"That's just it, my girl. Margaret Livesey ought to know your value, and that the help that is worth having is worth asking for."
"Yes, aunt. But then think how many blessings God gives us that we never ask for, just because of our need, and even when we are not a bit thankful. Whatever should we do if He waited to send everything till we showed that we valued His givings as we ought!"
"Sarah, you are just like your uncle. He always goes to the same Teacher for his lessons. Sometimes I'm ready to be vexed with him, and tell him he's poor spirited to put up with the things he does. But it's no use, he gets over me by putting me in mind of what his Master did when He walked the earth as man, and spent His days and nights in doing good, and specially to His enemies. Go your ways, my lass, and may you be welcomed and blest in the work your hand finds to do! If you are not wanted at Adam Livesey's, you can just come back; you're never one too many in this house."
Sarah's hand was on the latch, and she was about to set out, when little Tom arrived with his tear-stained face, and full of the message which he had not breath to deliver.
"You want me to go back with you, don't you, my man?" said Sarah. "I was just coming."
Tom nodded, and pushing his hand confidingly into Sarah's, turned to retrace his steps in her company.
Amid the general confusion and sense of trouble in Tom's mind, a gleam of comfort now found place. It could not be all bad, if it were the means of bringing dear, kind Sarah to the house again. It was a pity that it should be so, but he and the other children often looked longingly back on the time of mother's absence as the brightest bit in their lives, and they sometimes ventured to whisper the wish to each other that she might have to go away again for something.
Now, the very sight of Sarah and the grasp of her hand gave confidence, and by degrees Tom managed to tell her what had happened at home, of the condition in which he had left his mother, and the message sent by Richard Evans to herself.
"They said father was dead," added Tom, "and I ran home and told mother, and then Mr. Evans came and said father was alive, only he had been hurt and his arm was broke, so they'd taken him to get it set. Then mother went so white and fell down on the floor. I thought she was dead too."
The tears came as Tom recalled the terror, caused by the news of his father and the sight of his mother's face.
"But father is not killed, and mother will soon be better, Tom, so you mustn't cry, my man. You and I have got to help mother, and crying is not the way to do it; but I don't wonder at the tears, my poor little man. I daresay I should have been ready to cry too, if I had been there. Now we must just think to ourselves how we can make the best of a bad job. And we'll make all the haste we can, and see what has to be done first."
"You'll stay with us, Sarah, won't you?" asked Tom.
"To be sure I will, if mother wants me," said Sarah, which reply lengthened Tom's face a little.
Child as he was, he had divined that mother could not have wanted Sarah, or she would have asked her to tea sometimes, and not told him and the rest to hold their tongues when they said how kind she had been, or that she was sick of hearing Sarah's name. Well, any way, he could not be blamed for bringing her this time, for Mr. Evans had sent him to fetch her.
Tom need have had no fears on the score of a welcome for Sarah. With the first moments of returned consciousness, Mrs. Livesey had become aware that she should be ill-fitted to sustain even the burden of her daily work unassisted. Indeed, she doubted whether she might not be dependent upon others for still further help.
Richard Evans had told Mrs. Livesey that he had sent for his niece; but Margaret's pale face flushed at the mention of Sarah's name, then paled again as she whispered, "I don't think she'll come."
"I don't think anything about it. I'm sure she will come sooner or later. It will be very soon if Tom finds her at my place," replied Richard. "Why, bless your heart, Mrs. Livesey, if you were the biggest enemy she had, instead of being a neighbour and in trouble, Sarah would be ready to run to your help without being asked at all. And I really believe she's here," he added, as the latch was lifted and Tom entered with his niece.
"Just at the right time, Sarah, lass," said Richard. "Did Tom meet you on the road?"
"No, uncle; but I had heard about Mr. Livesey's accident, and I thought maybe I could help a bit, so I put on my things, and was ready when Tom came to the door. Please don't move," for Margaret was trying to raise herself from the couch. "You don't look fit for anything but to be waited on, and if you'll let me, I'll look after you and the children. I know where to find things, for you have a place for every one of them, and each in its place."
The tears rolled down Margaret's cheeks as she motioned for Sarah to come near her; then she whispered, "I did not think you would come after all. You are kind. I don't deserve it, but you are fond of the children, and they love you, poor things! And you'll be sorry about my Adam."
"I'm sorry for him and for you, Mrs. Livesey—for one as much as the other, I was going to say, but I think I'm most sorry for you, because it is harder for you to know of his hurt and the pain he will have, than to bear pain yourself. But what a mercy you are not a widow with a troop of little orphans round you at this minute!"
"Aye, lass," said Richard Evans. "And it seems to me that the first thing we should do is just to say a word of thanksgiving to God for Adam's spared life, and a prayer for poor Jim's widow and little ones."
This was a new thought to Mrs. Livesey, who was already turning her mind from the contemplation of what might have been, to the consideration of the very real though lesser trouble she had to face. She was, however, ready enough, first to listen to; then to join in the words of thanksgiving which Richard offered on behalf of her husband, herself and the children, for the precious life still spared, and the hope of restored health and strength. She could feel for her neighbour too, for in that terrible moment when she thought the worst had happened, had she not experienced in little what Jim's wife must bear through the long years of probable widowhood and the struggle for daily bread? She heard Richard's prayer for her and her children, that God would bless and cheer them, and make even this trouble the means of bringing them closer to Him, and teaching them to love and serve Him better.
"Better?" thought Margaret. "I've never loved God a bit. I don't know Him well enough for that. I've grumbled often enough, when things have gone wrong, and blamed Providence for it; but if they've gone right, I've mostly taken the credit to myself."
Then Margaret heard Richard asking that God would bless what was being done for Adam at the hospital, and give him peace of mind, and freedom from anxiety, which might hinder him from speedy recovery.
"Well," thought Margaret, "there's no harm in asking that, though one mostly thinks that doctors have a deal to do with such cases. A bad one will set a joint so as it will be stiff for life, like Jane Middleton's elbow was. She could never raise her hand to her head through that doctor's blundering."
"All good things come of Thee," Richard was saying, and Margaret's thoughts came back once more, so that she heard the old workman thank God for the wisdom and skill that He had bestowed, and by which the doctors had found out the means of lessening pain and prolonging precious lives. He ended by commending them all to the loving hands of the Great Physician both of souls and bodies, then rose from his knees with the bright look on his face which ever comes when the servant of God has held communion with his Divine Master.
Very few moments had been thus occupied, for time was precious, and there was much to be done. The children must be cared for, and all the little household matters attended to, for their sakes. These things, however, Sarah would undertake.
"You'll be free to go and see Adam, Mrs. Livesey," said Richard; "but if you'll take an old man's advice, you'll try and eat a bit before you start. It's a long while since breakfast, and after that faint turn, you had you cannot be fit for much. You'll want all your strength to keep a bright face and a cheery word for Adam. He's sure to be a bit down in the mouth, as one may say, and only natural. Now I'll leave you and Sarah, and I'll just get to know how Adam is going on, and then come back here for you, if the doctors will let you see him."
"They always let a man's wife see him when he's badly hurt," said Margaret. "I must go soon."
"It's often a good sign when they say, 'Wait a bit, and let him have a rest before anybody comes.' When a man is so badly hurt that they think there is no chance of pulling him round again, why, then he must be seen soon, if at all. But when they feel sure it's only a question of a little time, and that every minute's rest is doing him good, they like to keep visitors away for their patient's sake. I hope soon to bring you good news."
With these cheery words, Richard left Mrs. Livesey and Sarah together.
FRIENDS IN NEED.
"HE goes over the ground at a good rate," said Sarah Evans, as she glanced for a moment at the retreating figure of her uncle. "He's sixty-eight, but his step is firm and his hand as steady as a young man's."
"Steadier than many a young man's," replied Margaret. "Some of them get the trembles in their wrists many a year before age has aught to do with them, more's the pity. My poor Adam's hand was all right before this trouble, but I reckon he'll never be the same man again. No more striking for him. An arm that's been broke in two places will not be fit to lift the big hammer for many a month to come, if ever. I should think it will never be strong again."
"Don't you go looking at the dark side, Mrs. Livesey. There's real trouble enough without going off in a hurry to see if we can't find a worse. An hour ago it would have seemed good news just to know that your husband was living, without anything else."
"Aye, that's true. When I thought Adam was killed, there wasn't a bright spot anywhere. If it hadn't been for the children, I could have just lain down and died myself. And worst of all, I hadn't been very good-tempered in the morning, and I let him go without answering, when he spoke to me as kind as could be. He never said a cross word, as many a man would have done; and though I never looked the side he was, I know as well as can be that he kept turning round to see if I gave him as much as a nod from the doorway, before he got out of sight."
"I daresay something had put you out, or maybe you didn't feel quite yourself this morning," said Sarah, willing to find an excuse for the troubled heart.
"If I were put out, I had no right to be," replied Margaret. "As to being myself, I was too much myself, for it's just me to say a sharp word when I ought to have spoken kindly or to hold my tongue, and seem sulky when Adam was waiting for a word. Eh, dear, dear! My old mother used to say civility cost nothing and went a long way, and I've mostly thought of this, and been pretty mannerly towards my neighbours. But I've got a fresh lesson to-day, and I find that good manners, like charity, should begin at home. Many and many a time I've acted and spoke to Adam as if any sort was good enough for the best husband that ever lived."
The streaming tears stopped Margaret from further speech, but Sarah's kind heart was full of sympathy for her, and she showed this by looks, words, and acts, whilst busying herself with household duties.
At first Margaret tried to assist, but Sarah could not help noticing that she stopped from time to time, as if unequal to any exertion, so she begged her to rest.
"I can do everything easily," she said; "you must rest to get up strength and spirits for Adam's sake."
Margaret agreed, more willingly than might have been expected, and Sarah could not help thinking that the shock had affected her more than she had at first realized.
The children were fed and sent off to school again, the least of all having been carried off and cared for by a neighbour. Margaret had forced herself to swallow a few morsels of food, and was anxiously waiting for Richard to return, when Mr. Drummond made his appearance instead.
"I am thankful to bring as good news as possible under the circumstances," he said. "Your husband's arm is well set, and his other hurts are not serious. He must, however, stay where he is at present, and you may depend on his being well attended to. For myself, Mrs. Livesey, I owe him a lifelong debt of gratitude. But for his bravery and presence of mind, my wife would now be a widow and my little ones fatherless. Probably more lives would have been lost, but certainly mine would. My one sorrow is that your brave, good husband is suffering for what he did to save me."
Margaret felt proud to hear such words from a man who stood in such high esteem as Mr. Drummond, and she was, in a sense, glad that he stood there alive and well, the messenger of good tidings. But it would be too much to suppose that she did not consider his safety too dearly bought.
Thought is rapid, and as Margaret had rested on the couch whilst Sarah worked on her behalf, many vision had passed through her mind.
Adam, not being a skilled mechanic, only a sort of labourer, was not in a club. There would be no allowance during his illness. When he was well again, what would he be able to do? Just jobbing work, most likely, with uncertain wages, and these poor at the best.
When an accident or death took place amongst the hands at Rutherford's, and it was known that the wife and children would be in almost immediate need of help, a collection was sure to be made, in order to tide over the first money difficulties. Comrades gave almost beyond their means, without fear of reproof from wives who were waiting for wages, in order that their mate's widow might not at once feel the pinch of poverty along with the wound of bereavement.
But Margaret had already calculated that two causes would prevent her from receiving aid of this kind.
First, there was poor Jim's widow and children to care for, and their case was sadder, their need greater than her own. Secondly, everybody knew that Margaret's "fortune" had not been encroached upon, for had she not been proud to say as much? A woman who had hundreds of pounds "out at use," or interest, was not likely to need help from those who owned no reserve of the kind, or to receive it.
Jim's wages had been much higher than Adam Livesey's, but owing to his own habits he had always been in debt, and the family generally in low water, poorly fed and worse clad.
Adam's small earnings had been turned to the best account, and apart from Margaret's fortune, the family were regarded as "comfortable."
"There will be nobody to stretch out a hand for me nor mine," thought Margaret. "Drink and shiftlessness pay best when trouble comes. I did think that bit of money from mother would be there to make things easy for us in our old days, but some of it will have to be spent now. However, if it's for Adam, I'll not grudge it, if the last penny goes. It's all I can do for him, poor fellow. In a year or two, the lads will begin to bring a trifle in; but, however hard parents are put to it, the children must have their time at school."
Margaret sighed at this last thought, for, like many other uneducated parents, she was inclined to put little value on learning, and to regard it rather as a hindrance to early bread-winning. "If not this," she said, and perhaps with some truth, "that when working men's lads had got much schooling, they began to be ashamed of fathers and mothers that had little or none."
"Aye," Margaret would say, "they all want to dress in broadcloth, and work with their coats on in an office or such-like place. They go by hundreds after everything that means being stuck at a desk with a pen in their hands, and think they're gentlemen on fifteen shillings a week. Why, if there's a place for a clerk at ever such a trifle to begin with, they're after it like a swarm of flies round a dab of treacle. They go on trying to live genteel on less wage than my Adam gets, and that's little enough. Any way, working folks that don't pretend to be anything else, have no need to dress up like them that have ten times as much to spend."
Margaret's ambition for her boys was that each should learn a trade of some kind. Observation had convinced her that the steady, skilled mechanic, with a good knowledge of his craft, seldom had idle time on his hands, or needed to be one of a swarm of applicants for a vacant place at a desk.
Adam, too, had confirmed her views from an experience at Rutherford's.
The firm had advertised for a youth to assist in the office, and for skilled mechanics in the works. For the former post more than a hundred applications were made; for the latter, three. Yet the office employé would have begun at ten shillings a week with no prospect of rising beyond a guinea. The mechanics could each have made from two to three pounds, according to their skill and industry.
Adam had grieved at the disappointment of so many would-be clerks, and said to Margaret, "Didn't it seem a pity there was only one place and such a lot of likely lads after it? Think, Margaret, a hundred and eleven went away disappointed while one got a start!"
"Whose fault was that?" retorted Margaret, with some sharpness. "Doesn't it come of teaching lads too much, and making 'em all want to be gentlemen, instead of good workmen, like their fathers were content to be?"
"I shouldn't be sorry if I had a bit more learning," Adam had replied. "It helps a man on, whatever station of life he may be in. If he's poor, he can get more pleasure and satisfaction out of a spare hour with a good book to read and enjoy."
"I had no learning to speak of, and a good job too," returned Margaret. "I've no spare hours, if the house is to be cleaned, clothes are to be mended, children looked after, and meals ready in time. When my stirring work is done, if it ever is, I have to sew or knit to keep myself awake; I should only go to sleep over a book. Not that I'm against reading, writing, and doing sums. They're useful, though as to writing, you get out of practice if you seldom do it. The summing I want comes pretty regular, for I have to buy and pay for things, and reckon how far the week's money will go. I get fast now and again, when I want two shillings to buy half a crown's worth;" and she laughed heartily.
"You do make two shillings reach further than most women's half-crowns," said Adam, ever ready to praise Margaret's good management. "But you wouldn't like our lads to be behind other folks, and to lose a chance of getting on for want of a bit more learning. A lad is often stuck fast because of the want."
"And more of 'em are stuck up because they have it. No, no, Adam. Let our lads have enough for every-day use—we're bound to keep 'em at school till they're past standards enough, then get 'em in at Rutherford's, or some such place. They'll soon earn a bit, and make things easier for you. As to a working man that gets a book in his hand as soon as he comes in! He sits like a stone, and hasn't a word for anybody, or a bit o' news to cheer up the wife who has no time to go out and hear for herself."
Margaret, somehow, always silenced Adam when learning and books were in question. He had thought, poor fellow, that if he read aloud sometimes whilst she worked, after the children were in bed, she would share his innocent pleasure. After the first fruitless attempts to interest Margaret in that "Book" which had become most precious of all to himself and others of a decidedly religious tendency, he had made another effort. Mr. Drummond had lent him books of travel and adventure, and stories in which instruction and amusement were well united. But all in vain. Margaret would none of them, and even objected to the father and elder children sharing them together.
"Tales take them off their lessons, which are hard enough in all conscience for such young heads. But they've got to be done, and tale books must wait till they haven't so much learning to take up their time."
These scenes and arguments had wearied Adam, and for peace and quietness sake, he had for some time past ceased to press upon Margaret what was evidently so distasteful to her. He tried to carry home whatever news was likely to interest her, though he abstained from telling anything in the shape of mere gossip or scandal.
Now that Adam was lying at the hospital, injured and helpless, many memories crowded through his wife's mind. The most abiding pictures were those which told of his patience towards herself, and of her want of sympathy in return, mingled with anxiety about the future of her husband and children.
"If," she thought, "Mr. Drummond has any real gratitude, he'll show it as well as talk about it. We shall soon know what his words are worth a week to us, now wages are stopped. And after Adam is better? If he ever does get well—" and Margaret's heart sank within her as she thought of the possible darker side. "Surely there will be some place found for my poor man at the old shop."
Margaret was so business-like, so prompt both to act and plan, that during the earliest hours of her new trouble, her mind had been occupied with many things. Regrets for the past, anxieties for the future, speculations as to what the firm, as represented by Mr. Drummond, and Mr. Drummond on his own account, might do for her husband—plans and resolutions for the greater comfort of her good, kind Adam and the children, each chased each other through her mind.
One thought added to the mental weight which oppressed her from the first moment she heard that Adam was hurt. There were six children already. A few weeks hence, the mother would need tending, and there would be another little mouth to feed. With the sense of work to be done, it was a trial to Margaret to take the needful rest which would enable her to visit her husband at the hospital. But when Mr. Drummond came with his cheering news, he showed his forethought for Margaret in more ways than one.
"I have asked Richard Evans to arrange for his wife to go with you to the hospital," he said. "She will be here in a cab directly, and in the meanwhile, if you feel equal to going, you will put on your bonnet, will you not? Mrs. Evans will take good care of you I am sure."
Margaret tried to utter words of thanks, but broke down in the effort. Quivering lips and tearful eyes told their story without speech.
"You must be brave, Mrs. Livesey, for Adam's sake. He has told me what a good wife he has. One who would take the last bit from her own lips to give to him or her children. And now you must do what is harder even than that to a loving heart, when one dearer to it than all the world beside is suffering. You must drive tears away, and give Adam a smile and hopeful, cheery words, which will be far-away better than medicine. Say nothing about wages or money matters. I hope his mind has already been eased on those points. On each pay day, Richard Evans shall bring you the full amount, until Adam is able to work for you all again."
No better remedy for Margaret's tears could have been suggested, as her brightened face promptly testified.
"I can't thank you, sir," she began—
"No thanks are needed," said Mr. Drummond. "I think I hear wheels. Now, mind, you are to be Adam's best doctor, and if you are inclined to be down-hearted, just think of poor Jim's wife, and what might have been your case and mine. You and I and my wife may well thank God with full hearts, for spared lives. I most of all, for I have no hurt, whilst I have the sorrow of knowing that a faithful friend has been injured through his efforts to save me."
There was much in Mr. Drummond's words that gave Margaret ease of mind, comfort, and pleasure. No fear of want in the home, or that Adam would not be well cared for and eventually recover.
Then this gentleman, head over all at Rutherford's, was not ashamed to call her Adam his faithful friend. Adam, that had reckoned himself of no account from his boyish days upwards! It seemed too wonderful to think of. Of all that Mr. Drummond had said, nothing had so helped to restore Margaret's courage as those two words, "faithful friend."
Well might Margaret feel glad and proud on Adam's behalf, and confident too, that, whatever might be the weakening effect of the injuries he had received, the man who had called him "friend," and who had confessed that his life had been saved at the cost of those very injuries, would not be likely to forget his interests in the future. Nay, on the way to the hospital, she began to build castles on the foundation of Mr. Drummond's words, and in fancy saw her husband in a post of trust with lightened labour suited to his diminished strength, and her lads going in turn to learn their trade at Rutherford's.
SUNSHINE AT LAST.
MARGARET was very brave on the road, but at the sight of her husband's bandaged head and pale face, she lost the colour from her own.
"Don't be frightened, Maggie," said Adam, with a smile. "These cuts and humps up and down don't mean much. They tell me I shall get all right again in a bit. Keep a good heart, dear lass. I can do nothing but pray for you all as I lie here; but what a comfort I can do that! God will not forget us. He has taken a big weight off my mind in making me easy about you and the little things at home."
"It was Mr. Drummond's doing. He told me the wages would come regular, just as if you were working," replied Margaret.
"Aye, but God put it into his heart to see to it at once, and not let you and me be troubling ourselves, and wondering what was to be done until pay day came. Lifting the weight straight away was like good physic to me. And I felt so glad, dear lass, that your bit of money wouldn't have to be meddled with because of me."
"I'd give it to the last penny this minute, if it would make you well as you were when you started out to work this morning," said Margaret; and she meant it.
"Don't I know it, my girl? You're real grit, and would give more and better than money for the little uns and me. How are they all? You're not much for kissing, but mind you give 'em a kiss apiece for daddy. They'll miss me, I know, poor things!" And a tremble came into Adam's voice as he named his children. It was from him that after babyhood, they received the greatest tenderness and most caresses.
"I will, Adam, and they shall have more than one, both for their daddy and from their mother. And oh, my dear lad, forgive me for my contrary ways many a time, and specially this morning. You know, I wouldn't look or speak, and when our little Tom ran in and said you were killed, I thought I should ha' died when I minded how I'd been so stunt with you, and wouldn't speak back."
"Forgive you, Maggie! Of course I did, before you asked me. I know how it is when you feel tired, and worried with all the toiling and moiling with house, and bairns, and me. And you none so well able just now."
Margaret's tears had begun to flow at the thought of what she had felt during those awful moments when she never hoped to see Adam again in life.
And the nurse, who had been looking on, but out of ear-shot, now thought it time to interfere, lest her patient should be over-excited.
"You'll have to bid him good-bye now," said she. "You may trust him to us, and we'll have him ready to come home as soon as ever we can. We don't keep any of our patients longer than we can help. It is a pleasure to send them home looking and feeling different from what they do when they come to us."
The nurse's confident tone and hopeful words gladdened Margaret, and she thanked her for them.
Adam had heard from Richard Evans that his niece had gone to offer help without waiting to be asked; but, remembering Margaret's past treatment of the girl, the knowledge hardly gave him the comfort it was intended to do. He was almost afraid to mention Sarah's name, lest his wife should manifest the old spirit, but he soon found that fears on this head were groundless.
As Margaret bent over him to take a loving farewell, she whispered, "Sarah Evans came to me straight, as soon as ever she knew of my trouble. I felt so 'shamed of the way I'd behaved, that I could hardly look her in the face. But oh, Adam! You and Sarah are teaching me that there's something in religion. It makes folks do many a thing that they couldn't do without it. And the seeing what it does in them that have it, makes me want to be good too."
The nurse was again about to admonish Margaret to cut short her leave-taking, but the light on Adam's face convinced her that, whatever those lingering last words might be, they were giving pleasure to her patient, and she turned away, not to interrupt the farewell between husband and wife.
"Thank God! I'm so glad. All things are working together for good, even my getting hurt, Maggie dear. We shall be happier than we've ever been when I get home again."
"We'll try," whispered Maggie; and then she had to go, for nurse durst not allow her to stay longer.
"Mr. Drummond can get leave for you to come again very soon, Mrs. Livesey," she said, by way of comforting Maggie for having to leave her husband. "He's one of our trustees, and such a good visitor. He brings comfort with him whenever he enters the ward."
Margaret could well believe this, and thanked the nurse for all her kindness. She turned to give Adam a last smile and look, and Mrs. Evans thought how well she had borne up during their meeting. But when they got into the cab to return home, she startled her good friend not a little by a burst of weeping, and by words which followed the tears.
"I'm thankful I've seen him just once. It has been hard work to keep up now, but I shan't be able to go again for a while."
"Nurse said you might, and that Mr. Drummond would see about it."
"Aye, but I shan't be able," wailed Margaret.
The words perplexed Mrs. Evans, but she understood their meaning very soon. A few hours later, the effects of the shock Maggie had sustained when she heard that Adam had been killed were more fully shown. The little babe, whose coming she had been looking forward to with no little anxiety, was prematurely born. There would be no sweet cares in connection with a new life in the home, no extra work for the mother's hands, already full enough. But there were very present anxieties about the mother herself.
The doctor looked grave, and enforced absolute quiet, owning, too, that the case was at best a serious one. Neighbours, always full of sympathy at such a time, volunteered to take the children out of the way in the daytime, and, if needful, to give them a share of such sleeping accommodation as they possessed.
Mrs. Evans and Sarah were, however, aware of Margaret's particularity with regard to her children, and undertook to insure quiet in the home by arrangements of their own.
Mr. and Mrs. Drummond were greatly distressed at this new trouble—another result of Adam's brave, self-devoting action at the time of the accident. It is not needful to tell how ready both were to help and sympathise in every way, and anxious to prevent Adam from further suffering on Margaret's account. He must be told enough to explain her non-appearance at the hospital a second time, but her present danger must be hidden from him.
A few days and nights of anxious watching and loving ministry followed, and then those who waited and watched were called on for thankful rejoicing. The danger was over, and, though very weak, Margaret was in a fair way to recover. Adam was then told that it had existed, and was happily past, so he could only look hopefully forward. He knew those who brought the information would not deceive him. So, with the simple trust of a childlike Christian, he thanked God for mercies given, and left his dear ones and himself in "our Father's" hands.
As Margaret gained strength, and was able to listen first, and then to speak the thoughts that were in her heart, she and Sarah Evans were daily drawn nearer together. The old wilful, self-asserting Maggie, so confident in her own opinions, so sure that the profession of religion, and love for God's Word and His house, were only so many forms of cant, disappeared altogether. In her place was one who humbly owned that her Adam, and Mr. and Mrs. Drummond, and though last, not least, Sarah and her kinsfolk, showed what their religion meant by their lives.
She could not take Bible words to illustrate her meaning, for her memory had not been stored with such treasures of wisdom when she was a child. But she could say that whilst many in the manager's position as head of Rutherford's would only have taken Adam at his own valuation, and as a mere "hand" in the works, have deemed him "of no account," Mr. Drummond had bent in order to lift her husband from the slough of despond from which he could not free himself. He had evened himself with the poor labourer in one way, for had he not brought home to him, by God's help, some truth that had made another man of him?
Then look at Sarah. If the same spirit had been in her that once animated Margaret, she would have rather rejoiced at the trouble which had come upon her, seeing how ungratefully her former efforts had been rewarded.
Mrs. Drummond, with her sweet, refined ways and beautiful face, seemed like an angel almost to Maggie. In spite of her frequent presence in the sick room, she could not, however, have opened her heart to her as she was able to do to Sarah Evans.
Her own longing after the higher life to which the cultured Drummonds and her homely Adam had, by some mysterious way, alike reached, she could only express by the old childish words, "I do so want to be good."
Sarah understood the longing, and could tell Margaret the method by which Mr. Drummond had been enabled to show Adam that he ought not to deem himself of no account.
"It isn't that my husband thinks more of himself in a way," said Margaret. "He's that humble he'd put anybody before him. But he's a happy man now, and he looks up, as one may say, instead of looking down-trodden, and as if he hadn't a friend in the world, like he used to do."
"It's because he has a Friend, not only for this world but for ever and ever, in Jesus," said Sarah. "In the old days, he couldn't be very bright, for he only thought about himself as a poor labouring man at Rutherford's, with no likelihood of being anything else or getting a lift even in this world. I dare say he thought, 'If anything happened, somebody else would just go into my place, and the big hammer would rise and fall in fresh hands, and nobody would miss me but those at home.'
"But after Adam learned that in God's sight he was just as precious as the greatest man in the land, because Jesus came from heaven and took the form of a servant, and made Himself of no account, so that by His precious life and death, souls might be saved, why, Adam couldn't feel the same after he learned that lesson, could he now? Just to think that God gave as much for him as for the greatest king that ever lived."
"And for me too?" said Margaret, as if half in doubt.
"Of course. King and working man, queen and you, stand on the same level, as far as the soul's salvation goes. And when one lays right hold of this, and believes in the truth of it, one can't look down all the while. We begin to look up, and ask that God's Holy Spirit, who has taught us this much, will come into our hearts and help us to live our religion."
Many other talks followed. A few words at a time, but always to the purpose; and, what was still more effectual, the sight of Sarah's living faith shown in every act of kindness, patience, industry, cheerfulness, and self-devotion as she went about the house, helped to deepen the impression already made on Margaret's mind.
Her silence, too, taught something. She was ready to tell whatever it would please Margaret to know. Afterwards Mrs. Livesey alluded to these communings and talks by her sick bed, and said how pleasant it had been to hear about what was going on outside.
"But," she added, "never a sharp word nor an ill word about anybody ever crossed that girl's lips. Watching her and listening to her, I might have been a little lass at school again. Me, too, that is old enough to be her mother, and with six children of my own. Well, God has been very good. He has shown me a bit of myself, and made me glad and willing to learn better ways than I ever cared about before."
There was time for thought, heart-searchings, prayer, and some progress on the new path, before husband and wife met again. Each had suffered a severe bodily shock, and both required quiet and a longer rest than was at first anticipated.
They met again in their own home six weeks after the eventful day on which they parted at the hospital. Adam was allowed to leave the building, and attend as an out-door patient; but even then, Margaret was not strong enough to attend to her household duties.
Of course there was great rejoicing amongst the small Liveseys when father came home, and before he arrived there, many a fellow workman gave him a hearty greeting on the way. If the right hand had not been still in a sling, and otherwise protected, It must have stood many a grip from horny-handed toilers at Rutherford's.
It would be loss of time to try to describe the meeting between Maggie and her husband. The joy of both was too great to be expressed in words. Adam, never a great talker, and Maggie, given to express herself with much freedom of speech, were alike on this occasion.
Each felt as if the other had been given back from the grave, and each read in the face of the other the story of the glad thankfulness which filled their hearts to overflowing.
From that day, Adam and Margaret began to realize a more perfect union than they had ever before experienced. They had worked as one with regard to earthly things. Henceforward they had the same higher hopes, aims, and longings; and in looking back, each could say, "It is good for me that I have been afflicted."
Maggie was right in supposing that Adam's arm would never again be fit to wield that ponderous hammer which once swung to and fro like a toy in his powerful grasp. But her dreams became realities. It was most unlikely that no place would be found in the old works for one who had not only been injured through saving the manager from death, but who was in himself so trustworthy. Again good came out of the past evil.
An old man, much respected at Rutherford's, had a legacy bequeathed to him, which, with his savings, enabled him to retire. But little scholarship was needed for the post. Honesty, trustworthiness and steadiness were indispensable. With these everybody credited Adam Livesey, and so, to his own intense surprise and gratitude, he found himself actually promoted to a position far better than the one he had filled before the accident. The most he had looked for was labouring work proportioned to his strength, and perhaps with wages also in proportion to the diminution of his bodily powers.
"Who'll say you're of no account now, Adam?" said Maggie, beyond measure proud and delighted when he brought the news.
"Dear lass, I don't feel that it's because me being of any more account that this good has come to us," was Adam's answer. "In a way, I am worth less than ever. But it shows how God cares for us, for the sake of Him that you and I look to as our Saviour now. He never forgets the poorest and the least of His children.
"I mean, Maggie," added he, after a little pause, "I mean to try and fit myself a bit for my new place. It has been given me out of thought for me—not because I'm clever, or a scholar. I know that well enough. But I'll put in honest work, and never grudge an extra hour, and the children's schooling will come in and help their father."
Adam was in earnest, and by dint of much painstaking, he became daily better fitted for his new post, and gained higher wages still.
Margaret had once grudged her children the time for school and lessons. But she found out her mistake. The youngsters were quick, and made good progress; and though she still adhered to her opinions as to their learning a trade, instead of trying for ill-paid clerkships, she saw them received in turns at Rutherford's, and in a fair way to become skilled mechanics.
Mr. and Mrs. Drummond remained the firm friends of the Liveseys, and never forgot the debt of gratitude they owed to Adam.
As to Sarah Evans! No fear of Mrs. Livesey ever undervaluing her again, or of any misunderstanding because the girl won and kept the affection of the youthful Liveseys one and all.
There is somebody else who knows Sarah's worth, also. It is an open secret that she would be in a home of her own now, but for the fact that a dutiful son has been unselfishly caring for his parents, and paving the way to future comfort for the girl he loves by patient waiting and working.
Sarah will marry later in life than most of the working girls she has known. Many of these have married in haste, and too young to be fitted for such solemn duties as those of wives and mothers. But when she goes to a husband's home, the pair will be able to look back on filial duties faithfully performed, and forward with confident expectation of a happy wedded life together.
If Adam Livesey could be questioned to-day about his own, he would say that, like Job's, God had graciously blessed his later days more than those of his youth.
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Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.