This old experience enabled Adam to understand the preacher's teaching better than he could have done without it, and he thought to himself, "If I took real stones for imitations, no wonder other folks sometimes take sham things and people for real good ones till they're taught better, or find 'em out."
Adam soon reached home, and as he entered, Sarah Evans rose from her seat to pour out his frugal supper of porridge, and to place it before him. She had been reading, for she put her book aside at his coming.
"The children are all in bed and asleep," she said. "They have been very good with me; better than I expected, though I am used to children. Yours are very ready to do as they are bid."
"They find it best for 'em," said Adam. Not many words, but they expressed a good deal.
"It's best for us all, isn't it, Mr. Livesey? Though it's sometimes hard work to do a thing just because it's right, specially when one's mind is hanging after something else."
Adam answered that he supposed it was, then relapsed into silence again, and attacked the plate of steaming porridge, though he afterwards bethought himself to ask if Sarah had kept any for her own supper.
"I had my bit before you came. I was getting some food of another sort when you came in, and I hardly noticed how time was going."
Adam looked round inquiringly, and the girl, seeing this, laid her hand on the Bible. "I didn't mean anything to eat. I was reading some words of Jesus. It cheers one so to have a verse or two to think about, when one's hands are busy and there's nobody to speak to. I shall be washing to-morrow, but all the day through I shall have these verses coming into my head, and helping me on."
"You might read them to me," said Adam, making his porridge last out, as an excuse for not moving.
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Sarah complied with the request, and read—
"And Jesus said unto them, 'I am the bread of life: he that cometh to Me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on Me shall never thirst.'"'All that the Father giveth Me shall come to Me; and him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.'"'And this is the Father's will which hath sent Me, that of all which He hath given Me I should lose nothing, but should raise it up again at the last day. And this is the will of him that sent Me, that every one that seeth the Son, and believeth on Him, may have everlasting life; and I will raise him up at the last day.'"
Sarah paused as Adam laid down his spoon, with the remark, "I reckon them words, 'shall never hunger,' don't mean that people won't want victuals, or that they'll always get 'em when they do want."
Sarah shook her head. "It doesn't mean that at all," she said. "I wish I could make it all plain, for I feel it, only I can't put it in right words, like the preachers do, or as Uncle Richard can. Only I know that I feel something wanting, besides food and clothes and the friends at home. When I've done wrong, I feel weighed down, as if I was carrying a load, and I go and ask God to forgive me, for Jesus sake, and then I get light and happy again; or I get down-hearted, thinking I've no father, and mother isn't strong; for there are ever so many young ones at our house. Then I bethink myself that I have a Father in heaven that loves me, and a Friend in Jesus that will never forsake me, and I'm cheered up again. There's something in us that hungers for better things than meat and drink, and I expect the verse I read means that we shall get all by going to Jesus."
"Do you believe that?" asked Adam earnestly.
"Yes, Mr. Livesey, I do. Haven't I just read His very own promise?
"'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.'
"And isn't it nice to-night, you know, when I think, 'Here I am brought all of a sudden into a fresh place and among strange people, to be able to kneel down and say, "Lord, help me to take care of these little children, and keep all right and straight till the missis comes back? Lord, help me to set them a good example, and to remember that Thou God seest me."' I want to be careful of the little 'uns, and the house and money, and keep things clean and comfortable. But if I didn't ask God to help me, I might feel that I should like to be running off here and there, and neglect things."
"You don't look like that sort."
"Perhaps not. But I'm no better than anybody else in these ways, without God's help. So I go, hungering like, for bread for my soul, to make me strong in what is right; and I'm always better for going, because He keeps His word. And isn't it a comfort for you, now Mrs. Livesey's had to go away for the first time, that you can ask Him to take care of her, and know that He sees her and baby all the while, same as He sees you and the other children at home?"
Adam did not answer, but he thought about the question. Surely it should be a comfort, though he had never counted it one, while feeling very lonely in Maggie's absence. He was beginning to find out that there were many privileges open to him, of which he had never dreamed before.
Without waiting for a reply, Sarah busied herself in clearing away the few articles, and this done, said, "Must I make the door, or will you."
Adam said he would "fasten up," and the young woman bade him "good night," and betook herself to the room occupied by little Maggie and the two youngest children, the elder boys sharing their father's. But the mind of the latter was too much occupied to allow of immediate sleep, so he stayed downstairs for a while to think things over.
THE LIGHT BEGINS TO SHINE ON ADAM.
LEFT alone with his own thoughts, Adam Livesey took up Sarah's Bible, and began to turn over its leaves. He was a good reader, in spite of little practice and the fact that money was too scarce to be spent on books, except those which must be bought for school use.
Still these interested Adam, and he was always ready to hear the elder children repeat the lessons which had to be learned at home. But neither he nor they ever thought of opening the one large Bible. Indeed, it was deemed a sort of parlour ornament, and lay, year in year out, on a little table under the window. Moreover, it served as a stand for an inlaid tea-caddy, which had belonged to Adam's mother in her best days.
The large Bible would have been brought out to-night if Sarah's had not been left close at hand.
Adam's soul was fairly hungering for spiritual food, and its yearnings could not be silenced.
The preacher's words, the talk of the young woman, to whom religion seemed such a real thing that it entered into her daily life and work, filled the man's thoughts.
Mr. Kennedy might have read his very heart, and answered his difficulties in his address. Had he not all his life deemed himself "of no account," even in the eyes of men? And yet, if that preacher had told the truth, he, poor Adam Livesey, was an object of interest and of love to man's Maker, the God of heaven and earth.
He was "nobody" to the rich and great of this world, and he never would be of any consequence. But could it be true that his soul was as precious in God's sight as that of, say Mr. Drummond, or Mr. John Rutherford? He might go higher still, and say, as the soul of the Queen of England? If God had given His only Son for the sake of Adam Livesey, why, He could give no more or better for the greatest king in the world!
"He must have loved me, or He couldn't ha' done it," thought Adam; and he found a new joy in the thought, while in his ears seemed to sound again the words in which he had felt unable to join when at the Mission Room, "I am so glad that Jesus loves me."
He felt as if he could sing them now, and caught himself whispering "Even me" with a new sense of happiness. But he wanted to know a great deal more, and he felt that he could not sleep while all this inner questioning was going on.
The preacher had said they must begin by repenting. Now, what had he to repent about? There was marrying Maggie. He had troubled about that. But dear me! How she had silenced his regrets on that score whilst they sat in the railway carriage. She didn't own to having eaten rue pie, not she, indeed, but said that if it were to do again, she, knowing all that was to follow, would take him to her heart.
Thinking over that little scene, Adam smiled to himself, and seeming to feel the wife's kisses on his rough face, said softly, "No, no. If she doesn't rue, I needn't." So repentance on this score was out of the question.
Then Adam began to think what else there was. He was resolved, if he made a start on the new road, it should be a fair one, and so he looked back as far as he could on his past life, with the honest intention of finding out what he ought to be sorry for.
Not about mother. He had given up much, done his best, stuck to her alone, and to the last.
Conscience expressed herself satisfied on this point. Not with respect to his employers! As boy and man no one could say that Adam Livesey had not given a fair penn'orth of work for every penny of wages.
Again conscience affirmed the assertion.
There were wife and children. Well, he had never abused the one or the other. He gave them all he could win by steady, honest toil. He never used hard or cruel words, or struck his innocent little ones, or spent on drink and self-indulgence even a small portion of the wages he earned.
"All right, so far," said conscience; and then Adam was a little in danger of giving up his newborn resolutions and going to bed in a state of satisfaction with himself hitherto unknown.
He would have done so, if it had not been for the memory of the preacher's words and that open Bible, which he had been turning over and over, not knowing where to find what he wanted. Whilst doing so, he was thinking how much better he was than many of his neighbours. Had he really anything to repent about?
All at once through his mind flashed the memory of the preacher's thanksgiving for mercies received, and Adam remembered how many of them he also enjoyed. Life, health, strength, food, clothing, light and air to breathe. Home, wife, children, and from what he had heard there were other blessings without end, that he might have had for the asking, in the name of Jesus.
He could see a light shining through his ignorance now. He had never thanked God for anything. He had lived without thinking of Him at all.
But he wanted something out of that Bible, and he could not find the right thing. He had opened it several times, hap-hazard, and had come upon long strings of names which were hard to read; upon a description of Solomon's Temple, which he found it impossible to realize, never having seen any fine house in his life; then upon a chapter in Revelation which was more mysterious still. Evidently he wanted a guide to show him where these passages could be found, that gave such light and comfort to other people.
Adam was almost giving up in despair, when he noticed that there were some strings, as he mentally called them. Opening at one place where a narrow ribbon lay, he observed some of the verses had pencil marks, and he thought they must be specially nice to be so distinguished. He began to read, "'Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.' 'Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.'"
"That's for me," said Adam; then turning to another pencil mark, "'Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.'
"And I've left that to the last. What have I cared about God while He's been caring about me? I wish I knew how to begin now."
Adam's eye was wandering in search of another pencil mark, and in a moment his eye rested on the words, "'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.'
"That's plain," thought Adam. "I've got to ask. 'Tisn't reason to get all one wants without speaking a word for it. At Rutherford's we reckon we're well off if we get a favour for the asking, and we don't forget to say 'Thank ye' to the foreman or manager. No taking everything as if one had a right to it, same as I've been doing with God's gifts, never owning any obligation in the matter.
"Very cheering, too, to read such words as these. They're so straight. No going round about. No 'ifs' or 'buts' or 'maybe's,' but a plain 'it shall be given you.'"
Adam followed on and read the three next verses, ending with, "'If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?'"
Adam's fatherly tenderness helped him here, and he thought, "Yes, I would give any of my little 'uns the best bit I have, poor things! I wish I had more for them. Can it be that God feels like this to me? It says, He would 'much more' give this Holy Spirit, and He has given His only Son, and that with Him, He will freely give all the other things we want. If all this be true, I ought to be ashamed of myself, for it's plain God only wants to be asked."
It was many a year since Adam Livesey had bent a knee in reverence, or uttered a word in a spirit of prayer, and from a sense of want.
He did both now, amid a very conflict of varying feelings. Joy at the discovery of God's love in Christ Jesus, disgust at his own ingratitude, wonder that he could have been so utterly blind and indifferent to his Heavenly Father's dealings and gifts, sorrow for so many lost years—lost, because lived without God—and a longing after pardon, peace and guidance in the present and the future.
His prayer would have sounded strangely in human ears, but it went up to God from an honest and true heart, and not in vain. The Father's promise, given in the words of Jesus, was fulfilled, and the poor humble solitary man, "of no account" in his own eyes, did not ask or seek in vain when he poured out his supplications at the throne of grace.
Earth rejoiced not, knew nothing of the yearning soul or the cry that went up from it, but "there was joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repented."
There would have been joy beneath an earthly roof too, if its master and his guest could have known what was passing in Adam Livesey's mind.
Mr. Drummond and his friend, the preacher, had been glad to see Adam at the Mission Room that evening. Indeed, the striker had suggested both text and sermon, though he did not know it.
The manager having told Mr. Kennedy about his talk with Adam, the latter had seized on the man's oft-repeated expression, "I'm o' no account," and used it as has been already told, though not without praying that the man might be led to the place of meeting, and be benefited by it.
Mr. Kennedy thought of speaking to Adam, but was prevented by his early departure, and Mr. Drummond was not sorry for this, and said to his friend, "Livesey is no ordinary character. He is best left to himself at first. He is not the man to be excited or carried away by mere feeling, to make professions or promises on the spur of the moment. But he will think over what he has heard, and you and I can wait and pray that the good seed of the word may take deep root in his heart, and eventually bear fruit to God's glory. I think we shall see him again to-morrow."
In this, however, Mr. Drummond was mistaken. He kept a careful watch on all comers and goers, and was convinced that Adam Livesey was not in the Mission Room on the Tuesday evening.
The manager was greatly disappointed. He thought if that particular address had not touched a responsive chord in the man's heart, he would not be likely to come a second time.
If he could have known that it was the very unselfishness of his rugged friend that kept him at home he would have felt no regret.
The fact was that Adam stayed at home in order that Sarah Evans might go to the Mission Room. He felt that the girl would like it, especially as her uncle and aunt would be there, and so hastened home from work to get tea over, and take charge of the children. Though Sarah insisted that she would not mind staying in, Adam quoted his usual saying, "Turn about's the fair thing," and that the girl must take hers. Baby could be put to bed, and Maggie could manage with him to stand by her. She'd often done it without anybody, for that matter, but he meant stopping at home. So it was settled.
When Sarah's back was turned, the little tongues were loosed, and the children told their father how, the night before, this new housekeeper had wondered so that they had never been taught to say a prayer. She had put some simple words into their mouths, and knelt beside them and asked God's blessing on them all, from baby upwards.
"And, father, she cried when she was knelt down," said Maggie, with an awe-stricken face, so much was she impressed by the memory of Sarah's tears.
Truth to say, the young woman was grieved that not one of the little group of children seemed to dream of kneeling to say "Our Father" before they went to rest.
She wondered whether, if she strove to teach them, she should be blamed, but resolved to risk this, and before the children slept, each had also been taught that short but precious text, "God is love."
When Maggie told her father this, Adam felt as if he had received a blow. Conscience made it plain to him that here was something left undone that ought to have been done, another sin to be grieved over, forsaken, and he trusted, forgiven.
In that humble way which was so touching, he said to his child, "I doubt I have not done right in letting you go on so long without learning to say your prayers, Maggie. But now you have begun, you must go on. I'm glad Sarah has given you a start."
To the amazement of the children, Adam was the one to kneel beside them that night, though all he found words to say was, "Lord Jesus, bless the children and their mother and me. Help us to do right, and forgive us all our sins." Then he repeated "Our Father," bidding the children say the prayer after him, and that was all.
When they were at rest, he got the large Bible, for Sarah had taken hers to the meeting with her, and though there were no marks to guide him, he remembered whereabouts he had found such sweet words of encouragement. By seeking, he discovered many more, and the lonely hour was happily and profitably spent.
Only Adam's heart was full of longing that his wife could share his newborn happiness, the experience which in after days, every child of God can recall to mind as the first desire of an awakened soul.
THE LETTER AND ITS ANSWER.
THE next morning's post brought a letter from Mrs. Livesey, with news of her safe arrival. Adam was delighted to receive it, but it took a long time to make out its meaning. His wife had a style both of writing and spelling peculiar to herself, the natural result of having had little practice in either for many years past, and fingers stiffened by rough work.
By dint of much painstaking, Adam gathered that she had been met at the station by Ann's husband, sent by her mother for that purpose. That Mrs. Allison had rallied, and might live for weeks, though she could not get better, and that she begged her daughter to remain with her to the last.
The thought of being so long absent from Adam and the children troubled Mrs. Livesey, but what could she do? Adam must let her know, somehow, what he thought about it, and if he said she must come home sooner, she would come.
Adam gathered other particulars from the queer scrawl.
Mrs. Allison, lying on her death-bed, owned that she had not done the right thing by her youngest daughter.
"She says she will make it up to me. I don't know what she is going to do," wrote Mrs. Livesey, or at least she wrote what may be thus translated. "I'm glad I did not buy a black bonnet. Mother looked at mine and said, 'Is it new?' and when I told her 'yes,' she was pleased, and said, 'Then you are not looking for me to die, so as you may get my shoes.'"
Mrs. Allison had also praised the baby's beauty, her daughter's thrift in having taken such care of the clothes sent her from time to time, and she sent her love to Adam and the children. "You must have been a good husband," she says, "or I should not stand up for you as I do, and after all, that is one of the things that can't be got for money."
There were messages for the children, and kisses for all round, which were to be mutually delivered on behalf of the writer. And inasmuch as she did not lavish such caresses on any of them, except the two youngest for the time being, Mrs. Livesey's deputy kisses caused some surprise to those who received them.
In a postscript, Mrs. Livesey told Adam that he must use that sovereign as occasion required, to pay Sarah Evans for her services. Even if the money were made to go as far as usual, which could hardly be expected in hands less experienced than those of the mother, the wages were extra, and Mrs. Allison would gladly pay them and more, in order to keep her daughter with her while she lived. Money would be sent in due course.
Altogether the letter was very satisfactory to Adam. He could picture his wife by her mother's bedside and looking, years considered, hardly less changed than the invalid herself, yet stoutly standing up for her man at home, all of whose virtues would be magnified in her eyes by absence. The letter said no word of the mother's feelings on seeing the change, but doubtless, the sight of her Margaret's pale face and thin, aged features would touch her heart, and add to her feelings of regret for years of neglect.
Of course Maggie should be spared. Adam was not the one, at any time, to stand selfishly in the way of giving pleasure or comfort to another, and now he did not allow Mrs. Allison's desertion of them and after neglect to influence his reply. He resolved that Maggie should stay just as long as her mother wanted her.
The letter had been brought to him with breakfast by his eldest boy, and he was pondering as to the answer, when Mr. Drummond passed through the smithy.
The manager was always early at the works, having great faith in the value of the master's eye for keeping the men at their posts, and for enhancing the quality of the work turned out.
Adam was just folding up his letter, which he had taken into a quiet spot to read. In five minutes the pulses of the great engines would begin to throb again, and the human as well as the other machinery would be all in motion.
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Mr. Drummond stopped not to shake hands here. At Rutherford's, he was manager, Adam a mere labourer. Outside they were man to man; nevertheless, he brought a bit of his outside humanity to bear, for he paused to ask the striker if he had received good news from his wife.
Adam in few words gave him the substance of his news, and thanked him for the inquiry.
A little sigh, which escaped the striker as he pushed the letter back into his pocket, reached Mr. Drummond's ear. He was a man of quick sympathies, and as he glanced at Adam's horny, toil-stiffened hands, he guessed the reason. Probably he dreaded the labour which the writing of an answer would involve, more than a week of ordinary work. Even if he could write, practice must have rendered it easier for him to wield that huge hammer than to guide a pen.
"You have an hour for dinner," said the manager; "can you make half the time do, and come to my office for the remainder?"
"To be sure, sir. I have my dinner here, and less than half an hour will do to eat it in."
"Look in at half past twelve, then."
Adam had only time to assent, for it was needful to resume work, and the men were thronging into the various departments.
Richard Evans was employed in another part of the works, or probably Adam would have spoken to him about replying to his wife's letter, and bespoken the services of one of his sons. He went home to dinner, so there was no chance at that time.
Exactly at the half-hour, Adam entered Mr. Drummond's office, and found him alone.
"Now, Livesey," said he, "I have about twenty-five minutes at your service. Would you like to employ me as your clerk? You trusted me a good deal when we met in the park, and if you like to do so now, I will write whatever you wish in answer to your wife's letter. Then you can put in the private messages at the end."
Adam's astonishment may be better imagined than described. "That was so bothering me," he answered. "I never write letters, and though I once could manage pretty well, I've got clean out of it."
He was going on to thank Mr. Drummond, but the latter, with good-humoured firmness, said the thanks must wait until he had earned them, and bade Adam tell him what to write, as time was precious.
The manager had already dated a sheet of paper, and written, "My dear Maggie," and showed the same to the gratified eyes of the striker, who, after a little pause, went on to dictate to his volunteer secretary.
"I was very glad to get your letter this morning, and to know that you got safe to your mother's, and that she was pleased to see you. We are all very well, and the children take to Sarah Evans very nicely. She is very clean, and keeps them and the house nice and tidy, as you would say, if you could look in now. You must stop with your mother while she wants you. You would be sorry after, if you left her, and I should be sorry to send for you back, if we only all keep well, as this leaves us at present."I've not been home since your letter came, for Tom brought it with my breakfast; but they will all be pleased when I tell them I've heard from mother. I'll give them the kisses."Mr. Drummond is writing for me in half the dinner-hour. I should be slow with a pen now, but I'll try and put a bit in at the last."I haven't changed that sovereign yet, but I expect I shall have to do, for you know what. I have it locked up in the little tea-caddy till I want some of it."I'm glad, too, you didn't buy the black bonnet." (Adam explained this allusion.) "It would have looked bad if you had. Tell mother I'm much obliged for promising to pay the young woman, but maybe the sovereign will last. I was going to say I hope it will, only I bethought me that would be like saying I hope mother won't last long. So I hope it won't, unless it be that she takes a good turn, and gets better after all; which it would please me to hear of."The little uns will want to send their love and kisses back again, but I'll put them in after I get home. So no more at present from—"Your loving husband,"ADAM LIVESEY."
The signature was executed by Adam himself, and he seemed rather proud of it when it was done. Mr. Drummond had hard work to hide the kindly smile that came to his face as he watched him labouring over it, thinking the while that he would, if possible, devise some means for the improvement of the man's writing. The manager addressed the letter, and put on the stamp, leaving the envelope open for additions. He was touched when Adam, after vainly searching in every pocket for a coin, said he would bring the pay for the stamp and paper next morning.
"I have a threepenny bit at home," he said, with perfect simplicity, "but I left it in my other waistcoat pocket. I don't hardly keep any myself, because my missis wants it all to pay her way with."
"You are welcome to the paper and the writing, Adam. You can pay for the stamp afterwards, if you like."
Very warm were Adam's thanks, though his face said as much as his words. Mr. Drummond would have gladly given him a dozen stamps, had his correspondence required. But he rightly judged that this man, so unlike many of those around him, would shrink from coming to him a second time, if he were not allowed to pay his penny, even though the manager had offered to write for him as often as might be necessary during Mrs. Livesey's absence.
That very afternoon, when the men left work, Adam lingered for some time outside the great gates, in the hope of seeing Mr. Drummond. His face lighted up with pleasure when at length he came towards them, and taking off his old cap, he said, "May I speak, sir, just a minute?"
"Certainly, Livesey; what is it?"
"When you were writing for me, you put something about a sovereign in the letter. I wanted to tell you how I came by it. It's hardly mine, like, now;" and in a few words, Adam explained why such an unwonted sum was in his keeping.
For a moment, Mr. Drummond was puzzled to understand why Adam had deemed such an explanation necessary. Then it flashed upon him that he had hunted for the threepenny piece, and spoken of it as if it were all the money he possessed, though he had alluded in his letter to the unbroken sovereign. He was afraid that Mr. Drummond might think him wanting in straightforwardness, and could not rest till the matter was cleared up.
The manager was pleased, but frankly owned that he had noticed that which had troubled Adam. Then he added, "I was glad to see you at the Mission Room on Monday. I hoped you would like the service well enough to come again."
"I want to do, sir, and now the letter to Maggie is mostly off my mind, I'm hoping I shall be in time to-night. I should ha' gone last night, only there's a young woman doing for us all while Margaret's away, and she's fond o' preachin's and such-like, so I thought she ought to have her turn. I might ha' left that little lass of mine to look after the lesser ones, but she has her bits o' lessons to learn, and it's no good loadin' 'em too heavy, poor things! They can only be young once."
Adam was astonished at himself that he could talk "so free like" to the manager, and Mr. Drummond was pleased to see that the ice between them, once broken, was not likely to close over again.
"You were quite right, Adam. The little ones often have too much to bear, and are made to grow old too soon. I am glad that you want to save yours as far as you can. I respect you more for staying away than I should have done for coming last night. But I shall look for you again this evening."
With a kindly nod, the manager went homewards, and Adam, watching him till he was out of sight, said to himself, "Here now is something else to thank God for. He must ha' made Mr. Drummond so kind to me, for I've done nothing myself."
Truly, many a mere man of the world may feel inclined to scoff at this simple account of the manager's intercourse with Adam Livesey, and say, "How unlikely that a person in such a position of authority would trouble himself about one filling so low a place as that of the striker! To a gentleman acting as the head and manager of a great concern employing many hundreds of hands, what would one humble labourer be but an item in the mass of human machines moving like clockwork around him?"
Probably in many such places, the humbler toilers are never noticed, could not even be known by name or sight to those so far above them.
They are too many, too much alike, as they pour in and out of the business hive. Many a manager, especially one who had risen from the ranks, would have been afraid to risk his dignity by such free interchange of thought with a man who was never likely to get beyond the lowest rung of the social ladder.
Others would have thought themselves in danger of losing the respect of their inferiors in station, or have been too proud to stoop.
But Mr. Drummond was not merely the head man at Rutherford's, next to the partners themselves, he was a Christian whom the Holy Spirit had taught the value of his own soul, and the love of God for sinners. Could he be stooping or lessening himself by striving to do good to those for whom Jesus died? Had not the Master made Himself of no reputation, and come as man amongst men?
Ought he then to let pride of place hinder him from doing what he could on behalf of those amongst whom the good providence of God had brought him, and by most unlooked-for means?
Every feeling of gratitude and thankfulness to God forbade this. The constraining love of Christ within his heart forbade it. And so, while as yet he could do but little, Mr. Drummond resolved to make a beginning. If he could not get hold of the great mass of toiling humanity around him, he would devote the best powers he had to one at first. Circumstances turned his attention to Adam Livesey, and for this man's conversion to God he was striving on earth, and pleading, for Jesus' sake, to heaven.
Worldlings may smile, infidels may scoff at such a picture. But, God be thanked, there are yet many men, and women, too, on earth who are moved by a like spirit to that which impelled the new manager at Rutherford's.
CONSCIENCE AT WORK.
WHEN Mrs. Livesey parted with her husband at the railway station, she little thought that she would be a full month absent from her home and family. But so it proved.
It seemed that the daughter's visit produced a good effect on the sick mother, for after Margaret's arrival, Mrs. Allison brightened visibly. Those about her began to think that the patient would yet recover, in spite of the doctor's opinion to the contrary. The improvement did not, however, last, though it is probable that Mrs. Allison lingered longer, owing to the pleasure and comfort she derived from the sight of her youngest child.
Another feeling mingled with that of joy. She could not look at Margaret's changed face without pain and remorse, and an ever-present wish that she had not left her to herself. She thought that a selfish feeling on her own part had induced her to countenance Adam Livesey's addresses to pretty Maggie, and that the girl had never crossed her in any serious matter since she knew the difference between right and wrong, added to her own mental discomfort. Often did she draw Margaret's thin face down to hers, and whisper, "You don't feel vexed at your mother, do you, my dear?"
And the younger woman would smooth her pillow, and kiss her, denying stoutly the while that she was the least bit vexed about what had passed.
"You did it for the best, mother. It was no wonder you went away, for you never had any peace, what with me and the children. We were always at you, one or other of us; and when folks are getting on in years they can't stand things like young ones."
"I was not so very old then, Margaret, and I'm not to call a real aged woman now. Only just turned sixty-five. You see the being quiet and comfortable don't make folks live any longer."
"Maybe you'll get better yet," said Mrs. Livesey. "I'm sure I wish you may be spared for many a year to come. Why, for all you are so poorly, and have been a fortnight in bed, your face is fuller than mine, and you've more colour in it. Why, I expect if I go on as I'm doing till I'm sixty-five, I shall look a hundred years old at the least."
Margaret was giving her mother the best consolation she knew how to offer. Was not the hope of getting well again the only thing likely to cheer an invalid?
It would have been to herself, for life, with all its troubles, must, she thought, be better than death.
"You look sadly too old, my poor lass," said the sick woman. "No wonder, borne down as you've been. But I hope you will grow younger again yet."
"That would be going t'other way about from what one expects, mother. But don't you fret over spilt milk. I've had hard work, no mistake about that, and little to do with. Still, if you could ha' looked into our bit of a place as I left it, you would ha' said there wasn't a dirty corner. The children, poor things, haven't many clothes, but they've a change apiece of under things, and no holes or rags. Then, whether we've little or much, we pay as we go on. You taught me that lesson, mother; so we are never afraid, let who may knock at the door."
"You must ha' done wonders with such little wages."
"I've done my best, but then, you see, mother, I had all he earned to do it with. If I'd had to deal with some men, the house and children would ha' been lost in dirt and rags. But Adam is a real good 'un in his quiet way. Turning up every penny to me, and taking just what I could give him. Never drinking, nor grumbling, nor swearing, though he might have got mad with me many a time. I was always quick, you know, mother, and what I've had to go through has not made me sweeter-tempered. That poor fellow at home has had something to stand, specially these last years."
It will be seen that Margaret Livesey was not wanting in perception. She had a good deal of self-knowledge, and was frank enough in alluding to her own short-comings.
"I am glad Adam has been such a good husband," said Mrs. Allison. "In other ways, I know he wasn't good enough for you. I've blamed myself."
She could not finish her sentence, for Margaret interrupted, "Never blame yourself again about Adam, mother. He's too good all round for me. He's that patient and true, you wouldn't believe. I only wish I were more like him. But I expect I shall be a little spit-fire of a woman to the end o' my days. If I'd nothing to try me, I should make something to be sharp about. It's just in me. As it is, I have the one comfort of thinking that I've a little bit of excuse for being so short-tempered. But Adam does know that I care for him, and would give him the best and last mouthful I had. If I'd my time to bring over again, and knew all that was coming, I should take Adam. The little 'uns too. They just worship their father."
There was much in all this to comfort the invalid, and to confirm her in a resolution she had arrived at after much consideration. So far, she had not revealed her plan to Margaret, though, after regretting her neglect of the Liveseys, she had several times murmured, "I shall make amends. I shall make amends."
Poor Mrs. Allison! Her one thought of wrongdoing was in connection with Margaret, and on this score she was gradually receiving comfort. Things had not turned out so badly, after all, if her daughter could boldly declare that she would not have them otherwise.
Yet, though Mrs. Livesey said so much to cheer and comfort her mother, she did not the less feel that there were many things connected with her daily life which she would fain have altered. It was true that she would not like to part with Adam or any of those small people on whom she bestowed very uncomplimentary names when she was put out. "Little torments," "plagues of my life," "creatures who were always worritting for something," were no uncommon names for Margaret to bestow, together with slaps and other pains and penalties.
Despite such words, she would have liked to send them out as nicely clad as the best, even while she told her mother, with a sort of fierce pride, that the best dressed children in the school chose her Maggie for a companion, because she was "clean and wholesome, and pretty behaved."
Then she would have liked to dress up poor homely-looking Adam, and herself too, though not in the same sort of finery in which her youthful soul once delighted, but in "real good clothes," and to walk out, with him carrying baby, on fine Sunday evenings. Yes, there were many things she longed for, and the non-possession of which gave sharpness to tongue and temper, even whilst she toiled and turned to good account all that came into her hands. She would not tell Mrs. Allison about these daily conflicts.
"Where would be the good?" thought she, and kept silence, though it cost her an effort to do it.
Mrs. Livesey would not have had so much opportunity for quiet talk, but that Ann's husband happened to be ailing, and required more attention than usual, and she had no daughter to see to home matters. So Margaret was her mother's head nurse, and whilst acting as such, she was called upon to bring a visitor to her bedside. He was one whom Margaret had seen several times after her father's death, for he acted as executor under the will of the relative through whom the "bit of money" had come to him.
It will be remembered that in the early days of Adam's acquaintance with Mrs. Allison, the widow told him about a legacy which fortunately her husband had been unable to spend, because he died almost immediately after coming into possession of it. Also that one-fourth of it, about three hundred pounds, would come to Margaret at her mother's death. The executor under the first will had been induced to act as such for the dying legatee, and had since held the principal sum of twelve hundred pounds in trust for the widow and her daughters. The money had been well invested by Mr. Collinge, and Mrs. Allison justly deemed herself very fortunate in having so kind a friend in this worthy and upright gentleman.
"Mr. Collinge is coming to see me," said the widow to Mrs. Livesey. "It is about a bit of business, but I don't want Ann to know, or you either. She'll know soon enough," added the invalid with a wan smile, "and you too, for that matter. Bad news always travels too fast, and good is sure to come at the right time. Mind, Margaret, if Ann is here, Mr. Collinge will call again; if not, he must see me. Wake me, if I'm asleep. Let me have a few minutes to speak to him on the quiet. Ann may hear he has been, and ask you what he said; but I shall take care you have nothing to tell but what the town-crier would be free to repeat."
Mr. Collinge came. Not alone, though, for his daughter, a sweet-faced young lady, was with him, and accompanied him to the bedside of the sick woman.
Of what passed between Mrs. Allison and her visitors Margaret was told nothing. They exchanged a few kindly words with herself, and made inquiries after her husband and family, then took leave.
After the departure of Mr. Collinge and his daughter, Margaret returned to her mother's room, and found her with a look of great satisfaction on her face.
"Yes, I'm feeling better," she said. "I've settled the one thing that troubled me, and made amends. I'm glad Ann kept out of the way at the right time; but you can tell her when she comes that I have had these visitors. It's all you can tell." And she laughed a little laugh of triumph, which made her hearer feel very uncomfortable, she knew not why.
When Ann, otherwise Mrs. Bradford, returned to her mother's house, Margaret told her about Mr. Collinge's call, as she had been requested to do.
An angry flush mounted to her elder sister's face as she heard this, and she asked sharply, "What did he come here for? Mr. Collinge only calls when there's business to be done. What could mother want with him, I should like to know?"
"That's more than I can tell you, for mother wanted to speak to the gentleman and his daughter by themselves; so I came downstairs. I wasn't likely to cross her by stopping, or poking my nose in, if I wasn't wanted!" retorted Margaret, with her usual plainness of speech.
Her sister gave a searching, suspicious look at Mrs. Livesey, but learned nothing by it, as Margaret's face was openness itself.
"Do you mean to say then," she asked, "that you went straight down and never stopped to listen? You'll hardly make me believe you didn't want to know what Mr. Collinge came about."
The flush deepened on Margaret's face, and her tone was not only sharp, but scornful, as she answered, "You're measuring my corn in your skep, Ann. Nobody could ever say of me that I was fond of sneaking or listening to what wasn't meant for me to hear. I know what you were when I was only a little thing at home, and you were the oldest. You used to want me to pry and tattle then, but if I didn't learn then, I wasn't likely to learn after I'd lost my teacher. Whether you believe me or no, I did come straight downstairs after I'd shown Mr. Collinge and the young lady into mother's room, and I stood by the house door with baby till I heard them on the steps. Mr. Collinge never mentioned a thing, except that he was sorry mother was so ill, and was sure me coming would comfort her. Then he asked after Adam and the children at home, and went away. Believe me or no, as you like," repeated Margaret, with a look and tone which made her elder sister shrink before her.
Mrs. Bradford did believe her, though she did not say so. She only muttered something about Maggie's flare up, and that she was always so sharp that nobody could ask her a civil question without catching it back again. The fact was that the elder sister's disposition was entirely different from that of Mrs. Livesey. The latter was hasty in temper and frank almost to a fault, often speaking when silence would have been better and more likely to evoke a spirit of peace and good-will.
Ann was close, suspicious, mistrustful, ever imagining that others were planning to promote their own interests at her expense. Her husband's position in life was far above that of Adam Livesey, on whom she looked with almost contempt, and wondered how Margaret could ever marry such a one. This was one bone of contention, for we know that Mrs. Livesey would allow no human being to run her husband down, though she might give him what she called "sharp sauce" now and then.
Again, Mrs. Bradford had only two sons, one out of his time and doing well as a journeyman ironmonger, the other serving his behind a grocer's counter. She was also comparatively well off, and had helped her husband to save money, which they both loved rather too well.
Years before, this couple had induced Mrs. Allison to leave the neighbourhood of the Liveseys, having taken pains to make her believe that if she stayed beside those who were so poor, and with so many wants, she would soon be without a bed to lie on, or a roof over her head.
"Margaret will always be at you," Ann had said. "You will never have enough for her, let alone yourself, and with her tribe of children there will be no peace. They will never be off your doorstep. Now if you come to live beside us, you will be out of their way, and our boys will be no trouble to you, but a help."
We know how Mrs. Allison was over persuaded, and what were her feelings at this present time. But her youngest daughter knew nothing of what the mother's clearer sight had discovered respecting Ann's motives in persuading her to make the change of home.
Before her husband's death, Mrs. Allison had saved a little money, not from his earnings, but her own. An active woman in the prime of life, who had not "an idle bone in her body," and with a thorough knowledge of household work, notably high-class cookery, Mrs. Allison had plenty of employment for these talents, and was well paid for their exercise. All that she could spare from her earnings was placed in the savings bank in her own name, and though her husband spent his own money only too lavishly, he never tried to lay a finger on this little hoard of his wife's. Its existence had been kept a profound secret from his daughters.
"If they thought there was money to run at, they'd be wanting all sorts of things that they're content to do without now," was the mother's prudent comment. And as this was before the days of the legacy, the little store in the savings bank was the only provision for a rainy day.
After her husband's death, Mrs. Allison still strove to keep her secret, though, as she would sometimes say, "It's hard to have your thoughts to yourself when our Ann comes. She's such a ferret. She'd find out a thing if you hid it at the far end of a coal pit."
Somehow Ann had an inkling of her mother's little hoard. Nothing absolutely certain, either about the money or the place where it was kept, but constant watchfulness had convinced her of its existence, and from that time the main object of her life was to find out the rest, and to secure the reversion of it for herself.
This was at the bottom of Mrs. Bradford's anxiety to have her mother near her. This moved her to offer many little attentions, hitherto unthought of, and to be constantly sending dainty bits, or invitations to Mrs. Allison to come and partake of such at the Bradford table. She also hinted, again and again, that it would be less lonely and much cheaper for her mother to give up her separate home and live with her and her family.
But neither hints nor questionings brought her any nearer the knowledge she desired, and Mrs. Allison, who was shrewd enough, saw through both, and resolved to disappoint her daughter's expectations.
"No, no," said she to herself; "Ann thinks if she could get my bit of furniture and me under her roof, she would be sure of the things, and manage me and what I've got as she likes. It's herself she thinks about, not me. I haven't studied her ways for over forty years without knowing Ann up and down, though I was led by her in coming in here. Margaret is worth a dozen of her yet. Beside, an old neighbour of mine taught me a lesson. She gave up her good home and went to live with her son, and a nice time she had of it. They got all she had, and then grudged her the bit she ate and the bed—she'd only half a one—that she lay on. She wrote a book, as one may say, and I read it."
From all which observations, it will be seen that Mrs. Bradford had gained little by her selfish efforts, that she still only suspected the existence of a secret store of money, and that Mrs. Allison had wisely made Mr. Collinge her sole confidant, both as to its whereabouts and disposal.
Even on her death-bed, she quietly exulted in the thought of disappointing Ann, whilst making amends to Margaret, her youngest, once her prettiest, always her favourite daughter. Moreover, there was an extra grudge working in her mind. When the letter which summoned Margaret from Millborough had been written and duly read aloud to Mrs. Allison by her daughter, the invalid noticed that some addition was made to it, without being read.
Determined to know what it was, she managed to send Ann to a desk in the parlour to fetch the necessary stamp, feeling certain that before returning the key, her prying spirit would induce her to take at least a glance at its other contents.
Not that she would gain anything, for there was neither a line nor an article of any importance to be looked at.
But during her absence, Mrs. Allison managed to get hold of the letter and to read the postscript, in which Mrs. Bradford advised her sister to "buy a black bonnet, as it would be most useful after."
Needless to say this piece of advice was the "last hair" which is so often said to break the camel's back. Mrs. Allison could not forget and did not forgive this heartless message, and her regard for Margaret was increased in proportion, when she saw that the advice had not been followed.
STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
WE will not follow step by step what Adam Livesey did during his wife's absence. He had tasted of the heavenly gift, he had yielded to the blessed influence of the Holy Spirit, he was rejoicing in the "grace of our Lord Jesus Christ." He felt himself to be indeed a very babe in spiritual knowledge, but he was possessed with an intense desire to increase it.
He desired the sincere milk of the word, that he might grow thereby. Without neglecting the claims of work in the smithy, or of his children at home, he used every means in his power to learn more of that "love of God which passeth knowledge."
His hammer was still the last to sound at the works, his children received perhaps more attention and caresses than even before, for his heart was full of joy and thankfulness, and this inner gladness was reflected in the outer man, and made him brighter in his looks and more cheerful in his ways. But whenever he could go there, he was to be seen listening with eager face to the speakers at the Mission Room, and joining as best he could in the prayers and hymns of praise.
At home, during the silent hour when the young housekeeper and her little charges had gone to rest, Adam would sit poring over the great Bible, and realizing the scenes and doings it described, as only one of such a thoughtful nature could do.
Any one might have been touched to see the changes in that rugged face, as the man took in, bit by bit, the precious gospel story, the narrative of the life and death of Jesus. Thus, in thought, he followed the footsteps of the great Teacher, and drank in the words of that wondrous Sermon on the Mount!
How he tried to picture Him sending the message of healing to the sick servant by the centurion, and the joy of this man on returning to his home and finding that his faith had not been in vain!
He seemed to see Him tenderly lifting the beloved little daughter of Jairus from her couch of death, and giving her back, with the flush of health replacing the pallor of the grave, to her rejoicing parents.
The tears ran down Adam's cheeks as he read of Jesus first weeping as man at the tomb of Lazarus, then putting forth His power as God, and snatching its victim from death.
Never in all his life had the striker seen the wide ocean. Never once had it been his lot to stand and see the tide roll in, and the waves break, either with a rustling murmur on a calm day, or with a roar like thunder, when, storm-tossed and angry, they flung the white foam on rock or sand.
But he could picture many things, though not the Saviour's doings on sea or shore. He could see Him sitting faint and weary by the well side, and waiting the return of His disciples with the food of which they had gone in search. Weary, faint, thirsty, and asking for the draught of water, which we are not told that He got, and then, putting self aside and heeding not the cravings of hunger, feeding the famished soul of the Samaritan woman with heavenly bread and living water.
Adam caught himself talking aloud over this picture and saying, "Aye, that were just like Him to do. He would make bread enough, and more than enough, for those thousands of men and women and little children that had followed Him right away so far from home. But He'd make no bread for Himself. The devil couldn't taunt Jesus into that, and He bore the hunger, put it o' one side, so as He might teach that poor woman. Eh dear!
"How different things are wherever one looks! It's mostly everybody for himself. Anyway it is, unless they've learned of Him. I can see every day more how it was that Jesus made Himself of no account.
"And if there's here and there one that thinks much of his neighbours and very little of himself, it's because he's been to that school and learned from that Teacher."
Thus Adam practically learned the meaning of the words:
"'Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly of heart; and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'"'By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples, if ye have love one to another.'"'Every tree is known by his own fruit.'"
There were notes to the great Bible that Adam used, and pictures—not grand works of art, by any means, but precious to the one who knew so little.
At any rate, being representations of scenes and places in the country where Jesus lived, taught, and ministered in his manhood, they were helpful in a certain way to this new student of the Word of God. The notes described what would be the bodily sufferings of Jesus on the cross. The story of these, following on that of the agony in the garden and the sleeping disciples, the loneliness of the Master, forsaken by every one—even by the boastful Peter—made Adam's heart swell within him, sorrow and indignation mastering him by turns.
"To think of them going to sleep, and then running away! It were too bad. If I'd been there—"
But the words died away. Adam had been going to say that he would have done differently, but instead of these, he finished with a sigh and the words, "I reckon I shouldn't ha' been a bit better. He's cared for me and loved me always, and I never troubled till lately to think whether there was a God at all. And He forgave them. Peter, too—and everybody that had made game of Him, and been so hard. 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' He said it as He was going to die for them, and for me, too. Yes, dear Lord Jesus, I've been just like them all these years. I didn't know what I was doing. And all the while you'd loved me and died for me."
Down on his knees, with clasped hands, the poor striker poured out his thankfulness for the new light which had dawned on his soul, and his heartfelt prayers that it might also shine on his dear ones, and that they might all become like Jesus.
These were Adam's home experiences, and he had other happy ones beside; for the influence of Sarah Evans was making itself felt amongst the children. These no longer went prayerless to bed, and the girl taught them to lift their young voices in simple hymns of praise.
Adam really saw very little of his young housekeeper, for his working hours were long, and, tea excepted, his meals were eaten at the works. Sometimes he would take the elder children out, whilst she put the younger ones to bed, and Sarah was seldom out of her room long after little Maggie went to it. It was "early to bed, early to rise," in Adam Livesey's cottage. Beside, while the mission services lasted, they took it in turns to attend them.
Before they came to an end, Adam found that he, too, could join, heart and soul, in singing the sweet words:—
"I heard the voice of Jesus say,'Come unto Me, and rest;Lay down, thou weary one, lay downThy head upon My breast.'I came to Jesus as I was—Weary, and worn, and sad;I found in Him a resting-place,And He has made me glad."I heard the voice of Jesus say,'Behold, I freely giveThe living water: thirsty one,Stoop down, and drink, and live.'I came to Jesus, and I drankOf that life-giving stream;My thirst was quenched, my soul revived,And now I live in Him."I heard the voice of Jesus say,'I am this dark world's Light;Look unto Me! Thy morn shall rise,And all thy day be bright.'I looked to Jesus, and I foundIn Him, my Star, my Sun,And in that Light of life I'll walkTill travelling days are done."
Yes, rest, life, light had come to Adam Livesey, and the yearning cry of his soul was, "Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do? Lord, teach me what is right and give me strength to do and to love it."
It would be needless to tell how rejoiced Mr. Drummond was at this happy change in the man who had from the first interested him so deeply. He was determined not to lose sight of Adam, and already the striker felt a deep affection and gratitude for the gentleman who had stooped to him as no other had ever done.
The manager was too busy a man to be able to spare much time, but he did spare a few minutes now and then to say an encouraging word, whilst the mere sight of his kind true face cheered Adam on the new way upon which he had started.
The striker had something to bear, when at the works, from the jeers of a few of his companions. One who had only just escaped dismissal for drunkenness flouted Adam with "canting, just to please the new man, and to get his wages raised."
But though the striker was slow to defend himself, there were others who spoke on his behalf.
"It'll be well if you don't ha' to go without any wages before long, Sam," said Richard Evans. "Nay, I'm forgetting. There's one sort of pay that you're always working hard for. Did you ever hear those words, 'the wages of sin is death'?"
"I reckon you mean to live for ever, then," returned Sam with a sneer. "You talk about it, but I don't see as you can carry out that notion—you canting folks—any more than the rest of us. You have to be put to bed with a spade when your time comes, for all your cant;" and Sam looked round with a smile of triumph, as if expecting to be applauded.
But even amongst the careless and indifferent about religion, there are not so many who like to ridicule it openly, or to range themselves on the side of those who do. Sam's words did not produce the effect he intended, for some looked pityingly, others with contempt on the miserable man who had been allowed to return to his work, out of pity for his half-starved wife and children.
So the feeling was all on the side of Richard Evans, as he answered, "I know that as well as you do, Sam, for the same Book that says, 'the wages of sin is death,' tells that 'one event happeneth to them all.' The wise man and the fool have to come to their six feet of earth at last. But it's no use coming to it before one's time, for God gives us our bodies to take care of, as well as our souls, and we've got to account for both. It isn't in the dying that finishes these few years of life that there is so much difference, though there are death-beds that are dark and terrible to stand by, and others that are so full of light and glory that they seem to give us a peep at heaven.
"But it's what comes after. There's eternal life, the free gift of God, to those that have sought and found a Saviour in Jesus. Without Him what is there? 'After death the judgment,' when God 'will render to every man according to his deeds.' You can't get over this, Sam, say what you will, and I can tell you, for I've seen that the greatest cowards, when Death stares them in the face, are those who have pretended to be so bold, and have laughed and made game when they thought him a long way off."
Richard Evans resumed his work, and Sam slunk away, muttering something which no one heard or heeded, whilst those around, whether they realized the truth of what they had listened to or not, honoured this servant of Christ, who was ever bold on the side of his Heavenly Master.
How Adam Livesey wished that he could find words to speak as his friend did! But he thought to himself, "I never could talk much about the things I understood best. Still, I feel that I am under a new Master, that He loves me, and I do so want to love Him. As to wages! Why, I'm getting better pay every day, for I never was so happy in my life as I am now. I only want Margaret back, and to feel as I do, then—"
But Adam could not picture what would be beyond such a beginning. He could only pray and wait, and hope for this much—that his wife and he might become like-minded. He wondered, now and then, how it was with Mrs. Allison; whether, now she was coming towards the end of life, she was trusting in the blood of Jesus for pardon, and looking forward with joy to meeting Him as her Saviour. He wondered how Margaret felt, as she ministered, day by day, to the wants of one who was on the edge of the grave. He knew that she could remember her father's death, but he did not believe it had impressed her in a solemn way, though from all he had heard Mr. Allison's life had not been such as would bear looking back upon with satisfaction.
Had it been otherwise with him when he lost his own mother? No. Adam was forced to own that while he had thought much of providing her with earthly comforts whilst she lived, he had felt no anxiety as to what must follow.
We must know what it is to stand guilty before God, and then, through believing in His name, to receive pardon and remission of sins, before we can understand the danger and the need of others.
Mrs. Livesey's experience during her mother's illness brought no anxiety for Mrs. Allison, or teaching to herself. So far as the sick woman was concerned, she seemed to have no particular fears about the future; indeed, her opinion of herself very much resembled that of Adam when he first began to think over his past life. She derived satisfaction from comparing it with lives of others, and her youngest daughter, willing to cheer her as well as she knew how, said, "Don't you fret, mother. You've no call to worrit. You've been a good-living woman if ever there was one."
Mrs. Allison had become very weak when these words were spoken, and past making any effort after a clearer light and self-knowledge, even had she felt it needful. She kissed her laughing grandchild with quivering lips, and putting one thin arm round Margaret's neck, she did the same by her. Then she said faintly, "I—was—not—always—kind—to—you—but—I've made amends"; then quietly passed away.
What these last words meant was made plain by Mr. Collinge, who, having been informed of Mrs. Allison's death, came to the cottage.
Mrs. Bradford met him dry-eyed. "I must conquer my feelings as far as I can," she said, "for I'm only a poor creature, and if I was to give way as Maggie does, I should be good for nothing—here, or at home."
Margaret's nature was too impulsive to be so easily controlled, and she was weeping in real sorrow at the loss of her mother, yet glad that she had been able to wait upon her during her last days.
It soon became apparent that Mrs. Allison's daughters would only have to see the orders of Mr. Collinge carried out. He informed them that their mother had made a will; that he was the sole executor, as he had been under that of her husband, and that she had given him written instructions as to her funeral.
"There was only her furniture to leave. The money comes to us daughters, share and share alike, unless mother had put anything by;" and Mrs. Bradford looked inquiringly at Margaret. "The things have been well taken care of, but if they were sold they wouldn't more than pay all expenses."
Margaret knew and could tell nothing, and Mr. Collinge said, "Mrs. Livesey is scarcely likely to know more of her mother's affairs than you who have lived so near her. I think, indeed, that Mrs. Allison told no one but myself exactly how her affairs stood. The funeral expenses will be amply met without any sale, as the deceased was a member of two burial clubs. Beside, she had saved money, and this and the furniture are dealt with in the will to which I alluded. Its contents will be made known when the other members of the family are present."
So Mrs. Bradford had to control her impatience as best she might. In the meanwhile, she took up her abode under the same roof with Margaret, who was only too glad of the extra companionship, there being beside herself and her baby, only a young girl sleeping at the cottage. The widow's other daughters had visited her from time to time, but did not remain, as they lived at no great distance.