MAGGIE, HER BEST SIDE OUT.
Two pairs of eager eyes had long been on the watch, and two eager tongues loudly announced that "father" was coming, as Mr. Drummond approached his own doorstep.
Then there was a rush of the two pairs of feet belonging to the aforesaid, and the hall resounded with welcoming kisses and alternate expressions of delight that he had come at last, and of reproach that he had been so long absent.
The children's faces and voices were not the only ones that told of gladness when Mr. Drummond made his appearance. Their small hands, which had seized both his, were disengaged again. The father had plenty of loving caresses for his little people, but he did not overlook the mother's claims. Putting them aside for a moment, he passed his arm tenderly around her, as he said with a laugh, "Don't be greedy, darlings. Mother must have her share," and then affectionately kissed the fair face in which he could read a whole volume of glad welcome.
"You have thought me long, Edith, though you do not scold me for having kept you waiting."
"I sometimes make up my mind to lecture you, Robert, but when you come, I am so glad to see you that I forget the words I meant to say, and tell you this instead."
Mrs. Drummond's sweet face was so irresistible that again her husband bent his tall head to kiss it. The flush that overspread her cheeks was as bright as that on a girl's, but the colour faded too quickly. It was Robert Drummond's greatest trouble that his wife was not strong. Apart from this, no wedded couple could well be happier.
"Is Mr. Kennedy here?" asked the manager.
"No, but he will be before six o'clock. He must leave again by seven, to be ready for the service. So far, he says, few men have been at the room, though many women have attended. To-night, he hopes it will be the other way, as the men have their half-holiday, and could well spend a portion of it at the mission service."
"If they would. But it is not easy to get them to think so. I have been trying hard to enlist one recruit, but I fear with little success."
Here the children put in their claim to the father's attention, and, as usual, not in vain. Mr. Drummond and the small people were soon in the midst of a romp, and it was hard to say whether they, he, or the mother who looked on, enjoyed it the most.
Then the youngsters were sent off to the nursery, and just after their departure, Mr. Kennedy arrived, and tea was brought in.
During the meal they said little. The mission preacher was tired, and needed to rest both voice and body before the evening's work should begin. But knowing Mr. Drummond's wish to be of use to the large body of workmen placed under his orders, he was most anxious to hear whether he had made any progress. He listened with deep interest to all the manager had to tell, and especially to his account of the recent conversation with Adam Livesey.
Mrs. Drummond's sympathies were also enlisted, especially by what Adam had said about his wife, and the change wrought in pretty Maggie. "You would be just the one to comfort the poor fellow, Robert," she said. "You could enter into his feelings as few men could. He is the same as that silent, rugged-looking workman about whom you told me, as having such a strange attraction for you. It was singular you should meet with him so unexpectedly, and have a chance to talk quietly about so many things."
"It was. We got on very well until I mentioned Sunday, and asked how he spent it. However, we parted good friends, and I have broken the ice between manager and man."
"You will not let it close up again," said Mr. Kennedy, and then he rose to take leave of his hostess.
Mr. Drummond was going with him to the Mission Room. When there, he looked eagerly at each new arrival, but was disappointed in his search for the face of Adam Livesey.
Adam's arrival at home was not marked by such pleasing features as that of Mr. Drummond. He was rather late, and the children, weary with play and the walk to and from the park, were getting fretful, baby included.
"If you didn't want your tea, you might ha' thought these poor little things would, let alone Maggie and me, after being at work all day," said Mrs. Livesey in no amiable tone. "You may well cry, baby. You're almost famished, and father has given you nothing, I'm sure."
Mrs. Livesey might well be sure on this point, for, seeing that Adam had taken no eatables in his pocket, and had handed every farthing of wages into her keeping on the preceding evening, it would have been difficult for him to feed the children.
He was going to say so, but he checked the inclination to defend himself, as he had done on many similar occasions. "She knows as well as I do," thought he. "It's only her way. Least said's soonest mended, and naught said needs no mending."
So, having carefully rubbed his shoes and seen that the youngsters did the same, he went through into the little lean-to scullery to wash his hands. When he sat down at the table, he found his wife full of curiosity about the gentleman who, the children said, "had been sitting talking to father nearly all the time."
"Tom says he was a gentleman from Rutherford's, and that he saw him twice, on days when he brought your dinner. But I told him he must be wrong. No gentleman from Rutherford's would sit talking to a poor labourer like you."
"Tom was right. It was Mr. Drummond, the new manager."
"Well, I never! What's going to happen now? Whatever had he got to say?" inquired Mrs. Livesey, brimming over with curiosity.
"I can hardly tell you, Maggie. He said how pretty baby was, and he kissed her little face, and told me he had one like her at home, and he'd lost the next oldest, same as we did. I told him she favoured her mother, and what a bonny lass you were when I first knew you."
Mrs. Livesey stared in utter astonishment. What could possess him to begin talking such nonsense as that—he that went about in a general way as if he couldn't say "Bo!" to a goose. In the very depths of a heart not yet cold and dead, she was pleased at the nonsense, though she gave a little groan and replied, "You might well say 'was.' My pretty days have been over this long while."
"That's as folk think, Maggie;" and the poor fellow looked at her with a world of kindness in his eyes. Mr. Drummond's words had stirred him strangely, and made him see Maggie in a new light. He had made up his mind that she did not regard him as the thief who had stolen her youth and beauty by bringing her to his own poor home, but as the husband whom she still loved better than herself, and as the father of her children.
Maggie plied him with many questions, but there was no longer any sharpness in her tone or unkindness in her words. Finally, she concluded that the new manager must be a very nice gentleman, and that something good might come of the meeting. Like Adam, she did not think much of being interfered with out of working hours. The very fact of Mr. Drummond's having talked about going to a place of worship, and such-like, inclined her to be suspicious. "If he had promised to raise your wages, there'd ha' been something to think about. Even a shilling a week would ha' been better than nothing."
"I don't suppose he could give me a rise, Maggie, though I daresay he would make things better for everybody if he could. You see I'm only a labourer, and I get same as the rest that do the same work."
"You do more and better, for you stick to it," said Maggie. "But there, it's no good talking."
At this moment, a smart rap at the door interrupted the speaker, and she went to open it. There stood two decently dressed men, strangers, one of whom said, "You'll excuse us disturbing you, missis, please, but there's a lot of us going round in twos, to ask our neighbours to come to the mission service to-night. You'll be kindly welcome, if you'll come, and your master, too. You'll hear something good."
"Eh, dear! It's all very nice, I daresay," replied Maggie, who was quite her best side out, "but I couldn't do it. To-morrow 'll be Sunday, and Saturday night's the busiest in the week, with six of 'em to tub, and ever so many things to do beside."
"Well, missis, I'm glad you see to keeping their little bodies clean and wholesome. It would be a good job if every house we'd looked into were as tidy as yours is. Folks say, 'Cleanliness is next to godliness,' but it don't do to stop at the cleanliness, does it, mate?"
The other man said, "No, that would be a bad lookout," and, turning to Adam, "Will you come along with us, mister?"
Adam shook his head, and Maggie said, "Thank you, we've both enough to do for to-night."
"Well, then, I'll just leave you this little paper. It will tell you all about the mission services. Time and place, and preacher, and everything. If you go to a church or chapel regular, I don't ask you to give up your own service for this. But if you don't happen to be fixed, look in at our place to-morrow. You're safe to have time, and you too, missis, when you have your Saturday's work done so early, and your kitchen floor so as one might eat one's dinner off it."
There was no being angry with such good-tempered, pleasant-spoken visitors. So Maggie took the little handbill and thanked them for it, saying, they would "see about it."
Not that either Adam or his wife had the smallest intention of going near the Mission Room, but they would not say so. They only wanted to rid themselves of their callers in a civil way, and without giving offence by a direct refusal.
So when, after a kindly "good night," the door closed behind the men, they considered they had done with them and their errand also.
But they were mistaken.
CALLERS AND COGITATIONS.
MR. KENNEDY, the mission preacher, had found out long before his visit to Millborough that those who would rouse spiritual sleepers to anxiety about the well-being of their souls, must carry the gospel invitation to their very doors. For this work messengers were needed. Moreover, these required special qualifications. The message must be lovingly delivered by persons who had themselves experienced its importance and knew its preciousness.
There were doubtless many such who were longing to be of use, and willing to carry it into the dark lanes and alleys of Millborough; but mere willingness was not enough, neither was the experimental knowledge alluded to. Both these things were indispensable, but more was wanted. There must be love for the souls of others, as well as thankfulness for personal salvation. There must be readiness of speech, pleasant looks and manners that would manifest good-will and bespeak a hearing, courage that would not fail under difficulties and disagreeables, and the charity that "suffereth long and is kind, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked."
There were a few such, and the two that called at Adam Livesey's door were of the number. They were of the sort to whom the roughest found it hard to give a rude reply.
When tea was over, Adam took up the little handbill left by the visitors, and read what was printed thereon.
"Why?" he exclaimed. "This preacher must be the one Mr. Drummond told me about. The name is Kennedy, the room is in Aqueduct Street. They're having meetings all next week, beside to-morrow and the Sunday after."
"They're welcome to have 'em for a month o' Sundays for me," said Maggie, promptly. "I've enough to do without going to such places. How would the dinner be got ready, and the house cleaned, and the washing done, to say nothing of the children being seen to, if I were to be running off to meetings morn, noon, and night, as some of 'em do?
"There's Mrs. Jackson, she goes to some meeting or another nearly every day, and she's always talking about her soul, while she's neglecting her home and her husband's body. It's a good job she has no children, but poor George came home this very day just before you did. The house was all in a litter, dinner things on the table, fire out, and no kettle a-boil. I believe she was off to this very room in Aqueduct Street. Poor George came across here with a little teapot in his hand, to beg a drop of boiling water, because he had to go back, and would be working till eleven."
"New boiler," jerked in Adam. "Rutherford's made it."
"Yes, he said so. And there he had to sit down in that kitchen, with everything on heaps, and drink his drop of tea and eat his bread with hardly a scrape o' butter. She hadn't had time to buy any before she went off to the meeting. He left his wages for me to give her, all but a shilling, and I was to tell her he would be late, and he would get a threepenny pie for his supper. He gets half as much more wages as you do, Adam, and not a bit o' comfort out of them, though there's only two to keep."
Adam shook his head in sorrowful sympathy, remarking, "George is a skilled mechanic. He gets twice what I do, as a regular thing."
"More shame for Sarah Jackson to serve him as she does. If you'd been at home, you should have asked him to bring his tea and have it here."
"You might ha' asked him, Maggie."
"Not I," she returned, with some severity of speech. "You don't catch me having other folk's husbands here unless their wives are with 'em, or you are at home. I don't believe in giving gossiping tongues anything to talk about. I took George Jackson's key and the money from him on the doorstep, and when Sarah came, I passed them on to her. I did not ask her in, any more than her husband. I can tell you, Adam, if that woman had begun talking about her 'beautiful meeting,' I should have said something to her that wouldn't have sounded very beautiful, so I cut her off short."
Maggie did not trouble herself to wait for any comment from Adam, but bustled off to begin her preparations for the "tubbing process," which would take some time. Her husband's thoughts were, however, busy enough, though they did not find vent in words.
Adam had often heard his wife rail against Sarah Jackson, who was to be found, as a rule, anywhere but by her own fireside. He had heard her speak of other women too, who went from meeting to meeting, "for the sake of what they could get." Maggie believed they had no better motive than to meet with neighbours in the class-rooms, to pass an idle hour or two, to gossip on the road, to be brought into company with ladies, and be made pets of by them. There were many attractions in connection with such gatherings, and Mrs. Livesey's firm conviction was, that some of her neighbours put up with the Bible readings and lecturings, because of sundry substantial helps, and the annual trips and tea-meetings.
No doubt she was right in her judgment in a few cases. She saw some who never seemed to be the better for what they were taught, and who made attendance at various religious ordinances an excuse for the neglect of their homes and families. Her standing sample of the class was her near neighbour, Sarah Jackson, and she regarded her with unmeasured contempt.
"If that woman was worth her salt, she'd have her house like a little palace, and save a fortune out of what he gives her! It's a wonder the man's alive, the way he has to scramble for his meals," Maggie would say, as she looked with pardonable pride on her own surroundings.
These sayings were, however, all reserved for Adam's ear, not proclaimed from the threshold or to her neighbours.
"They can see for themselves, without me telling them. Besides, there's George to think about. He has enough on his mind without any dinning from outside."
It was Maggie's misfortune that she should have been brought into contact with a sham Christian instead of a real one, an idle, who had learned the letter of the gospel message, but whose heart and life had not been reached by it. Maggie knew, for others had told her, that Sarah Jackson had been heard to express regrets at Mrs. Livesey's darkness and hardness of heart. As in duty bound, she had invited her to many "means of grace," and offered to be her companion, but always in vain.
No wonder Maggie regarded Mrs. Jackson's invitations as uncalled-for meddling, and an insult to her own common sense. At each renewal she would say to Adam, "That hypocrite's been at me again, but I think I've settled her for a bit. I was cleaning my windows when she began at me, and I looked straight at hers, that you can't see through for dirt, and said I didn't know how she found time. I had to be on the go all the while, to keep straight. I shouldn't like my windows to be made up so that if I wanted to see who was passing, I must come outside. Then I came in and shut the door."
In spite, however, of all this talk on Maggie's part, and the fact that Mrs. Jackson's example had done both husband and wife harm, Adam was not satisfied that it was fair to judge by one only.
Every person, whether man or woman, who talks glibly about religion, the soul's need, and the Saviour's all-sufficiency, without showing a life influenced and purified by the spiritual experience spoken of, must cause the enemies of the gospel to triumph, and the doubter or indifferent to remain so. But, while Adam listened to Maggie, it was only in a half-hearted way.
He thought of the two men whose pleasant words and manners had left a favourable impression, along with the printed handbill. He remembered words uttered by that old workman at Rutherford's, who had long been a professed follower of the Lord Jesus, and who was one of the happiest men he knew. This individual had said that for a long time he had walked one way and his wife the other, but that now they were agreed, and he thanked God for it. It was a happy day for him, he said, when a neighbour had persuaded the wife to go to a Bible class with her.
"I'd asked her many a time, but she wouldn't go for me. The neighbour had sat up o' nights with our lad when he was ill, and she couldn't say her nay. She went that once to please her, and she has gone with me ever since. I was going to say to please herself, but she wants to serve One that's higher now, and please Him."
Adam had felt constrained to ask whether she did her household work as well as before, and the old man had replied, with moistening eyes, that she did everything better for being a disciple of Jesus.
"We've no little ones now, but there are the lads and me. She has work enough, but when she wants to go to a meeting in daytime she gets up sooner in the morning, and if it's at night, we all go together."
It was plain to Adam that there must be something in religion, and that there were real and sham Christians. Some of the old workman's words stuck to his memory.
"Thou'rt diligent in business, Adam, always. I wish I could see thee happy in serving the Lord, too. There's naught like it for lightening labour and brightening life."
Then there was Mr. Drummond. He professed to be a religious man. What difference did this make in him as a manager?
Adam had worked at Rutherford's from his boyhood; but while he respected his employers for fair dealing, and knew what sort of work they sent out, he had known little of them, as man to man. "Our Mr. John" had been the most popular of all, for he had a very winning way with him. Many a time a joke of his had made the whole smithy ring with laughter.
He had been kind, too, in sending money help to needy widows of improvident workmen, and had done many a kindness in a quiet, unpretending way. He would be very much missed, would Mr. John, and he would be welcomed back with open arms when he returned.
But never had one of the great Rutherfords been known to take a personal interest in a man's eternal welfare, or spoken to him in the way that Mr. Drummond had done that afternoon. And it seemed religion was at the bottom of that. The manager was not ashamed to say so, or to own that it had given a joy and brightness to his life that neither worldly success nor position had been able to do.
Adam half wished that he had responded more pleasantly to Mr. Drummond's advances; for what was it to him how a poor labouring chap spent his Sundays unless he thought there might be a change for the better? He felt just a little glad that these services in Aqueduct Street were not drawing to a close. There were eight days before him yet. Maybe—
"Adam, just carry baby up to bed, will you, whilst I wash Jack?" cried Maggie, interrupting Adam's meditations.
Baby's bath was over, and it was the usual thing for Adam to convoy the little ones to their beds.
The youngest three, being half the sum total of his olive branches, were thus seen to. The elders scrambled off by themselves. Adam rose at once to perform this duty, and thus his cogitations were brought to an end for the time.
It seemed that there was a conspiracy to upset the habits of the Liveseys, for little Maggie revealed to her mother that two of her schoolfellows had been asking her if she would go with them to Sunday school.
The child would not have ventured to say anything but for the fact that these children were always cited by Mrs. Livesey as examples of neatness and "pretty behaviour." Compelled to send her three eldest to a day school, though she parted with Maggie very unwillingly, the mother was very particular in her instructions as to the company they were to keep.
"Mind you don't go with any of 'em that are rude and say bad words. And keep away from such as are dirty. You never know what you may get. I want you to have clean ways, and to behave so as, if your grandmother ever does see you, she may know that I've done my best."
The mention of her mother always caused a double feeling in poor Mrs. Livesey's mind—resentment that she had been so left to herself, and pain that Mrs. Allison could do it. She had not visited Millborough since she left it six years before, and her daughter could not go to her. Two or three letters a year, and as many parcels of partially-worn clothing from the well-to-do sister, near whom she had taken up her abode, were all that told Mrs. Livesey that she was not quite forgotten by her mother.
Still she thought, "Surely she will want to see me some day, and I should like to show her the children."
Every mother longs to exhibit her children to their grandparents, and somehow the thought of what grandmother would think of them when they did meet, was often in Mrs. Livesey's mind.
Little Maggie, having been trained to endurance and obedience, soon became a favourite at school. She had a good deal of her father's longing for learning, so found favour with the teachers; and her cleanliness of person and clothing prevented the poverty of her garments from being noticed, and won her the companionship of the little girls above mentioned. Their homes lay in the same direction, and they became inseparable companions on the road. Mrs. Livesey was pleased that two of the nicest children in the school "had taken up with Maggie," and she would not have liked to interfere with such a friendship.
Naturally the children wished to be together at the Sunday as well as the day school, and Maggie, having been urged thereto by her friends, preferred her request on the Saturday night, though in much fear and trembling.
FARTHER APART, YET NEARER.
"I DON'T know why Jessie and Alice Mitchell should begin bothering about you going to Sunday school," said Mrs. Livesey in a sharp tone. "Their mother doesn't want them. She has a girl, and can go out herself when she likes. What has started them now? You've gone to school for a year without being together on Sundays."
"They have often asked me, but I said you wanted me," whimpered Maggie.
"They might know that without telling," said Mrs. Livesey, and at the moment she gave Maggie's newly washed hair a tug which brought tears into the child's eyes.
"There, there! I didn't mean to hurt you. It's no use talking about Sunday school. You haven't a hat and frock fit to go there in, so say no more about it."
Maggie knew better than to disobey. She crept upstairs to bed in silence, and only indulged in the luxury of a few quiet tears. But she was too tired to remain long awake, and she soon forgot her troubles in dreamless sleep.
What had set Jessie and Alice Mitchell into a state of anxiety to take their friend to school was this.
On the previous Sunday, the anniversary, nearly every scholar had been present, and yet there were some empty seats, and room to place more. The clergyman had called the children's attention to this, and said, "Now, if every two girls or boys would join to try and bring one more scholar, we should have our rooms full, even if all did not succeed. And you, dear children, having tried, would have the happiness of thinking that you had done what you could."
Hence the renewed efforts of Maggie's two friends.
Hence, too, a modest, half-frightened tap at Adam Livesey's door on the following morning, which Maggie junior shrank from answering, whilst the roses fled from her cheeks, for fear of consequences.
Mrs. Livesey opened the door and saw Jessie and Alice, "morals of neatness," as she described them, and in such pretty frocks that her own motherly heart was touched with admiration of the effect produced, and regret that she could not "turn out" her children after the same fashion.
"Please will you let Maggie go to school with us?"
That was all the spokeswoman could say to Mrs. Livesey, but she gave a knowing little nod to her friend, and added, "You see, we've come to call for you, though we never told you we should."
This was a fortunate remark, for Mrs. Livesey was at first inclined to think that Maggie expected this visit, and had kept it a secret.
"It's very kind of you, and I wish my little girl could go, but she can't."
"Why not, Mrs. Livesey? Do, please, let her," pleaded both children, whilst Maggie's face was turned to her mother in mute appeal.
"Why, just look at her frock and hat. Do you think if your mother knew they were her best, she would like such smart little girls to go out with her on Sunday?"
"I'm sure Maggie is always nice. Our mother always says she is quite a pattern, and we like her in any frock. Please let her come."
"But I shouldn't like her to go as she is, thank you all the same," said Mrs. Livesey, with decision.
"When she gets a new hat and frock may she come?" said Alice; and Mrs. Livesey, feeling that the promise might be safely made, answered, "Yes."
The children had to go, or they would be late for school, and they said "good-bye" with considerable cheerfulness, feeling that something had been gained. The time must come even for Maggie to have new clothes, though she made hers last a very long while. It was only consent deferred, and children are very hopeful.
But to Maggie this promise and the sound of the door closing behind her friends were as the death-knell to all her hopes. The child was far above a ragged school, and, it seemed, as far below a regular Sunday school. There was no place just right for Maggie.
In the afternoon, Adam fulfilled the whispered promise made to the child on the day before. He took her out with him, "all by herself, except baby."
Something, he could hardly tell what, attracted him towards Aqueduct Street, and he thought he would just pass the Mission Room, since he could go that way to the park. But, when he would have joined a little group that were hanging round the door, Maggie loudly protested against losing any more time.
"You've come the longest way," she said, "and I don't want to stop here, father."
So, in obedience to the childish hand which drew him, Adam went off towards the park, rather glad, after all, that there was no familiar face amongst the people at the door of the Mission Room.
The Sunday was soon over, and the working week had begun. Adam Livesey's cottage was too far from Rutherford's to allow of his coming home to breakfast, so he took it in the smithy, boiling the water for his tea at one of the hearths. He was in the midst of the meal when he saw the round face of his eldest boy, who was plainly in search of his father. The eager excited look of the child told that something unusual must have occurred.
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"Mother's got a letter. It's about grandmother. She's ill, going to die maybe, for she wants mother to go to see her to-day." Dropping his voice to a whisper, he added, "She's sent some money, mother says, but it's only a piece of paper, and you're to get off work, if you can, and come home with me."
It was not likely that so steady a man as Adam Livesey would have any difficulty in getting permission to go back with his boy. It was well known that he never willingly lost an hour's wages, so the foreman at once said, "Go back with the lad by all means;" and Adam, without waiting to finish his breakfast, tied up the remains, slipped on his jacket, and started homeward.
He found his wife excited and tearful. "See," she said, "mother has sent this. A whole five-pound note. She is very ill, and I am to make haste, if I want to see her alive. Ann has written the letter. I am to take baby with me, but how I am to leave the rest of you, I don't know. Maggie is too little to manage by herself, and I've never been used to have anybody in, except when there was a new baby to look after. What am I to do, Adam?"
Mrs. Livesey rarely appealed to her husband, being usually of opinion that she was quite able to manage her household affairs without masculine advice or interference.
"You mind your own business, and I'll mind mine," was a very favourite mode of expression with her.
But the present difficulty, and Adam's mode of dealing with it, showed her that she might have had a worse counsellor than her usually quiet husband.
Adam thought for a minute, then said, "There's a nice steady young woman that comes to Rutherford's sometimes. She brings dinner for Richard Evans when he doesn't go home. Not always, but now and then. I've heard him say she's his niece, and a very good girl. She helps his wife on washing days, when she has nowhere else particular to go."
Richard Evans was the elderly workman who has already been mentioned, and Mrs. Livesey at once declared that if he spoke well of a girl, she would be the right sort. So Adam went to see if her help would be available, and Mrs. Livesey began to prepare for the journey.
She calculated that she might start at two, and reach her mother's home by about six o'clock, always provided she could get a deputy to leave with the children.
In the letter she was told to spend a pound or two to make herself tidy, and in a postscript her sister providently advised her, if she bought a shawl or bonnet, to get a black one, as it would be "most useful after."
"Poor mother! If she had seen that bit of writing put in at the finish, she wouldn't have liked it. She hasn't made much account of you and me for a long while, but we couldn't have written that. Ann was always good at contriving for other folks."
"I wouldn't get a black bonnet, if I were you," had been Adam's remark, when the postscript was read.
"Trust me for that. Why, mother knows I'm not in mourning for anybody, and if she saw me in a new black bonnet, she would say directly I'd got it ready, reckoning on her dying soon. I'll buy a neat dark bonnet, and go in it, and the shawl mother gave me years ago. I've always kept one decent gown, in case I should be sent for, ever. She'll know the clothes, though I doubt if she would know me, I'm so altered."
Mrs. Livesey looked at her face in the little glass that hung on the wall, and truly the image it reflected was very different from that of Maggie Allison in her girlish days.
"I'm only four-and-thirty now," she thought, "and quite a young woman. But that face might be fifty years old. Eh, dear! Girls don't know what's before them when they are so ready to get married."
Though Mrs. Livesey managed to do a good deal of thinking and talking, she was not idle, but went rapidly on with her preparations. "I should never get through," she would say, "if I hadn't learned both to talk and work when I was young."
Maggie junior had to stay from school whilst mother made her purchases, of which baby had the largest share. By the time she had returned from the shop, Adam was there also, with Sarah Evans, whose appearance gladdened Mrs. Livesey's heart. The young woman expressed her willingness to take immediate charge, and to stay for a couple of days or weeks, as might be needed. She was not alarmed at the sight of the five children, for she was one of a large family, and she received with good-humoured attention all the instructions that Mrs. Livesey could crowd into the time at her disposal.
Adam went with his wife to the station, and saw her off. As they went along, she said, "I've just spent two pounds out of the five, and two I'm taking with me, though going and coming won't cost me that much, only I shouldn't like mother to think that wanted her to give me more. You must keep this other pound, Adam. Maybe that young woman won't be able to make your wages spin out till the week end as I do, and this journey will lose you full half a day."
Adam's astonishment at being entrusted with the custody of a whole sovereign, with discretionary powers as to the spending thereof, struck him with temporary dumbness. He was so used to handing over every sixpence into his wife's hands, and feeling humbly grateful when she, now and then, handed him back two or three coppers, which were certain to be spent on the children, that her present confidence touched him to the very heart.
Mrs. Livesey was herself not a little moved. She and Adam had never been parted since their wedding day, and now the railway was going to put a full hundred miles between them. She felt all the solemnity of the occasion, and in her very heart wished Adam were going too.
Many a tender thought crossed the minds of both, that neither tongue expressed, though the man said with an effort, "I'll take care of this money, and keep it whole, if I can, till you come back."
"As if you need tell me that. Why, there never was such a one as you for not spending on yourself. I shall tell them all that if Ann and the others have had more money, they have not had steadier, harder-working husbands. You've never given me an ill word, Adam."
"Why should I, Maggie, lass? If I've worked out o' th' house, you've worked in it. I've often been sorry for you. You were a bright, pretty lass when you married me."
"And I'm not a bright pretty lass now. I look too old for four-and-thirty. They'll hardly know me."
Adam sighed. This remark touched a sensitive chord in his breast.
"But," continued Maggie, "you're just as fond of me yet, aren't you?"
"Fond of thee, my girl! Why, my one trouble has been, not that I got thee, but that thee didn't get a man that could give thee more and better things than I could. You took me, a poor labouring man, of no account, and naught to look at, and you've made every shilling I've earned go as far as most folk's eighteen pence. And you've grown old before your time—all through marrying me, Maggie."
The two were sitting in the railway carriage with the sleeping child in the mother's arms. They were a quarter of an hour too soon, and one of the porters, whom Adam knew, had put them into it, that they might be quiet until train time. They would be all right, he told them, and when this carriage was brought from the siding and attached to the train, Adam could get out.
Mrs. Livesey's face never before had on it such an expression as it wore at that moment. Never in her courting days had she felt so deep an affection for her homely, rugged-looking partner, as she did now that they were about to part for the first time. He had bent his head to kiss the sleeping child that lay on her lap, and as he raised it, Maggie threw her arm round his and drew his rough face to hers.
"Adam, Adam," she sobbed out, "never you talk of being o' no account to me. Never you say such words as you did just now. Listen, my man. If I had it to do again, I'd choose you, mind this, knowing all I know now, and with all to come that has come. Just think of that while I'm away, will you? I've tried your temper many a time. I wonder you've stood it, and not gone off drinking, like many have done. When I come back, I'm not sure that I shall be a bit better. I shall be the same Maggie, with the same tongue, and the old place and work before me. But you'll remember what I've said to-day."
Then there was a shower of kisses on Adam's rugged face, which were heartily returned, as her clasping arm held him close, and his arms were round her. Then there was a cry of "All tickets ready," and Maggie had to produce hers, as Adam left the carriage.
He stood watching the train till it was out of sight, and then went back to Rutherford's, like a man in a dream. Some of the workmen noticed the light on his face that afternoon, and Jim, the wag of the smithy, joked Adam about it.
"He's got rid of his missis for a bit, and he's going to shake a loose leg. You can tell by his face that he's up to mischief of some sort."
But Adam only smiled and shook his head, saying, "I'll give you all leave to watch me."
The happy look remained on his face. The daydream in which he was indulging was evidently a pleasant one.
IN THE MISSION ROOM.
MRS. LIVESEY'S deputy promised to be a very efficient one. Adam and the children found everything in order when tea-time came, and to the little people, the sight of a young face had a great attraction. That of Sarah Evans might well have a charm for the small Liveseys, for, as we know, the mother who scrubbed from morning till night for the common good was very chary of praise or caresses. Too often the toil was accompanied by sharp words and fretful complaints, because her little namesake's hands were less skilful, her movements less quick, than were her own.
Sarah Evans, on the contrary, found much to praise. She told Adam that the children were "just wonderful for putting things in their places when they came in. Mrs. Livesey must have taken a world of pains with them," she said; "and it's a deal harder to get little ones in such neat ways, than to right up after them."
Adam assented, and said his missis was very clever in her way. Then he expressed his gratification at seeing that the very little ones had taken to Sarah so nicely.
"We shall get on all right, no fear. Maggie's quite a little woman, and can tell me where everything is, and what mother does when she's at home."
Sarah amazed the children by calling them "darlings," and, instead of bidding them sharply "do this or that," she said, "Maggie, dear, please shut the door," and so on.
It was evident that a kind word would go as far and produce as immediate obedience as a sharp one.
After tea, Adam strolled out by himself. He was not in the mood for company, and the little people were happily employed at home. Sarah Evans was telling nursery rhymes to the three youngest, and the eldest two were learning their lessons for the morrow.
Their father's mind was full of the parting with his wife, and the words which had preceded it. It had set him pondering whether they had not both missed their way somehow, and got off on a wrong track.
He certainly had with regard to Maggie, who, in spite of her sharp temper, had kept the warmest corner in her heart for him alone.
Who could doubt her love for the children? And yet she often called them "the plagues of her life."
How nice she could be when she had her best side out! If she were always, or even often like what she had been during those few precious minutes in the railway carriage, what a little heaven their home might be! Was there no way of bringing about such a state of things?
Thus mused Adam, and then it seemed as if the words of Richard Evans and the testimony of Mr. Drummond came with fresh force. Both of these ascribed the brightness of their lives to religion. They were happy men, of this there could be no doubt.
Finally, Adam, whose feet had all the while been tending towards Aqueduct Street, made up his mind to enter the Mission Room and see if he could get any light on the subject that was perplexing him. He had no idea how to make a start on the new road, and he thought it was best to try and find out during his wife's absence. She was against this sort of thing, and he remembered a remark made by her that very morning, as she unfolded her one carefully preserved stuff gown, and smoothed out its creases. "See, Adam, it looks almost as good as new. I am glad I never started going to church on Sundays. If I had, this gown would have been worn out, and I should not have one decent to go in now."
Adam was in good time, and he at first stood near the Mission Room door, then ventured inside, and waited until some one invited him to take a seat. "You can go where you like," he was told, so he placed himself where he could get a clear view of the platform. He had made up his mind to hear all he could, and if he felt in any way the better for his new experiences, to tell Maggie when she came home. If not, he would be silent.
Adam was not quite prepared to see Mr. Drummond. Indeed, he heard his voice before he did see him, for the manager came in along with the mission preacher, Mr. Kennedy. As they passed towards the upper end of the room, Mr. Drummond came close to Adam, and at sight of the striker's earnest face, his own brightened. He stopped for an instant to shake hands, and to tell Adam that he was glad he had not forgotten the invitation given on the previous Saturday.
"My wife's mother is ill, and she's gone to see her, I felt lonely, so I thought I'd come here for a bit," said Adam, as if his presence needed an excuse. Then he noticed how the manager went forward and talked to first one and another of the homely-looking men, such as himself, meeting them as if there were no social differences. In the group near the platform, he saw the two who had called at his door on the Saturday evening, and he observed how all their faces seemed to brighten as they exchanged greetings.
"And yet," thought Adam, "though Mr. Drummond makes himself of no account here, he's not the man to be trifled with at Rutherford's. What he says has got to be done. The place was never better ordered than it is now, but nobody ever says he isn't fair to everybody."
Adam's musings were interrupted by the giving out of a hymn, and at the same moment, a book was put into his hand, with the place found for him. He was not much given to singing, but he had a great love for music, and we know the charm his wife's voice had exercised over him in their early married days. It was a delight to him to find that the children "were so tuneable," though they sang more out of doors than in, because the mother complained that she could not bear the racket; it made her head ache.
Everybody knows how the little folks catch the tunes and words of popular hymns, though they often sing them with no knowledge of their real meaning, and Adam's were no exception. The moment he heard the tune, he recognised it as one that his children sang sometimes, but he had never noticed the words. Now he read them.
"I am so glad that our Father in heavenTells of His love in the Book He has given:Wonderful things in the Bible I seeThis is the dearest, that Jesus loves me."
Then uprose the rejoicing chorus, in which, however, Adam took no part. How could he? What did he know of that love they were singing about? What of the Book which told the story of the love of Jesus?
The man was only sensible of an inner longing that nothing within his own life and experience could satisfy. In his heart was that yearning after God, that sense of void which, at one time or other, is felt instinctively by every human soul, and which must remain until He who first implanted it also satisfies it. He who has made of one blood all nations of men has ordained "that they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after Him and find Him, though He be not far from every one of us. For in Him we live and move and have our being."
Poor Adam was beginning to feel after Him, though only as one who gropes in the dark.
Again rose the words,—
"Though I forget Him, and wander away,Still He doth love me wherever I stray;Back to His dear loving arms do I flee,When I remember that Jesus loves me."
So on, through all the verses to the end, and still Adam's lips were closed. He was too true a man to say or sing words that had no meaning for him. These, though English words, spoke in an unknown tongue to Adam Livesey.
The mission preacher did not ask the people to kneel down at once, but, keeping the hymn-book open in his hand, said:
"I hope you who sang these words just now felt as well as uttered them. I mean those which speak of your love for Jesus. You are right about His love for you. He loves the sinner, the forgetful, the wanderer, the wilful, the disobedient. He would have the worst and vilest to be saved, and to come to a knowledge of the truth. It was love that brought the Son of God from heaven to redeem your souls and mine. It was love which made the Father willing to bestow on us His most precious gift. It was love that made Jesus die on the tree, to save us everlastingly. It was love which brought the Holy Spirit to show the sinner his need, and to lead him to Jesus.
"No doubt about all these things. They are true, for they come from Him who is the Truth. In believing them is life, for faith lays hold on Christ, who is our Life, and makes us one with Him.
"If you have found Christ you have also found the way to peace, joy, happiness, and to a new service and a new master. You have found the way to heaven, for Jesus is the new and living Way.
"All right to sing about His love. But how about yours? Are you carried away with the music with its joyful chorus? Or can you say from your hearts, 'Jesus loves me, and I know I love Him?' If there were doubts in your minds that kept you from joining, thank God that you kept silent. If you felt your hearts sink within you as you heard other voices take up the words, whilst you could only sigh and say within yourself, 'Oh, how I wish I could feel the love and the assurance that brings sweetest rest,' thank God for that. Your heart is no longer quite dead; there are stirrings of life in it. You are not wholly asleep, for the Holy Spirit has awakened you to a sense of want, and is striving with you now. You are beginning to feel after God."
Here the preacher paused, and said, "Let us pray, dear friends, that every soul in this place to-night may not only seek but find."
It seemed to Adam that Mr. Kennedy might have been enabled to look into his very thoughts, so exactly had he described his feelings during the singing of that hymn.
In all his life, Adam had never realised that he had much to be thankful for. On the contrary, he had been apt to look on himself as an ill-used man, and to say that things had always been against him. But when he heard the preacher begin, not by asking for fresh gifts, but by expressing his thankfulness for those already bestowed, Adam's thoughts were a sort of running comment on his words.
Mr. Kennedy thanked God for life and breath, for health and strength to work, for the rest and food which renewed his powers from day to day, for air and light, for the pure water, the sunshine and rain, for the love and kindness of earthly friends. Not for his own share alone, but on behalf of all who possessed these common every-day mercies.
To Adam Livesey the thanksgiving was a revelation. Why, even he had all these things, and had never thought of being thankful for them, and yet how would it be with him if any of them were taken away?
After all, such gifts were of more account than money.
But the preacher went to heights and depths which Adam could not follow. He thanked God for all who had been enabled to receive the blessed message of the gospel, and prayed that, having heard the word, they might keep it, and bring forth fruit with patience. He poured out supplications for those who were still afar off, that they might be brought nigh through the precious blood of Jesus, and know the blessedness of those "who have the Lord for their God."
Adam had a dim sense that he was being prayed for amongst the rest and, though he could not see the meaning of the prayer, or the advantages that were to follow, there was a sort of inward pleading that in some way good might come of it to him and his.
Then there was another hymn, which began—
"Lord, I hear of showers of blessing,Thou art scattering full and free—Showers the thirsty land refreshing;Let some droppings fall on me—Even me!"Pass me not, O gracious Father!Sinful though my heart may be;Thou might'st leave me, but the ratherLet Thy mercy fall on me."
Again Adam's voice was silent, but his desires were eloquent. He felt that these words, and the verses that followed, were more in harmony with his sense of need than was the joyful song of confidence in the love of Jesus with which the worship had been begun. He did plead for "even me" to have a portion in those blessings of which many around him seemed to know the value, and he waited with eager expectancy for the preacher to say something which should enable him to understand it too.
"THE GRACE OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST."
THE preacher opened his Bible, and read from it two passages:—
"For ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though He was rich, yet for your sakes He became poor, that ye through His poverty might be rich."
"Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus: who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God: but made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: and being found in fashion as a man, He humbled Himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross."
Then Mr. Kennedy began to speak about the verses he had just read.
"'The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.' These are very familiar words. We teach the little children to repeat them, when they have learned to say, 'Our Father,' at the mother's knee, followed by the simple prayer, 'God bless father, mother, brothers, sisters, all kind friends and relations, and make me good.'
"Again, we tell the little ones to 'say grace' before they eat of the 'daily bread' given in answer to the prayer which Jesus taught us, thus owning that we want God's blessing with the food.
"But common words are like common blessings. The first are often spoken without a thought of their meaning, the second without a thought of Him who gives them. It is so with those I have read. Here we see what the 'grace of our Lord Jesus Christ' means. It means the free love, favour and gift of God's own Son for sinners. It means all that Jesus gave up, and all that He gave, to buy back for them what sin had lost. Jesus was rich, in the form of God and equal with God. Creator of the universe, ruler of heaven and earth, joint-owner with the Father and the blessed Spirit of all that is meant by creation. 'For without Him was not anything made that was made.' Jesus was, as He still is, 'the Lord of glory.'"
"It is a great deal easier, dear friends, to say these words than to take in all they mean. Let us try to do it by comparison with earthly things. We must come down, not a little, but a long way. All the way from heaven to earth, from the court of the King of kings to the home of our own Queen. What a great space still remains to be bridged over! Think what a distance there is between the palaces of our sovereign and the cottages in which most of us live!
"You would think I was making game of you if I were to say that the Queen's eldest son was going to leave his home, to put aside his clothing and every sign of his rank, and to come here to Millborough, without a single servant or a place to dwell in that he could call his own. But if an earthly prince really did this, and went in and out among the working folk, feeling for them, doing them good, spending nothing on himself, but knowing hunger and weariness, temptation and sorrow—not because he had any need to do it, but out of deep love and pity to the miserable and the sinful, and because he had power given him to do for them what no one else could—what should we think of one like this?"
There was a sort of stir amongst the people in the Mission Room, and a murmur, but no distinct words.
"I fancy you say to yourselves, 'A likely story that! No fear of it coming true!' Well, perhaps not. But surely what I have just read to you was far more unlikely. And yet it is true that the Son of God, who was equal with God, put aside all His glory, and came as man among men. Not as a king, but as a servant, a person, as you would say, 'of no account' in the world. He made Himself of no reputation.
"He humbled Himself to be man. Further still, to be as a servant, a man of low estate, and no great name. He humbled Himself even to die, and further still, to die as the meanest slave might be put to death—on the cross. And for what?
"Because He saw a world lying in wickedness, with none to save. He saw that all had sinned and come short of the glory of God. He knew that no mere man could save himself, much less his fellow man. And so the Son of God came in man's form, took man's nature, and He who knew no sin became sin for us, and suffered in our stead.
"'God commendeth His love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us.'
"Perhaps some of you are saying to yourselves, 'I can't believe this tale of yours; it is not easy to take it in.'
"I agree with you, dear friends. It is not easy to believe such love possible, and many of you have not taken it in. If this blessed message had reached every heart, I should not need to keep repeating it. Instead of that our keynote to-night would be one of praise, and every heart and voice would be in tune. There would be no keeping you quiet.
"But I know that as you look round in the world, you see so much that makes it hard to believe the message; and beside this, there are many who take Christ's name, but reflect little of their Master's image. All around people are pushing and jostling for the best places and the largest share of what the world calls its good things, with no thought of God or of their own souls.
"Do we see the strong stand back to give the weak a better chance, or the swift give way for those who move slowly in the race of life? Do we find the rich cry out, 'Enough!' And stay the flow of gold from going into their money-bags? Is the earthly brother or friend willing to bear the shame or punishment in order to let the guilty go free?
"No, dear friends, as a rule we find that each is for himself in this world. And why do we see nothing better? For want of having in us the mind which was in Christ Jesus. Because with our outward sight, we can discern only human beings of like sinful inclinations with ourselves, liable to the same temptations and trials. We want to turn away from this picture, from sin to perfect holiness; from rebellion to perfect obedience; from hate, enmity, indifference, to perfect love, compassion, and self-devotion. But we need the eye of faith for this. Faith sees the remedy for sin, the Reconciler of sinners, the sinless Sufferer, the all-sufficient Saviour in Jesus Christ, the God-man, in whose name I come to you to-night, and whose message I bring."
Much more did the preacher say. He repeated the loving invitations and the sweet promises of the gospel. He called upon many who were present to testify to their faithfulness, and to tell of the joy and blessedness of those "whose iniquities are forgiven, and whose sins are covered," and who, being "justified by faith, have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ."
There were some who spoke in answer to this appeal, amongst them Richard Evans, the old smith from Rutherford's. As Adam Livesey listened, he felt convinced of this man's sincerity, and he knew that his life proved it.
Adam began to run over in his mind the names of those he knew who professed to be religious, and taking them as a whole, he was fain to confess that they seemed to be preferable, as companions, to those who made game of them. Had he not gone himself that very day to Richard Evans, feeling sure that he would help him out of his difficulty if he could? And there was Mr. Drummond! Had any manager ever before troubled himself about what the men did with their time or their money outside the works, so long as they were at their posts during the regular hours?
No, it must be because Christ's true servants had in them the loving spirit of Christ Himself, and showed it towards their neighbours. Adam knew well enough that it could not be because they expected to gain anything by it. What would Mr. Drummond be bettered by any change that might take place in Adam Livesey? Yet he and others who felt with him were willing to give up time, and rest, and ease, just because they wanted sinners to come to Jesus for pardon, for weary souls to find rest, and to exchange trouble for joy?
Adam's thoughts were interrupted by another hymn, and before the preacher gave it out he said, "This will just suit those who want to come to Jesus, and I hope many will join heart and voice in singing it"; and he read:—
"Lord Jesus, I long to be perfectly whole,I want Thee for ever to live in my soul;Break down every idol, cast out every foe—Now wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."
And so on through all the verses.
Afterwards the preacher spoke again.
"Perhaps," he said, "many of you would like to take Jesus at His word. You that are tired of your present way of life, without God and without hope, want to accept the invitation, 'Come unto Me.' But you think it is for anybody but you. The message is good—too good to be true for you. You think to yourselves, 'I'm o' no account. Only a poor working man, or weary woman, tired with the task that never comes to an end. Who cares for me? Who would do anything for me?'
"'Of no account'? That is what Jesus made Himself. Of no reputation, so as first to come down to your level in all but sin, and then lift you from your low estate to be joint heirs with Him to a heavenly inheritance.
"Of no account? You may say that before you understand the price that has been paid for you—never after!
"Of no account? When God gave His Son to die for you!
"Of no account? When Jesus loves you, and has bought you with His own blood!
"Of no account? When the Holy Spirit pleads with you, is willing to dwell in your hearts and guide you into all truth.
"Of no account? Then for whom are the many mansions in the Father's home above? For whom are the crowns of glory? It is written, 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him.'
"And who are they that love God, but those who believe and rejoice in His great love for them?
"Are they of no account? Hear what He says of those 'that feared the Lord, and that thought upon His name. They shall be Mine, saith the Lord of hosts, in that day when I make up My jewels.'
"You know what jewels are, dear friends, though you may not possess any. You see them glittering in the jewellers' shops, and you know that the smallest of them cost a great deal to buy. You know how carefully they are guarded, and valued, and protected from thieves and housebreakers. Why is this?
"Is it because they are of no account? No; it is because there is the most money value in the least room. Yet these are of no use beyond the grave. God's jewels are the poor sinners bought by the blood of Jesus. And though they may be of little account in the eyes of men, they that fear the Lord are numbered amongst the jewels of the Lord of hosts.
"Of no account? Never say that again. Rather pray as a good man of old prayed, 'When Thou comest to number up Thy jewels, remember that I cost Thee as dear as any.'
"Yes, dear friends, this should be your exulting cry. 'Poor I may be, of no account in the eyes of men, but God loves me, Jesus died for me, the Holy Spirit deigns to dwell in me, and though here I own not a foot of earth, I can claim a share in a heavenly inheritance.' I am one of the Lord's jewels.
"Not one of the sparkling diamonds so valued and guarded here can be carried out of the world by those who possess them whilst here. They are of no account beyond the grave.
"But the jewels of the Lord have an eternal value, and will be safe in His keeping for ever and ever. No chance of their being lost or carried away from the heavenly treasure-house, for there 'thieves cannot break through nor steal.'
"I should like to say just a word about shams before I finish. I daresay you know that there are such things. Every kind of precious stone is imitated, and it needs a practised eye to tell the sham from the real thing. The jewellers know the difference at a glance, because they have experience, and are in the secret of their manufacture. And if you were to buy some of these shams, you would find them out in a little time, because they cannot stand wear and tear, and keep bright like the real things. The real diamond cannot be scratched, and can only be polished with its own dust, the sham one can be scratched with any rough surface it comes against.
"So, dear friends, there are real Christians and imitations. The shams moving to and fro in the world are often mistaken, at first, for the genuine articles. But, as the jeweller's experienced eye knows the true, precious stone, even in the rough, so God knows His own jewels, however poor may be their surroundings and humble the place they occupy. He sees hearts and reads thoughts. Man may mistake them. God never.
"But there is always a fear that sham Christians may mislead those who know no better, and who have not yet learned what is meant by the 'grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.' When they see that the bright outside disappears in the time of trial and temptation, and that they are no better than those who do not profess to follow Christ, they say that there is nothing real in religion. They scoff at it, and declare they would rather be without it, than pretend to be better than their neighbours, while they are only hypocrites.
"Dear friends, remember this. No matter how many imitations may be made, they cannot alter the value of the real diamond. Its beauty and lustre remain the same when hundreds of years have passed away. It is the same with the Lord's jewels. As the cutting down and grinding and polishing that the diamond has to go through makes it shine the more, and take a lustre which time cannot alter, so do the troubles and trials of the world affect those who are God's children in Christ Jesus. If only the mind be in any of us that was in Him, trouble will bring it out more plainly. We see the stuff men are made of when trial comes. The Spirit of the Master shines in the lives of His disciples.
"Eternity cannot alter the glory of the Lord's jewels, for, when the hypocrites have received their portion, 'Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father.'"
The preacher paused a moment, then gave out the hymn, "Just as I am, without one plea," which was sung with deep feeling by most of those present. Then, with a brief prayer that each soul not yet surrendered to the Holy Spirit's influence might yield thereto, and thus come to Jesus, the meeting closed.
NEW LESSONS.
IT was not late when Adam Livesey found himself on the road home, for the conductors of these mission services wisely brought them to a close at nine o'clock. They knew that their hearers would mainly consist of working men who must be in bed betimes, in order that they might be ready to rise early in the morning. It was a common thing for a few to stay and hold a brief prayer-meeting, or for individuals to ask advice from the conductors, but these would sanction no late gatherings which would unfit the men for the duties of the morrow.
Adam shrank from speaking to or being addressed by any one, and he was amongst the first to slip quietly out of the room. He had plenty to think about, and the wish uppermost in his mind was that his wife could have been with him. She would have been put right about the people she called hypocrites. He could understand her feelings about that neighbour who was constantly running about from one religious service to another, whilst neglecting her plainest every-day duties.
Adam could not have quoted the words of Jesus, "These ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone," but he understood the spirit of their teaching.
Then Adam remembered an experience of his own. It happened during his brief courting days, and when he was very anxious to give his pretty Maggie some little gift. Being unused to make any purchase of the kind, he had gone from window to window, and gazed at the glittering objects within, passing on and on, without being able to make up his mind.
He had wandered far beyond his usual bounds, and entered the great square of the city, in which the principal jewellers' shops were situated. Before the window of one, he stood as if spellbound, for the many ornaments it contained shone so beautifully. He thought they were bits of glass, such as hung from lustres and chandeliers in another great shop he had passed, only very finely cut. There were carriages about the door, and for a long time Adam shrank from entering, and stood, turning over his few hoarded shillings in his pocket.
One grandly dressed customer after another came out, entered a waiting carriage and was driven away, and as others did not take their places, Adam mustered enough courage first to peep round the doorway, and then to enter the shop. An assistant stepped forward and politely asked what he could show him, whilst the faces of the rest manifested surprise at the appearance of this would-be customer. Indeed, they one and all decided to keep a sharp eye on him. He had been observed as he hung about the windows for nearly half an hour past, and was regarded as a suspicious character. What could this rugged fellow in his working clothes be wanting in the shop of the first jeweller in Millborough?
In answer to the assistant's inquiry Adam said, "There's a little thing in the window I thought of buying, if it's not too much money. Please tell me what you want for it."
The assistant invited him to step outside and point out the article, which Adam did, and the young man returned to his place behind the counter, and took the little brooch from the window case, saying—
"This is the one, I believe."
"Yes," said Adam, gazing with admiring eyes, but not venturing to extend his hand that he might look at it more closely. "It's only a little thing, but it's very neat. I reckon it will not be very much, now?"
"Not much in comparison with many of the others, but the stones are good. The price is thirty-five pounds."
Adam stared like one struck dumb, and was turning to go, but "remembering manners," as he afterwards told, he said to the assistant, "Thank you kindly, sir, for telling me. I'm sorry I've given you the trouble but I might have known that the things in a grand shop like this wouldn't be for such as me."
There was something so innocent and genuine in Adam's look and words that the assistant was touched, and he said, "You are very welcome. I am sorry we have not what you want. What did you wish to spend?"
Adam blushed deeply. "Only a matter o' ten shillings, or so. But I never wanted to buy a brooch before, and I know nothing about such matters. I'm to be married in a week or two, and I thought I would buy her a present."
"You must come to us for the wedding ring, then," said the good-humoured shopman. "We will serve you extra well, to make up for your disappointment to-day."
Further than this, the young man told Adam that the pretty glittering things he admired so much were real diamonds, and explained something of their properties and uses, apart from their beauty. It interested him to see the rugged face light up with pleasure and astonishment, and to receive the hearty thanks which followed.
He could not join in the burst of laughter which the rest of the assistants indulged in when Adam was out of hearing, though he smiled at the simplicity of the man, while regretting his disappointment. He was pleased when Adam actually made his appearance a fortnight later, and he was able to fit the finger of the pretty smiling lass who accompanied him with the all-important ring. He even presented the bride elect with a little silver brooch in the shape of a bird, which was still one of Mrs. Livesey's treasured possessions, and of genuine metal, as its durability proved.