continued, "things are a great puzzle to me. If prayer is so important that a week is set apart for it, and the whole world turned into a great prayer-meeting, I should think that Professor A. might go without an audience, rather than the meeting be given up. It appears that it is not considered of much consequence after all. Shall we go to the lecture, Miss Wynn?"
"I think not," she replied. "We will be consistent, anyway. I am quite puzzled about the matter, but I will venture to assert that you will not find Mr. Earle, nor several others I might mention, at the hall tonight; and I have no doubt there will be a great deal of closet prayer this evening. And, Lewie, you know this doesn't prove anything against the power and importance of prayer. It may show that too low an estimate is put upon its value, but nothing more."
"Well, Lew," said Duncan, as they reached Mr. Wynn's store, where Mabel sought an escort for her homeward walk, "what are we going to do now? I'm afloat."
"Upon a sea of nothingness?" asked Lewie. "Well, I don't know, I'm sure. Hang around a spell, and then go home, I suppose."
"Hang around!" repeated Mabel to herself. "Yes, and be snapped up by Satan in some of his guises. No, that won't do," and her thoughts travelled quickly, seeking a remedy for the evil. She had intended to go directly home and spend the evening in her own room, but now she changed her mind very suddenly.
"See here," she said, "suppose we go around and spend an hour with Henry Trafton."
"All right! Superexcellent!" exclaimed Duncan. "If we can't go to prayer-meeting, we will visit the sick. What say, Lew?"
"I don't care. Yes, I'd like it," answered Lewie.
Henry, who had so far improved as to be able to move about his room by means of an invalid's chair, welcomed them warmly, and they spent a quiet evening together, safe from the vices and temptations of the street.
But where was Perry Morse? Sauntering down street, he met Nick Turner, an out-and-out loafer, who called out—
"Halloo! I say, Morse, how do you happen to be in the street this time of day?"
How the fellow dared to address Perry Morse, haughty as he generally was, in that familiar tone and manner, must remain unexplained. Almost any other time, Perry would have answered shortly, "That's my affair," and passed on; but tonight he was out of tune; he had missed the lecture for nothing, and being in search of amusement, he replied—
"I got leave of absence to go to church, because I thought that was the style; but it seems the fashion has changed, so I'm out."
"Ho! That's it! Well, just you follow me, and I'll show you a tall thing or two, that will throw your sort of fun in the shade."
A dingy back room, half a dozen boys around a table, a pack of dirty cards, a bottle and some glasses. Nick knew they waited for him, but he knew better than to take Perry Morse into that den, so he turned in at Murphy's saloon, where everything was bright and enticing. It was a rather expensive place, to be sure, but then it was not often he had such a companion, and perhaps in the end it would pay. They found dominoes and dice, and whatever else belongs to the gambler's craft, and they found cigars and liquors, and silver and cut glass, and obsequious attendance. But why try to describe the gilded haunt of sin, or recount the story of the evening? Late that evening, Perry groped his way to his room, his pockets empty and his head—well, something ailed his head—something was the matter the next morning with head, hands, and limbs. Could it have been the wine?
In vain, Miss Wynn looked for the boys of her class the next evening. Excepting Herbert and Willy, none of them appeared at church during the remainder of the week, and when she met them on the Sabbath, all signs of any special interest had vanished. Then it was that these souls resting heavily upon her, she grew weary and faint, until remembering that the work was Christ's, and that surely he must have far more interest than she could have, she took heart again, saying, softly, "In thine own time and way, O God!" Mabel was learning to wait.
THE CIRCLE BROKEN.
"Jesus, when my soul is partingFrom this body frail and weak,. . . . Thine, my Saviour,Be the name I last shall speak."
"WELL, Herbert, what are you going to do now?" asked Mr. Earle sometime during that winter. "Are you going to fit for college?"
"Oh, no!" replied Herbert. "I am going to become a merchant, of course. I shall not give up for one failure. Father is on the look-out for a position for me."
"Study the matter carefully and prayerfully, Herbert. The Lord sometimes thwarts our plans to try us, sometimes to turn us."
"Of course I make it a subject of prayer," replied Herbert.
Mr. Earle, though he had his plan and hope for the boy, did not think it wise to say more at that time, and his slight hint was quite unnoticed. Herbert, like a great many other people, had first made up his mind, and afterwards asked God to guide and direct him, which meant, if he had but known it, to help him on in the way he had chosen. But older and wiser Christians often do the same thing.
As Mr. Bradford had predicted, it was not easy to secure another desirable situation in Westville. Mr. Wynn was popular, and the other merchants thought, if they did not say it, "There must have been something back of that story. Of course, Mr. Wynn would shield the son of his friend, and they have hushed up the matter."
After one or two trials, Mr. Bradford gave up the idea of getting a place at present, and decided to send Herbert to school. Herbert was disappointed, and begged to be allowed to go to the city, where a friend had offered him a position; but his mother was an invalid, and pleaded so hard for a year or two more at home, that the offer was declined. He was a good scholar and fond of books, but had never inclined to a profession; his father wished to make him a lawyer, but he had a decided repugnance to that profession.
"A year or two longer at school will do no harm," said his mother, "and perhaps something will offer by that time."
And as it seemed the only thing to do, he pursued his studies in the same classes with Lewie and Arthur. If nothing more of good had ever grown out of his dismissal from Mr. Wynn's store, the advantage which Arthur Knapp derived from Herbert's companionship would of itself have shown that there was design in what seemed only a misfortune. Arthur's associates had hitherto been of a different stamp. He had never been placed alongside of one whose life was ordered by Christian principle. He had no idea that a boy who was trying to follow Christ could be such a pleasant companion. Gradually Herbert gained an influence over him, and his disputes (which were sure to be angry ones) with the boys grew less frequent, and he had less trouble with the teachers; rather they had less trouble with him. And as school-life grew more tolerable, the home life was less tempestuous, and frequently Arthur carried home so much sunshine that it lasted all the evening.
Then the months rolled away with few noticeable changes until the third year of Miss Wynn's connection with the class was ended. Once in the time, Herbert had gone into a store in a neighbouring town, but was soon recalled by the alarming illness of his father, and before he could be spared from the invalid's side, the vacancy was filled. But his city friend had again offered him a position, his mother had consented, and he was going soon.
Affairs had so far brightened with Mr. Knapp that he had been able to keep Arthur in school a year longer than he had expected, but he had now been some months away working at a trade.
Greater changes were coming. Things never stay long in the same position even apparently. The Lorings had just returned from the seaside, where they went in June with Willy, who was failing in health. At first there seemed to be an improvement. He sent pleasant, boyish letters to his "dear Miss Wynn," telling her of his returning strength—letters that were running over with a quiet happiness, a happiness that had its foundation in a childlike trust in the dear Saviour.
Later, he had not been so well. A note from his sister informed Mabel that "Willy wished to thank her for her kind letters, but he was not quite strong enough to write."
At last they brought him home, and Mabel, calling as soon as she learned of the arrival, was met by Miss Louise, whose sad pale face told of nights of watching and of hope almost gone.
"The doctor says he may linger until the leaves fall," she said, in answer to Mabel's inquiries; then with a passionate outburst, "O Mabel, it is cruel, cruel, to take away our darling! This is your kind, loving God!"
Mabel sat down beside her friend, offering no word of reply, no attempt at consolation, knowing too well how worse than useless are words when the soul first tastes the bitterness of death, remembering her own hour of darkness, for once in Mabel Wynn's young life, death had come very near taking away a bright earthly hope. So she waited until Louise grew calm and spoke again.
"Willy has several times said he should not get well, but we thought it a fancy, until this morning Dr. Myers told us the same. But I won't give up yet. He must get well."
"Louise, dear friend—" began Mabel.
"Oh, I know what you are going to say. You Christians talk about submission to the will of God, but I don't see that the most do not rebel quite as often as we do."
"Does Willy?" asked Mabel, softly.
"No; but he is unlike any one I ever knew. The darling! I cannot give him up. You need not talk resignation to me."
"I will not," returned Mabel. "You mistook my intention. Until you look upon God as your friend you cannot say, 'Thy will be done.' I think you will grow to feel differently; but just now I only wanted to say that in your grief, you must not forget what awaits him, how he will be welcomed in the other world, how more than all you have hoped for him here will be realized there. He is very dear to me. I have watched him ripening for the time of his ingathering, and I feel sure that he is Christ's very own."
"I know, I know he is!" exclaimed Louise. Then with sudden vehemence, "I wish I were, I wish I were!"
Mabel was startled. The bitterness with which Louise had spoken of God's dealings and her rebellious mood had seemed to indicate that she was far from desiring to have aught to do with Christ. Louise felt the want of a strong arm, and she knew that Jesus did support his followers in their hours of trial. She knew that Willy and Mabel had a source of strength which she had not, and a sudden longing to possess it came over her.
"'Come unto me,'" repeated Mabel, "'Every one.' 'Whosoever will.' You see there is only acceptance, and you may step into the kingdom and take your inheritance of love, peace, comfort and strength."
"Will you go up and see Willy now?" asked Louise, presently.
It was a quiet but cheerful interview. Willy said—
"I am glad you have come. I wanted to thank you, while I have strength, for all you have done for me. You made the way to Christ so plain that I think I found him two years ago. I have been trying to follow ever since. The white line leads to a bridge, and I have almost reached it. Sometimes people talk about the dark waters of the river of death. But Christ's love stretches all the way across. I think it is strong enough to carry me over," he said, smiling.
Mabel was not the only one who went out from the presence of the dying boy comforted and strengthened. He lingered a month or two, until dark, chilly November, and while he had strength to speak, his constant theme was Christ. Once, when his sister Louise had performed some little service for him, he said—
"Thank you, Louise. I shall not need that many times more."
"Oh, my darling!" she returned. "Why must we give you up?"
"Because Jesus wants me," he answered. Looking wistfully at her, he continued, "Ever since I learned to know Jesus, I have been praying for you particularly. I did not forget the rest, but my great longing was for you. It seemed as if you needed Christ so much."
Tears and sobs almost choked the words which Louise whispered.
"And, Willy, I sometimes think I have found Him. A great peace has lately come into my heart. I have hardly dared to hope that it is the peace of God; but it seems to grow out of a trust in His love."
"O my sister! And you'll never give up until they are all brought to Christ?"
One morning a message came. Willy was failing rapidly. Would Mabel come?
"We felt that we could not be alone to-day," said Miss Loring. "Mamma is quite overcome, and my sisters are so unused to care. If you will think for us, we shall be grateful. Send for anybody you choose."
So it happened that Mabel Wynn, who had always been friendly with the Lorings, but not intimate, stood by her beloved pupil at the last, wiped his damp brow, responded to the faint request, "Sing of Jesus," supported the fainting mother; and, finally, when Willy had fallen asleep, planned, arranged, and executed numberless minor details that somebody must always attend to when death is a guest in the house.
During the next day, she stood for a moment beside the young sleeper, when the door opened and Louise came and stood beside her.
"He was young to die," said the sister sadly.
"Yes," said Mabel. "But do you know, Louise, I cannot connect the thought of death with him. It is as though he were sleeping now, and by-and-by 'twill be as though he had just gone out of sight, and was waiting somewhere ahead for us. Dear child! He need to ask a great many questions as to what I thought about heaven. I remember one thing seemed to trouble him; he did not know anybody there, and it would all be so strange—he would feel so shy.
"I said, 'But, perhaps, before you go, you may have a great many friends there.'
"'Perhaps so,' he said.
"Then I told him that any way Jesus would be there, and he asked, 'Do you suppose that Jesus would notice a little fellow like me?'"
"Darling!" said Louise, bending over her idol. "You've received your welcome!"
The circle was indeed broken! Willy gone! Herbert and Arthur away from home. Henry rarely able to be present, and Perry coming only occasionally. Only Lewie and Duncan were regularly and promptly in their places. But, except the one for whom she had now no need to labour, Mabel still counted them hers, still sought to bring them all to Christ.
When Herbert and Arthur went away, they carried notes of introduction to Sabbath-school superintendents, and frequent letters testified of her continued interest in their welfare. Calling on Mrs. Knapp one day, that lady said,—
"Arthur writes that he hears from you sometimes. I am very glad that you take the trouble to write to him. I am sorry to say that Arthur is not as steady as we could wish. I hope he will improve, and I depend a great deal upon your influence over him."
Poor woman! She had not yet learned to depend upon Christ, and Mabel said—
"My dear Mrs. Knapp, my letters, my influence are worth very little to Arthur, compared with what a praying mother would be to him. And the rest of your children—you need Christ for them."
"I know it," said Mrs. Knapp. "There was a time, a great many years ago, when I hoped I was a Christian; but I don't know. It is a long while since I have had any religious privileges, and with so many cares, I got in the way of neglecting prayer, and reading the Bible, and now I suppose I'll just go on so."
"I hope not," said Mabel, quickly. "I come in to-day on purpose to invite you to the afternoon prayer-meeting in the church parlour. I will come around to-morrow afternoon with a friend who will take you, and I will stay with the children."
Thus smoothing the way, she gained her point. It was after spending a few hours with those ungoverned children that Mabel said (talking to herself), "How much that family need Christ!"
This was precisely the remark she had made after calling upon the Lorings. Yet the Knapps and Lorings are not the only people who turn away from Him who would supply their great need!
DUNCAN FOLLOWS HIS OWN DEVICES.
IF anyone supposes that Mabel Wynn had found a smooth and even pathway laid out for her during these years, that person is mistaken. A great many things annoyed and tried her. The atmosphere of her father's house was in a high degree worldly, and sometimes it seemed to her that all spiritual growth must be smothered. Her parents had always been very indulgent, and this fact had only made it harder to oppose their wishes when these conflicted with her ideas of duty.
If Mrs. Wynn was disturbed when Mabel quietly ripped an extra ruffle from a new costume, and laid aside an unusually gay hat, or when she chose to spend her money for Sabbath-school helps; when she declined to attend card and dancing parties, or parties of any sort, whenever they interfered with more important duties; when she put aside her aunt's invitation to spend the winter in the city, from conscientious motives—that lady considered it the climax of absurdities when the exasperating young woman refused young Mr. Golden's offer of marriage.
"I declare," she said, "Mabel Wynn, you are enough to drive one distracted! Your whims and ridiculous notions quite outweigh your common sense. You always were an absurd child, but since you got bewitched with those boys, and so mixed up with Sunday-school people, you have grown positively fanatical. I am out of all patience! What more can you want? Young, handsome, rich, of fine connections, well educated, and, I presume, moral character, and you throw it all over, for what reason nobody knows. Hard as I have worked to bring it about, too!"
"My dear mother, I am sorry that you have troubled yourself. If you had consulted me beforehand, I could have told you how utterly useless it was. But really I do not see that all your recommendations do not apply to Judge McNair, except, maybe, that he is not so very young. And as to his moral character, you have no need to take it upon presumption. I believe he is remarkable not only for strict integrity, but for earnest devotion to Christ."
"What's the use of talking! You know he is not one of my sort; but, as usual, you have won over your father, and I suppose I must consent with what grace I may. Since you won't marry Mr. Golden, and Dr. Myers is out of the question, I'd as lief it should be Judge McNair as anybody. He does rank high in his profession, that is one consolation."
And straightway, Mrs. Wynn set herself about planning and ordering an extensive wardrobe for the bride-elect. Just one more "whim" she had yet to gratify. Mabel had chosen to be married quietly at home upon Thanksgiving morning, which certainly was not quite in keeping with Mrs. Wynn's ideas. The only daughter of the rich man ought to have a grand wedding, and it was so commonplace to choose Thanksgiving. "It was only ordinary country people who did that."
"But," said Mabel, "if it is not a matter of thanksgiving, then I won't be married at all; if it is, then it must be very proper to choose that day."
And that day was chosen.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Jenny McNair, coming in from school about a week before Thanksgiving. "What a horrid lonesome house this is! It is the worst place when I come in at night after being with the girls all day. Nobody to speak to, nobody to welcome me. I wish—"
"What do you wish, my daughter?" asked Judge McNair, who unexpectedly appeared at the parlour door, while Jenny talked to herself as she threw off her wraps in the hall.
She hesitated, then spoke out quickly, with something in the tone that begged pardon for her suggestion.
"I just wish you'd get me a mamma! I'm sick and tired of living so. Nobody to fix my clothes or curl my hair, help me out with my lessons, or do anything that I want done. All the girls are talking about Thanksgiving, going to have family parties, and everything nice." Looking up, she saw a curious smile on her father's face.
"Well, Jenny," he said, "come in here, and I'll tell you something. I mean this shall be a real Thanksgiving for you and Duncan."
It was a very pleasant little talk they had, and at the close Jenny said—
"Does Dunny know?"
"Yes, I told him this afternoon," replied her father, a little sadly; however, the sad inflection escaped Jenny's notice, so busy was she with her own glad thoughts. Duncan did not appear at tea-time. Jenny wondered, and Mr. McNair looked troubled but made no remark.
As soon as his father left the house, Duncan came down from his room.
"Why, Dunny," exclaimed Jenny, "are you sick? Nancy has carried away the things. Shall I bring you some tea?"
"No!" replied Duncan, shortly, tilting his chair and thumping his head against the wall, a trick he had when he was particularly out of humour.
Suddenly Jenny remembered something pleasant.
"O Dunny, isn't it perfectly splendid?"
"What?" asked Duncan, testily.
"You needn't pretend not to understand. Papa said he had told you. Won't it be lovely?"
"Just like a girl! Bought up with a new dress, I suppose," growled Duncan.
"Why, Duncan McNair, you act as if you didn't like it."
"Well, I don't, and I didn't suppose you'd be such a goose. I think it's just mean, that's what I think," said Duncan, pounding the wall energetically.
"Well," responded Jenny, "if you knew how much I need somebody to take care of me, you wouldn't you think me a goose."
"I can take of myself," replied Duncan, adding, in an undertone, "and I will, too;" then raising his voice, "I'll tell you just what I think about this piece of business;" but as we already understand the drift of his thoughts upon the subject under consideration, we will not repeat the exposition of his sentiments, given in no very choice or gentle terms.
Finally Jenny interrupted.
"Stop, Duncan! What would Miss Wynn say if she heard you go on at that rate?"
To this, he made no sort of reply, but gathering his books together, pretended to study. Sure enough, what would she say? He was half a mind to go and tell her his trouble. It was Wednesday evening; she would be at the prayer-meeting; he could step in, and be ready to join her when the meeting closed. So strong was the prompting, that he actually started, and gained half the distance to the church, when he was met and diverted from his purpose by Perry Morse, who had tickets for some second or third rate exhibition at the Hall. At first Duncan declined the invitation, upon which Nick Turner, who was with Perry, said—
"Better come along while you have a chance. Going to have a new administration up at your house, I hear. Likely the first move will be to shut down on this sort of thing."
"I don't imagine the new administration will affect me much," replied Duncan.
"That's the kind. But we are late; come on!" And they hurried forward, Duncan with them.
The next morning Duncan said—
"Father, I really wish you would let me go to Uncle John's. This is the second special invitation I have had. And you must not blame me, but I would rather be away on Thanksgiving Day."
"I am sorry," replied his father, "that you cannot fall in with our plans. We expected that you and Jenny would be present at the ceremony, and after dinner we would all come back here together. But, perhaps, in your present mood, it may be as well for you to go. If you feel differently, you can return the first of the week. I am sorry, Duncan, that you are so unhappy about this. I had counted upon your hearty approval of my choice."
Why in the world couldn't Judge McNair have once mentioned the name of his choice?
The next morning, Duncan departed, and Jenny went with her father to call upon the future Mrs. McNair, making what excuse she could for Duncan. She came home more delighted than ever. Very busy was she during the next few days, arranging and rearranging the rooms, preparing little devices of welcome, selecting her gifts, hurrying the dressmaker and hindering everybody.
Meantime Duncan and his cousin Joe were having long talks. Duncan had recounted his troubles, and found Joe a sympathizing listener.
"I wouldn't stand it if I were you."
"I am not going to. I wish I could get something to do here in Caryl. I don't intend to go back to Westville at present."
"Do you mean that?" asked Joe eagerly.
"Yes, I mean it."
"Well, now, say; suppose we go off together! I'm sick of this place. It is awful poky anyway. I just want to see the world."
"But will your father let you go?" asked Duncan, in surprise.
"Will your father let you go?" repeated Joe, laughing.
"I sha'n't ask him."
"And I sha'n't ask him," again repeated Joe.
The next four or five days were full of planning. Wonderful were their imaginary adventures. Nu thought of failure entered their heads. Of course they must succeed. In what? In being independent, of course. Joe brought out a book filled with sketches of successful men who, when mere boys, had started out with empty pockets and determined purposes. Of course they should come out all right. If only somebody had been there to suggest to the foolish fellows that running away from good homes was not characteristic of these noble boys. How to get away without exciting suspicion was a question which required considerable study.
"How shall I ever got my trunk to the depot?" pondered Joe.
"Mine isn't half full," said his cousin. "Put your things in with mine; that will fix that part of the business, and we shall have to trust to luck for the rest."
Friday morning, Duncan started for home. As he was saying "Good-by" to his friends, Joe called out from the steps—
"Good-by all! If I don't come back, you may know that I have gone with Duncan."
As he had repeatedly declared his intention of going home with his cousin, the family finally settled upon this conclusion when he did not appear at dinner time.
Truth is, Joe Aiken was a wild boy, and used to having pretty much his own way, going and coming as he pleased; but this was the first time he had launched out so boldly for a sail upon an unknown sea. Of course their destination was New York, which they reached the same evening. Joe suggested that as they had a pretty good supply of money (he had not hesitated to help himself from his father's desk), they should spend a few days in having a good time, seeing the sights and getting acquainted with the city, meantime looking out for work.
Duncan had objected to going to New York, saying that it would be inconvenient to meet Herbert Bradford. But Joe said, "Fudge! We might stay in the city ten years and never light upon anybody we ever saw before. I can tell you there is no place like New York to get lost in. And that's what we want, isn't it?"
No place like New York to get lost in!
Duncan began to feel the truth of this before he had been there twenty-four hours; and in the little time that elapsed before he saw Westville again, he many times feared that he was lost indeed. For Duncan's heart was tender, and his affection for the home friends strong. He had left home and entered upon this mad course in a fit of angry excitement. He had known one or two second-mothers who were unworthy to hold that place, and measured all by their standard; besides, he did not like the lady whom he supposed his father was about to bring to his house; and in his blindness, he thought he was justified in his resentment and rebellion.
What those boys did, where they went, what scenes they looked upon during the days of their sojourn in the city, never exactly transpired.
Jenny once asked, "Dunny, did you go to Central Park when you were in New York?" and received for reply, "Better not ask any questions about that, Jenny. I can tell you I came pretty near going to destruction!"
DR. MYERS "LENDS A HAND."
"Now make us strong, we need Thy deep revealingOf trust and strength and calmness from above."
AT Westville, Thursday's programme was carried out. A quiet wedding, a small dinner party, after which, the newly married pair quietly established themselves in their own home.
Upon Friday, Mr. McNair received Duncan's note, which ran thus:
"CARYL. Tuesday."DEAR FATHER:—This is to say that you need not make a commotion about my coming back. It might hurt Mrs. McNair's pride to have it noised about that her son is a runaway. I think I will defer paying my respects to that lady until I have time to prepare my speech. You need not inquire for me at Caryl. I shall not be there. When I have anything worth saying, I'll write."DUNCAN."
The strong man groaned as he read this apparently heartless note.
"My poor boy! My poor foolish boy! May God help us!"
Already Jenny and her mother had begun to wonder when Dunny would come, and Judge McNair shrank from imparting the sorrowful news he had just received. If it were only possible to find him and bring him back, without ever revealing the truth; but where should he look for him—how trace him out? Where could he have gone without money?
Here a thought ran through the father's mind. Duncan had a small sum in the Savings Bank, deposited in his own name, a little legacy from his grandmother, with a few savings of his own. An inquiry brought out the fact that he had drawn this the day he went away.
There was not the slightest clue as to the direction his wanderings had taken. Possibly he might be traced from Caryl, but not likely—so the bewildered man thought; the strong man, the far-seeing lawyer, the clear-headed judge was at his wits' end. Things looked very dark to him, until he had talked it over with his wife and Jenny, who, though terribly shocked and pained, were hopeful.
"We must find him and bring him back," said Mrs. McNair. "Some one ought to go to Caryl, and see what can be learned there. He could hardly stay there four or five days, and let fall no hint of his plans."
"True, true," responded the judge, and while they were talking and planning, Nancy announced that Dr. Myers was in the parlour.
"Just the one to advise with!" said Mabel.
Going to meet his guest, who had called to pay his respects to the bride, Mr. McNair said—
"You find us in trouble," and then suddenly he asked—
"Can you leave town tonight upon a mission of great importance?"
Much astonished, the doctor replied, "Why, this is a sudden proposal; but, if necessary, I might. But to go where, and stay how long?"
"I will explain," which Mr. McNair proceeded to do, adding, "If you could start tonight, and return to-morrow noon, I could be ready to follow a clue, should you find one. The widow Fletcher's case is to be argued to-morrow, and I should not feel justified in leaving unless absolutely necessary. I could trust you."
"Thank you—I will go."
Upon taking leave of the McNairs, Dr. Myers went directly to the office of his friend and counsellor, Dr. Maxwell.
"Doctor, could you do me a favour?"
"I certainly will, if I can," replied Dr. Maxwell. "You have done me too many to allow a refusal."
Explaining that a sudden and imperative call would take him out of town for a longer or shorter period, he requested the doctor to take charge of his patients. This matter being arranged, he wrote the following note:
"MR. CLARKE:—I am suddenly called from home. Doubtful if I return for Sunday. Please look up a teacher for my class. I suggest Mrs. Bradford, but I have not time to see her."My mission is an important one. Ask God to go with me."Your brother in Christ,"L. N. MYERS."
A few more hurried preparations, and he was off by the 11 o'clock express.
The next day Judge McNair received this telegram:—
"Off for New York. Slight clue. Wait for a letter."L. N. MYERS."
A few hours later, a letter came, written on board the train:—
"DEAR FRIENDS:—I reached Mr. Aiken's house before breakfast. Found your nephew Joe had gone off with Duncan. Supposed to have returned to Westville. Left on Wednesday. Mr. Aiken and myself went to the depot to make inquiries. Neither the ticket-agent nor the baggage-master remembered them, and I was about giving up in despair, when a ragged boy with a basket of peanuts on his arm said—"'Bese you axin about Joe Aiken and another boy? 'Case Joe bought a lot of peanuts, and t'other fellow dropt his ticket, and I picks it up. It was a New York ticket, and I hollers,—"'"Here, city bug, is your ticket—'taint no good to me. I've had enough of that kind of livin'.""'It's no livin' at all, sir.'"This is all my clue, but it is all we need for the present. I trust that the way will be opened to success, just as fast as I can get over the ground. Dear friends, do not despair. God is our refuge and a very present help. If you think best to come on to New York, meet me at the Metropolitan; but unless you are too anxious to stay at home, it may be as well to wait for Monday's message. I shall post this at the next stopping place, hoping that you will get it tonight. I know your prayers are following me, and I have strong faith that I shall bring Duncan back with me."Yours,"L. N. MYERS."
Monday evening another telegram came:—
"Be of good cheer—we are on the right track."
And two days later:—
"All right; look-out for us at 6 o'clock."
In telling Mr. McNair of the search, Dr. Myers said—
"Judge, I brought your boy home; but I hate to tell you where I found him. Your pure, innocent boy had a narrow escape. Some day I should like to show him the Christian side of New York. He has seen enough of its dark side."
From long residence and several years' practice of his profession in New York, Dr. Myers knew much of the ins and outs of the city, and was prepared to follow up the slightest clue, and slight indeed that was. He had taken the 10 o'clock express from Caryl, the same the boys had travelled upon four days previous. As he was nearing the end of his journey, the thought occurred to him that possibly the conductor might remember the boys, and addressing that official upon his next round, he entered into conversation with him, and presently said—
"I would like to ask if you noticed two boys travelling over this road together on Wednesday—one a sandy-haired fellow, about fifteen years old, wearing an overcoat of the light shade so fashionable; the other a little older, with dark hair."
"Yes, I remember them," replied the conductor quickly; "and I set them down as runaways, too. Just before we got into the city, one of them, the dark-haired one—Joe, his companion called him—asked me to direct them to a respectable boarding-house, and I said, 'Boys, the best boarding-house you can find is your own home.' I did hate to see two such boys going in there alone as strangers; but I directed them to what I knew to be a decent house. This is all I can tell you about them. I conclude I guessed right, and they were runaways?" continued the man.
"Well, yes, they left home clandestinely. Will you give me the address you gave them? Possibly it may be of service. Thank you. I hope they have met with more of your sort to direct them to good places."
"May be," returned the man; "but I am afraid some of the imps of Satan have got hold of them before this." With which comforting remark, he moved on.
It was 5 o'clock Saturday afternoon when Dr. Myers stepped from the car, and taking a carriage, drove directly to the street and number given him by the conductor.
"Yes, two such boys had been there—stayed one day and left, saying it was too far up town. Didn't know where they went, or anything about them. They paid their bill, and an expressman took their trunk."
Undismayed, the doctor went to work; hunted up a detective, stated his case, adding, "Those boys are in the city, I feel sure—they must be found at any cost."
Then he sought out Herbert Bradford. To him, he said,—
"Herbert, your old friend Duncan is in this city, and I am looking for him. It seems a hopeless search, but with God's blessing, success is sure. I want you to make it a subject of special prayer, that he may be restored to his home at once."
Need we say that the Sabbath that followed was a day of much prayer? Indeed, Dr. Myers's life was a prayer—whatever he did, wherever he went, an earnest asking for God's presence and blessing attended his movements. And now, as he walked the streets, gazing eagerly at every red-headed boy and every light overcoat, he repeated,—
"'Some trust in horses, some in chariots; but we will remember the name of the Lord our God.'"
Monday afternoon, the officer appeared, saying,—
"I think I have a clue, sir. They were with a party that went over the river yesterday, and they are stopping at one of those dens on C— Street. I know the fellow that seems to be showing them around, and he is a hard one, too. But I reckon we'll get hold of them tonight."
But they did not "get hold of them" that night. Another twenty-four hours of anxious waiting and watching rolled away before Dr. Myers laid his hand upon Duncan McNair's shoulder, and said, with unmistakable sincerity—
"How are you, my boy? I'm glad to see you!"
Probably not even Judge McNair himself would have succeeded as well in overcoming Duncan's unwillingness to go home; for although the foolish fellow had seen about enough of this wonderful city (no wonder, when he had only seen the wicked side), he was yet loth to go back.
As for Joe, the doctor was armed with the necessary legal authority, a foresight of his father's, and for him, he had no choice; but as for Duncan, his hold upon him was stronger than more legal power; it was the influence which a thoroughly good man and a boy-lover must ever exercise over boys like Duncan. As I have hinted before, Dr. Myers was his hero and saint, and he had only to say, "Duncan, I cannot go back without you. I promise you one thing, if matters do not go on well at home, and you are not happy there, I will do all I can for your relief; but now I want you to go with me," and Duncan went.
Once, as they neared home, Duncan ventured to say,—
"Do they know—people, I mean—about my going off?"
"I cannot say," returned the doctor. "I came away so suddenly, but I presume it is not generally known; but you need not mind; you have only to say frankly that you were foolish and mistaken, and are sorry for it. That won't be very hard, will it?"
"No," replied Duncan slowly. "But do you suppose Miss Wynn knows about it?"
"Miss Wynn!" repeated his friend with a puzzled expression. "Why, of course she knows."
"I wish she didn't. She will be disappointed in me," said Duncan sadly. "She will think it is a queer way to follow. Anyway, doctor, you won't tell her where you found me! I couldn't bear to have her know."
Once more, he referred to "Miss Wynn" in a way that puzzled the doctor, until a sudden light burst in upon him. He was about to speak, then checked himself with the thought, "I won't enlighten him. I shall rather enjoy his surprise; but how could he have made such a mistake?"
At the junction where they changed cars, they were met by Mr. Aiken, whom the doctor had summoned by telegraph, and who took his son in charge, much to the relief of all.
Arriving at Westville, they were welcomed at the depot by Judge McNair, who greeted his son as though he had just returned from an ordinary journey.
"Isn't father splendid?" whispered Duncan to his friend in the momentary absence of the judge. "He seems just as glad to see me as if I were the best boy in the world."
"Of course," replied the doctor.
"You are to come home with us to tea, doctor," said the judge.
Jenny was watching, and flew out to meet them. Returning her kiss of welcome, Duncan said,—
"If you please, father, I'll run up to my room before I go into the parlour."
"Certainly; but don't be long. I presume tea is waiting."
The boy ran up-stairs, pushed open the door of his room, and was inside before he noted the strangeness of everything—that is, almost everything. There was his familiar motto at the foot of the bed, and some other familiar personal belongings. But there was fresh paper on the walls, new curtains at the windows, and in place of the old torn matting on the floor, there was a carpet soft to the foot and warm in colours, an easy chair, and under the gas-light, a small table with crimson cover, and upon it a handsomely-bound copy of the Book. A note lay beside it, which he picked up. It ran thus:—
"Mother and Jenny have been very happy in refitting the room for our dear Dunny. We hope he may be as happy in it. Here you can bring your friends for quiet visits, or come alone for communion with the Friend who is above and beyond any other friend."
Duncan whistled.
"Well, now, that is nice; but I didn't suppose she cared anything about that Friend. I thought folks who did showed it, and I never saw her at church in the world. Well, I promised Dr. Myers that I would try and make the best of it, and I am going to. This is a jolly room, anyway!" As he turned to go down, his eye fell upon a little photograph of herself which Mabel had given him some time before, and he sighed, "If it had only been her now!"
In the parlour, Judge McNair had said, "We have got our boy back again, and that must do for tonight. Some other time the doctor may tell his story."
And they were chatting of other things when Duncan entered. Rising and passing his arm around him, his father said,—
"Duncan, will you welcome your mother as she welcomes you?"
The bewildered boy looked from one to another, and gasped, "Miss Wynn! Mother! What—why? Oh! Why didn't somebody tell me?"
And breaking from his father's embrace, he rushed from the room.
Tea waited some time that evening. There were explanations to be made, soothing words to be spoken, and tears to be dried. It may be doubted if Dr. Myers enjoyed the surprise much after all, for he said,—
"I am sorry, Duncan, that I did not correct your mistake; but I was not quite sure that you were in the dark. But how came you to make such a blunder? Whom did you suppose your father was to marry?"
"I thought it was Miss Carver. The boys hinted at it a good while ago. Besides I thought—you were going to marry Miss Wynn."
"Mistake number two," laughed the doctor. "See here," drawing forward a lady whom Duncan had not noticed as making one of the group, "this is the future Mrs. Myers."
The lady was Lou Joslyn.
"But," persisted Jenny, "I am sure, Dunny, we talked about it, and you must have been told who it was."
"Yes, we talked about it, I know; but no one ever mentioned the name. I suppose," he added humbly and sadly, "it all grew out of my getting angry and making a fuss before father finished his story." And turning to Dr. Myers, "I know you told me once that my temper would play me a shabby trick some day."
THE INGATHERING.
"Look again! the fields are whitening,For the harvest time is near."
AGAIN the Lord seemed about to bless his church at Westville in the outpouring of his Spirit, in deepening the experience of those already Christ's disciples, and in leading others to grasp his offered hand.
The week after Willy Loring's death, his sister Louise glided into the Thursday evening prayer-meeting and took her place beside Mabel; again she came; then she slipped into the young people's meeting, where she found her voice to speak of the new hopes that were growing up in her heart out of the great peace that had fallen upon her life.
Next Mr. Loring came to church with his daughter upon a Sabbath evening, much to the surprise of all who knew him, for he was one of those who ignored religion in his life and conversation. But there he sat listening to Mr. Earle's sermon. Now, had the good pastor known that Mr. Loring was coming to church he would have preached a very different sermon. However, the Lord must have known it; and as Mr. Earle had both in public and in private asked the Lord whom they worshipped to take the direction of the day's services, it may be supposed that it was just the sermon needed, especially as Mr. Loring afterwards remarked that it was that sermon which led him to think seriously upon the claims of Christ. He continued to attend church, and one evening, he arose and said—
"My friends and neighbours, you have known me for an irreligious and worldly man. I hope henceforth to be known as a humble disciple of Christ. I have much to learn. Bear with me if in weakness and ignorance I stumble, and pray that strength and wisdom may be given me."
What a thrill ran through the little company met in sadness for prayer. In sadness because Christ had seemed to withdraw from them, and lo! He was here in their midst. What wonder that a voice took up the glad song—
"Thine, O God, be all the glory."
This was the beginning of a glorious revival. Night after night the people came together—Christians to pray and tell the wonderful story of Christ's love, and many came to listen; some who had heard the story again and again without realising its meaning for them; to others, who came drawn by curiosity, the story had almost the freshness of a now and unread book. There were many who, hearing the Spirit's call, yielded at once, and quickly found their way into the kingdom, while others hesitated upon the very threshold, drawn back by sin's strange power, and only entering after repeated struggles.
The whole church was awakened, ready and eager for work. Men stopped in the street or gathered at the corners to talk of the meetings, to say how the work was going on, to urge attention to the soul's interests, and to plan how best they might reach those yet outside the blessed influence. Women ran in to spend an hour in each other's parlours or kitchens, as the case might be, forgetting that there were such things as ruffles and ribbons, charades and tableaux, while their talk ran upon the love of Christ and the ways of doing his work.
For many weeks the people lived in an atmosphere of prayer, and there was a glorious ingathering. The anxious teacher who had been waiting so long for God's blessing upon her work hoped that now the time had come when the rest of her class should enter the Master's service. It seemed that now when so many were entering in, these could not stay out; and yet, though she watched and prayed, there were no signs of their coming!
Duncan had found the new home life very pleasant. No reproaches (except those of his own conscience) had met him, and his visit to New York was scarcely referred to. For this, he endeavoured to show his gratitude by exemplary conduct. He refrained from grumbling with Jenny, and storming at Nancy when she forgot to keep his breakfast warm; he was oftener prompt in coming down to breakfast, in time for breakfast, in time for prayers; his reports from school were of a higher grade, and so marked was the general improvement that Judge McNair said to his wife—
"You have no idea how that boy has improved. I am quite hopeful that he will turn out well."
"Are you?" replied Mrs. McNair. "I was never otherwise than hopeful of him. But I am very anxious to see him a Christian. I cannot feel at all satisfied with any improvement that falls short of that."
"Can't you persuade him to attend the meetings?" asked her husband.
"I have thus far failed. If I understand his disposition, it will not do to urge him very much—that would drive him the other way. He always has some excuse. I heard Jenny ask him tonight if he didn't want to go with her and Julia Bradford, and he refused flatly."
Mr. McNair looked troubled, but quickly brightened, saying—
"Well, there is One whose pleadings are more powerful than ours, and who knows how to find a way into his heart. We will ask Him to come and plead with our boy."
Oh, what earnest prayers went up from those anxious and waiting hearts! At that very hour, while these were praying for him, Duncan was in his room. He had not had such a fit of ill-humor in a month. He had snapped at Jenny because she asked him to go to church; he had kicked his dog because of Jenny's suggestion of church, and growled at Nancy for the same reason, and here he was snapping and growling at the walls or window curtains, without any earthly excuse for doing so.
When his growls shaped themselves into words, he said, "I won't go to meeting! There! Everybody's at me about it. I can't walk along the street without hearing somebody say, 'Go to church tonight.' I think the folks here might be satisfied with the new leaf I've turned over; but it seems they are not. So they have got Jenny and Jule Bradford to do a sharp thing. Now that's what I call a sharp dodge! I sha'n't go! I heard a man say to-day that there was no use in resisting. If a fellow once got into one of those powerful meetings, he'd be carried right along up to the gate of the kingdom in spite of himself. I don't want to go to heaven that way. When I get ready, I'll step in all by myself. My! What would Joe say to the idea of my turning saint? I know just what he would say. He'd make use of his favorite—; but his ugly words wouldn't sound well in this pretty room; with the old matting and dingy walls they might have corresponded. It was a capital idea of the new mother's, fixing up this den. But as for those meetings, I won't go!"
Duncan had paused directly before the little table under the gas-light, and at that moment, he saw a bit of folded paper lying beside the Book. Taking it up, he read, "Duncan, will you refuse Christ? It is his call." Just at that moment the church bell began to toll, and to Duncan every stroke was equivalent to the words, "He calls!" "He calls!"
For a moment he stood still, then he went swiftly down the stairs, took his overcoat and cap from the hat-rack, and joined the group in the sitting room, who were putting on their wraps.
"Come, girls, hurry up, if you are going under my escort."
Can you account for his sudden change of purpose? Does any one think it strange that the little note left there for him should attract his notice just as the church bell was about to strike. Remember, they had been praying for him down-stairs, committing him into the hands of One who understood his words and knew how to time the double call.
Duncan knew very little about the character or order of the meetings. If he thought about it at all, he supposed that they were going to a preaching service in the church, instead of which he found himself in the lecture room and parlour adjoining. Dr. Myers came towards him, and taking his hand in both his, said earnestly—