A THICK FOG.
A THICK FOG.
That little piece of paper which was given me that day, I have it still, put by amongst my greatest treasures. There was not much written on it, only two lines of a hymn:
'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,All other ground is sinking sand.'
I walked slowly up to the house thinking. My grandfather was out with Jem Millar, so I did not show him the paper then, but I read the lines many times over as I was playing with little Timpey, and I wondered very much what they meant.
In the evening, my grandfather and Jem Millar generally sat together over the fire in the little watchroom upstairs, and I used to take little Timpey up there, until it was time for her to go to bed. She liked climbing up the stone steps in the lighthouse tower. She used to call out, 'Up! up! up!' as she went along, until she reached the top step, and then she would run into the watchroom with a merry laugh.
As we went in this evening, my grandfather and Jem were talking together of the visit of the two gentlemen 'I can't think what the old man meant about the rock,' my grandfather was saying. 'I couldn't make head or tail of it, Jem; could you, my lad?'
'Look there, grandfather,' I said, as I handed him the little piece of paper, and told him how I had got it.
'Well, to be sure!' said my grandfather 'So he gave you this, did he?' and he read aloud:
'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,All other ground is sinking sand.'
'Well now, Jem, what does he mean? He kept on saying to me, "You're on the sand, my friend; you're on the sand, and it won't stand the storm!" What do you make of it, Jem? did you hear him, my lad?'
'Yes,' said Jem thoughtfully; 'and it has set me thinking, Sandy; I know what he meant well enough.'
'And pray what may that be?'
'He meant we can't get to heaven except we come to Christ; we can't get no other way. That's just what it means, Sandy!'
'Do you mean to tell me,' said my grandfather, 'that I shan't get to heaven if I do my best?'
'No, it won't do, Sandy; there's only one way to heaven; I know that well enough.'
'Dear me, Jem!' said my grandfather, 'I never heard you talk like that before.'
'No,' said Jem, 'I've forgot all about it since I came to the island. I had a good mother years ago; I ought to have done better than I have done.'
He said no more, but he was very silent all the evening. Grandfather read his newspaper aloud, and talked on all manner of subjects, but Jem Millar's thoughts seemed far away.
The next day was his day for going on shore. My grandfather and Jem took it in turns, the last Friday in every month; it was the only time they were allowed to leave the island. When it was my grandfather's turn, I generally went with him, and much enjoyed getting a little change. But whichever of them went, it was a great day with us on the island, for they bought any little things that we might be needing for our houses or gardens, and did any business that had to be done on shore.
We all went down to the pier to see Jem Millar start; and as I was helping him to get on board some empty sacks and some other things he had to take with him, he said to me, in an undertone,—
'Alick, my lad, keep that bit of paper; it's all true what that old gentleman said. I've been thinking of it ever since; and, Alick,' he whispered, 'I believe Iamon the Rock now.'
He said no more, but arranged his oars, and in a minute more he was off. But as he rowed away, I heard, him singing softly to himself:
'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,All other ground is sinking sand.'
We watched the boat out of sight, and then went home, wishing that it was evening and that Jem was back again with all the things that we had asked him to get for us.
That was a very gloomy afternoon. A thick fog came over the sea and gradually closed us in, so that we could hardly see a step before us on the beach.
Little Timpey began to cough, so I took her indoors, and amused her there with a picture-book. It grew so dark that my grandfather lighted the lighthouse lamps soon after dinner. There was a dull, yellow light over everything.
I never remember a more gloomy afternoon; and as evening came on, the fog grew denser, till at length we could see nothing outside the windows.
It was no use looking out for Jem's return, for we could not see the sea, much less any boat upon it. So we stayed indoors, and my grandfather sat by the fire smoking his pipe.
'I thought Jem would have been here before now,' he said at length, as I was putting out the cups and saucers for tea.
'Oh, he'll come before we've finished tea, I think, grandfather,' I answered. 'I wonder what sort of a spade he'll have got for us.'
When tea was over, the door opened suddenly, and we looked up, expecting to see Jem enter with our purchases. But it was not Jem; it was his wife.
'Sandy,' she said, 'what time do you make it? My clock's stopped!'
'Twenty minutes past six,' said my grandfather, looking at his watch.
'Past six!' she repeated. 'Why, Jem's very late!'
'Yes,' said my grandfather; 'I'll go down to the pier, and have a look out.'
But he came back soon, saying it was impossible to see anything; the fog was so thick, he was almost afraid of walking over the pier. 'But he's bound to be in at seven, he said (for that was the hour the lighthousemen were required to be on the island again), 'so he'll soon be up now.'
The clock moved on, and still Jem Millar did not come. I saw Mrs. Millar running to her door every now and then with her baby in her arms, to look down the garden path. But no one came.
At last the clock struck seven.
'I never knew him do such a thing before!' said my grandfather, as he rose to go down to the pier once more.
WAITING FOR THE BOAT.
WAITING FOR THE BOAT.
Poor Mrs. Millar went out of her house, and followed my grandfather down to the pier. I waited indoors with little Timpey, straining my ears to listen for the sound of their footsteps coming back again.
But the clock struck half-past seven, and still no sound was to be heard. I could wait no longer; I wrapped the child in a shawl, and carried her into the Millars' house, and left her under the care of Mrs. Millar's little servant. And then I ran down, through the thick, smothering fog, to the pier.
My grandfather was standing there with Mrs. Millar. When I came close to them he was saying, 'Cheer up, Mary, my lass; he's all right; he's only waiting till this mist has cleared away a bit. You go home, and I'll tell you as soon as ever I hear his boat coming. Why, you're wet through, woman; you'll get your death of cold!'
Her thin calico dress was soaked with the damp in the air, and she was shivering, and looked as white as a sheet. At first she would not be persuaded to leave the pier; but, as time went on, and it grew darker and colder, she consented to do as my grandfather told her, and he promised he would send me up to the lighthouse to tell her as soon as Jem arrived.
When she was gone, my grandfather said 'Alick, there's something wrong with Jem, depend upon it! I didn't like to tell her so, poor soul! If we only had the boat, I would go out a bit of way and see.'
We walked up and down the pier, and stopped every now and then to listen if we could hear the sound of oars in the distance, for we should not be able to see the boat till it was close upon us, so dense had the fog become.
'Dear me,' my grandfather kept saying anxiously, 'I wish he would come!'
My thoughts went back to the bright sunny morning when Jem Millar had started, and we had heard him singing, as he went, those two lines of the hymn,—
'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,All other ground is sinking sand.'
The time passed on. Would he never come? We grew more and more anxious. Mrs. Millar's servant-girl came running down to say her mistress wanted to know if we could hear anything yet.
'No,' my grandfather said, 'nothing yet, my lass; but it can't be long now.'
'Missis is so poorly,' said the girl; 'I think she's got a cold: she shakes all over, and she keeps fretting so.'
'Poor soul! well, perhaps it's better so.'
'Whatever do you mean, grandfather?' I asked.
'Why, if aught's amiss, she won't be so taken aback as if she wasn't afraid; and if Jem's all right, why, she'll only be the better pleased.'
The girl went back, and we still waited on the pier. 'Grandfather,' I said at length, 'I think I hear a boat.'
It was a very still night; we stood and listened. At first my grandfather said he heard nothing; but at length he distinguished, as I did, the regular plash—plash—plash—of oars in the distance.
'Yes, itisa boat,' said my grandfather.
I was hastening to leave the pier, and run up to the house to tell Mrs. Millar, but my grandfather laid his hand on my shoulder.
'Wait a bit, Alick, my lad,' he said; 'let us hear what it is first; maybe it isn't Jem, after all!'
'But it's coming here, grandfather; I can hear it better now.'
'Yes,' he said, 'it's coming here;' but he still kept his hand on my shoulder.
The boat had been a long way off when we first heard it, for it was many minutes before the sound of the oars seemed to become much more distinct. But it came nearer, and nearer, and nearer. Yes, the boat was evidently making for the island.
At last it came so near that my grandfather called out from the end of the pier,—
'Hollo, Jem! You're late, my lad!'
'Hollo!' said a voice from the boat; but it wasn't Jem's voice.
'Whereabouts is your landing-place?' said the voice; 'it's so thick, I can't see.'
'Why, Jem isn't there, grandfather!' I said, catching hold of his arm.
'No,' said my grandfather; 'I knew there was something wrong with the lad.'
He called out to the man in the boat the direction in which he was to row, and then he and I went down the steps together, and waited for the boat to come up.
There were four men in the boat. They were sailors, and strangers to me. One of them, the one whose voice we had heard, got out to speak to my grandfather.
'Something's wrong,' said my grandfather, before he could begin; 'something's wrong with that poor lad.'
'Yes,' said the man, 'we've got him here; and he pointed to the boat.
A cold shudder passed over me as he said this, and I caught sight of something lying at the men's feet at the bottom of the boat.
'What's wrong with him? Has he had an accident? Is he much hurt?'
'He's dead,' said the man solemnly.
'Oh dear!' said my grandfather, in a choking voice. 'However shall we tell his wife? However shall we tell poor Mary?'
'How Did It Happen?' I Asked.
'How Did It Happen?' I Asked.
'How did it happen?' I asked at length, as soon as I could speak.
'He was getting a sack of flour on board, over yonder' said one of the men in the boat, 'and it was awful thick and foggy, and he missed his footing on the plank, and fell in; that's how it happened!'
'Yes,' said another man, 'and it seems he couldn't swim, and there was no boat nigh at hand to help him. Joe Malcolmson was there and saw him fall in; but before he could call any of us, it was all over with him. We got him out at last, but he was quite gone; we fetched a doctor, and took him into a house near, and rubbed him, and did all we could; but it wasn't of no good at all! Shall we bring him in?'
'Wait a bit,' said my grandfather; 'we must tell that poor girl first. Which of you will go and tell her?'
The men looked at each other and did not speak. At last one of them, who knew my grandfather a little, said, 'You'd better tell her, Sandy; she knows you, and she'll bear it better than from strangers; we'll wait here till you come back, and then we can bring him in.'
'Well,' said my grandfather, with a groan, 'I'll go then! Come with me, Alick, my lad,' said he, turning to me; 'but no, perhaps I'd better go by myself.'
So he went very slowly up towards the lighthouse, and I remained behind with the four men on the shore, and that silent form lying at the bottom of the boat.
I was much frightened, and felt as if it was all a very terrible dream, and as if I should soon wake up to find it had all passed away.
A CHANGE IN THE LIGHTHOUSE.
A CHANGE IN THE LIGHTHOUSE.
It seemed a long time before my grandfather came back, and then he only said in a low voice, 'You can bring him now, my lads; she knows about it now.'
And so the mournful little procession moved on, through the field and garden and court, to the Millars' house, my grandfather and I following.
I shall never forget that night, nor the strange, solemn feeling I had then.
Mrs. Millar was very ill; the shock had been too much for her. The men went back in the boat to bring a doctor to the island to see her, and the doctor sent them back again to bring a nurse. He said he was afraid she would have an attack of brain-fever, and he thought her very ill indeed.
My grandfather and I sat in the Millars' house all night, for the nurse did not arrive until early in the morning. The six children were fast asleep in their little beds. I went to look at them once, to see if my little Timpey was all right; she was lying in little Polly's bed, their tiny hands fast clasped together as they slept. The tears came fast into my eyes, as I thought that they both had lost a father, and yet neither of them knew anything of their loss!
When the nurse arrived, my grandfather and I went home But we could not sleep; we lighted the kitchen fire, and sat over it in silence for a long time.
Then my grandfather said: 'Alick, my lad, it has given me such a turn as I haven't had for many a day. It might have beenme, Alick; it might just as well have beenme!'
I put my hand in his, and grasped it very tightly, as he said this. 'Yes,' he said again, 'it might have been me; and if it had, I wonder where I should have been now?'
I didn't speak, and he went on,—'I wonder where Jem is now, poor fellow; I've been thinking of that all night, ever since I saw him lying there at the bottom of that boat.'
So I told him of what Jem Millar had said to me the last time I had seen him.
'On the Rock!' said my grandfather. Did he say he was on the Rock? Dear me! I wish I could say as much, Alick, my lad.'
'Can't you and I come as he came, grandfather?' I said. 'Can't we come and build on the Rock, too?'
'Well,' said my grandfather, 'I wish we could, my lad. I begin to see what he meant, and what the old gentleman meant too. He said, "You're on the sand, my friend; you're on the sand, and it won't stand the storm; no, it won't stand the storm!" I've just had those words in my ears all the time we were sitting over there by Mrs. Millar. But, dear me, I don't know how to get on the Rock; I don't indeed.'
The whole of the next week poor Mrs. Millar lay between life and death. At first the doctor gave no hope whatever of her recovery; but after a time she grew a little better, and he began to speak more encouragingly. I spent my time with the poor children, and hardly left them a moment, doing all I could to keep them quietly happy, that they might not disturb their mother.
One sorrowful day only, my grandfather and I were absent for several hours from the lighthouse; for we went ashore to follow poor Jem Millar to the grave. His poor wife was unconscious, and knew nothing of what was going on.
When, after some weeks, the fever left her, she was still very weak and unfit for work. But there was much to be done, and she had no time to sit still, for a new man had been appointed to take her husband's place; and he was to come into the house at the beginning of the month.
We felt very dull and sad the day that the Millars went away. We went down to the pier with them, and saw them on board the steamer—Mrs. Millar, the six little children, and the servant-girl, all dressed in mourning, and all of them crying. They were going to Mrs. Millar's home, far away in the north of Scotland, where her old father and mother were still living.
The island seemed very lonely and desolate when they were gone. If it had not been for our little sunbeam, as my grandfather called her, I do not know what we should have done. Every day we loved her more, and what we dreaded most was, that a letter would arrive some Monday morning to tell us that she must go away from us.
'Dear me, Alick,' my grandfather would often say, 'how little you and me thought that stormy night what a little treasure we had got wrapped up in that funny little bundle!'
The child was growing fast; the fresh sea did her great good, and every day she became more intelligent and pretty.
We were very curious to know who was appointed in Jem Millar's place; but we were not able to find out even what his name was. Captain Sayers said that he did not know anything about it; and the gentlemen who came over once or twice to see about the house being repaired and put in order for the new-comer were very silent on the subject, and seemed to think us very inquisitive if we asked any questions. Of course, our comfort depended very much upon who our neighbour was, for he and my grandfather would be constantly together, and we should have no one else to speak to.
My grandfather was very anxious that we should give the man a welcome to the island, and make him comfortable on his first arrival. So we set to work, as soon as the Millars were gone, to dig up the untidy garden belonging to the next house, and make it as neat and pretty as we could for the new-comers.
'I wonder how many of them there will be,' I said, as we were at work in their garden.
'Maybe only just the man,' said my grandfather. 'When I came here first, I was a young unmarried man, Alick. But we shall soon know all about him; he'll be here next Monday morning, they say.'
'It's a wonder he hasn't been over before,' I said, 'to see the house and the island. I wonder what he'll think of it?'
'He'll be strange at first, poor fellow, said my grandfather; 'but we'll give him a bit of a welcome. Have a nice bit of breakfast ready for him, Alick, my lad, and for his wife and bairns too, if he has any—hot coffee and cakes, and a bit of meat, and any thing else you like; they'll be glad of it after crossing over here.'
So we made our little preparations, and waited very anxiously indeed for Monday's Steamer.
OUR NEW NEIGHBOUR.
OUR NEW NEIGHBOUR.
Monday morning came, and found us standing on the pier as usual awaiting the arrival of the steamer.
We were very anxious indeed to see our new neighbours. A nice little breakfast for four or five people was set out in our little kitchen, and I had gathered a large bunch of dahlias from our garden, to make the table look cheerful and bright. All was ready, and in due time the steamer came puffing up towards the pier, and we saw a man standing on the deck, talking to Captain Sayers, who we felt sure must be the new lighthouse-man.
'Puff, Puff,' Said Little Timpey.
'Puff, Puff,' Said Little Timpey.
'I don't see a wife,' said my grandfather.
'Nor any children,' said I, as I held little Timpey up, that she might see the steamer.
'Puff, puff, puff,' she said, as it came up, and then turned round and laughed merrily.
The steamer came up to the landing-place, and my grandfather and I went down the steps to meet Captain Sayers and the stranger.
'Here's your new neighbour, Sandy,' said the captain. 'Will you show him the way to his house, whilst I see to your goods?'
'Welcome to the island,' said my grandfather, grasping his hand.
He was a tall, strongly-built man, very sun-burnt and weather-beaten.
'Thank you,' said the man, looking at me all the time. 'Itispleasant to have a welcome.'
'That's my grandson Alick,' said my grandfather, putting his hand on my shoulder.
'Your grandson,' repeated the man, looking earnestly at me; 'your grandson—indeed!'
'And now come along,' said my grand father, 'and get a bit of something to eat; we've got a cup of coffee all ready for you at home, and you'll be right welcome, I assure you.'
'That's very kind of you,' said the stranger.
We were walking up now towards the house, and the man did not seem much inclined to talk. I fancied once that I saw a tear in his eye, but I thought I must have been mistaken. What could he have to cry about? I little knew all that was passing through his mind.
'By the bye,' said my grandfather, turning round suddenly upon him, 'what's your name? We've never heard it yet!'
The man did not answer, and my grandfather looked at him in astonishment. 'Have you got no name?' he said, 'or have you objections to folks knowing what your name is?'
'Father!' said the man, taking hold of my grandfather's hand, 'don't you know your own lad?'
'Why, it's my David! Alick, look Alick, that's your father; it is indeed!'
And then my grandfather fairly broke down, and sobbed like a child, whilst my father grasped him tightly with one hand, and put the other on my shoulder.
'I wouldn't let them tell you,' he said 'I made them promise not to tell you till I could do it myself. I heard of Jem Millar's death as soon as I arrived in England, and I wrote off and applied for the place at once. I told them I was your son, father, and they gave me it at once, as soon as they heard where I had been all these years.'
'And where have you been, David, never to send us a line all the time?'
'Well, it's a long story,' said my father; 'let's come in, and I'll tell you all about it.'
So we went in together, and my father still looked at me. 'He's very like HER, father,' he said, in a husky voice.
I knew he meant my mother!
'Then you heard about poor Alice?' said my grandfather.
'Yes,' he said; 'it was a very curious thing. A man from these parts happened to be on board the vessel I came home in, and he told me all about it. I felt as if I had no heart left in me, when I heard she was gone. I had just been thinking all the time how glad she would be to see me.'
Then my grandfather told him all he could about my poor mother. How she had longed to hear from him; and how, as week after week and month after month went by, and no news came, she had gradually become weaker and weaker. All this and much more he told him; and whenever he stopped, my father always wanted to hear more, so that it was not until we were sitting over the watchroom fire in the evening that my father began to tell us his story.
He had been shipwrecked on the coast of China. The ship had gone to pieces not far from shore, and he and three other men had escaped safely to land. As soon as they stepped on shore, a crowd of Chinese gathered round them with anything but friendly faces. They were taken prisoners, and carried before some man who seemed to be the governor of that part of the country. He asked them a great many questions, but they did not understand a word of what he said, and, of course, could not answer him.
For some days my father and the other men were very uncertain what their fate would be; for the Chinese at that time were exceedingly jealous of any foreigner landing on their shore. However, one day they were brought out of the wooden house in which they had been imprisoned, and taken a long journey of some two hundred miles into the interior of the country. And here it was that my poor father had been all those years, when we thought him dead. He was not unkindly treated, and he taught the half-civilized people there many things which they did not know, and which they were very glad to learn. But both by day and night he was carefully watched, lest he should make his escape, and he never found a single opportunity of getting away from them. Of course, there were no posts and no railways in that remote place, and he was quite shut out from the world. Of what was going on at home he knew as little as if he had been living in the moon.
Slowly and drearily eleven long years passed away, and then, one morning, they were suddenly told that they were to be sent down to the coast, and put on board a ship bound for England. They told my father that there had been a war, and that one of the conditions of peace was, that they should give up all the foreigners in their country whom they were holding as prisoners.
'Well, David, my lad,' said my grandfather, when he had finished his strange story, 'it's almost like getting thee back from the dead, to have thee in the old home again!'
ON THE ROCK.
ON THE ROCK.
About a fortnight after my father arrived, we were surprised one Monday morning by another visit from old Mr. Davis. His son-in-law had asked him to come to tell my grandfather that he had received a letter with regard to the little girl who was saved from theVictory. So he told my father and me as we stood on the pier; and all the way to the house I was wondering what the letter could be.
Timpey was running by my side, her little hand in mine, and I could not bear to think how dull we should be when she was gone.
'Why, it's surely Mr. Davis,' said my grandfather, as he rose to meet the old gentleman.
'Yes,' said he, 'it is Mr. Davis; and I suppose you can guess what I've come for.'
'Not to take our little sunbeam, sir,' said my grandfather, taking Timpey in his arms. 'You never mean to say you're going to take her away?'
'Wait a bit,' said the old gentleman, sitting down and fumbling in his pocket; 'wait until you've heard this letter, and then see what you think about her going.'
And he began to read as follows:MY DEAR SIR,—I am almost overpowered with joy by the news received bytelegram an hour ago. We had heard ofthe loss of theVictory, and were mourningfor our little darling as being amongst thenumber of those drowned. Her mother hasbeen quite crushed by her loss, and hasbeen dangerously ill ever since the sad intelligencereached us.'Need I tell you what our feelings werewhen we suddenly heard that our dear childwas alive, and well and happy!'We shall sail by the next steamer forEngland, to claim our little darling. Mywife is hardly strong enough to travel thisweek, or we should come at once. A thousandthanks to the brave men who savedour little girl. I shall hope soon to beable to thank them myself. My heart istoo full to write much to-day.'Our child was travelling home under thecare of a friend, as we wished her to leaveIndia before the hot weather set in, and Iwas not able to leave for two months. Thisaccounts for the name Villiers not being onthe list of passengers on board theVictory.'Thanking you most sincerely for all yourefforts to let us know of our child's safety,'I remain, yours very truly,'EDWARD VILLIERS.'
'Now,' said the old gentleman, looking at me, and laughing, though I saw a tear in his eye, 'won't you let them have her?'
'Well, to be sure,' said my grandfather, 'what can one say after that? Poor things, how pleased they are!
'Timpey,' I said, taking the little girl on my knee, 'who do you think is coming to see you? Your mother is coming—- coming to see little Timpey!'
The child looked earnestly at me; she evidently had not quite forgotten the name. She opened her blue eyes wider than usual, and looked very thoughtful for a minute or two. Then she nodded her head very wisely, and said,—
'Dear mother coming to see Timpey?'
'Bless her!' said the old gentleman, stroking her fair little head; 'she seems to know all about it.'
Then we sat down to breakfast; and whilst we were eating it, old Mr. Davis turned to me, and asked if I had read the little piece of paper.
'Yes, sir,' said my grandfather, 'indeed we have read it;' and he told him about Jem Millar, and what he had said to me that last morning. 'And now,' said my grandfather, 'I wish, if you'd be so kind, you would tell mehow to get on the Rock, for I'm on the sand now; there's no doubt at all about it, and I'm afraid, as you said the last time you were here, that it won't stand the storm.'
'It would be a sad thing,' said old Mr. Davis, 'to be on the sand when the great storm comes.'
'Ay, sir, it would, said my grandfather; 'I often lie in bed at nights and think of it, when the winds and the waves are raging. I call to mind that verse where it says about the sea and the waves roaring, and men's hearts failing them for fear. Deary me, I should be terrible frightened, that I should, if that day was to come, and I saw the Lord coming in glory.'
'But you need not be afraid if you are on the Rock,' said our old friend. 'All who have come to Christ, and are resting on Him, will feel as safe in that day as you do when there is a storm raging and you are inside this house.'
'Yes,' said my grandfather, 'I see that, sir; but somehow I don't know what you mean by getting on the Rock; I don't quite see it, sir.'
'Well,' said Mr. Davis, 'what would you do if this house was built on the sand down there by the shore, and you knew that the very first storm that came would sweep it away?
'Do, sir!' said my grandfather, 'why, I should pull it down, every stone of it, and build it up on the rock instead.'
'Exactly!' said Mr. Davis. 'You have been building your hopes of heaven on the sand—on your good deeds, on your good intentions, on all sorts of sand-heaps. You know you have.
'Yes,' said grandfather, 'I know I have.'
'Well, my friend,' said Mr. Davis, 'pull them all down. Say to yourself, "I'm a lost man if I remain as I am; my hopes are all resting on the sand." And then, build your hopes on something better, something whichwillstand the storm; build them on Christ. He is the only way to heaven. He has died that you, a poor sinner, might go there. Build your hopes on Him, my friend. Trust to what He has done for you as your only hope of heaven—thatis building on the Rock!'
'I see, sir; I understand you now.'
'Do that,' said Mr. Davis, 'and then your hope will be a sure and steadfast hope, a good hope which can never be moved. And when the last great storm comes, it will not touch you; you will be as certainly and as entirely safe in that day as you are in this lighthouse when the storm is raging outside, because you will be built upon the immovable Rock.'
I cannot recollect all the conversation which Mr. Davis and my grandfather had that morning, but I do remember that before he went away he knelt down with us, and prayed that we might every one of us be found on the Rock in that last great storm.
And I remember also that that night, when my grandfather said good-night to me, he said, 'Alick, my lad, I don't mean to go to sleep to-night till I can say, like poor Jem Millar,
'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,All other ground is sinking sand.'
And I believe that my grandfather kept his word.
THE SUNBEAM CLAIMED.
THE SUNBEAM CLAIMED.
It was a cold, cheerless morning; the wind was blowing, and the rain was beating against the windows. It was far too wet and stormy for little Timpey to be out, so she and I had a game of ball together in the kitchen, whilst my father and grandfather went down to the pier.
She looked such a pretty little thing that morning. She had on a little blue frock, which my grandfather had bought for her, and which Mrs. Millar had made before she left the island, and a clean white pinafore. She was screaming with delight, as I threw the ball over her head and she ran to catch it, when the door opened, and my father ran in.
'Alick, is she here? They've come!'
'Who've come, father?' I said.
'Little Timpey's father and mother; they are coming up the garden now with your grandfather!
He had hardly finished speaking before my grandfather came in with a lady and gentleman. The lady ran forward as soon as she saw her child, put her arms round her, and held her tightly in her bosom, as if she could never part from her again. Then she sat down with her little darling on her knee, stroking her tiny hands and talking to her, and looking, oh, so anxiously, to see if the child remembered her.
At first, Timpey looked a little shy, and hung down her head, and would not look in her mother's face. But this was only for a minute. As soon as her motherspoketo her she evidently remembered her voice, and when Mrs. Villiers asked her, with tears in her eyes,—
'Do you know me, little Timpey? My dear little Timpey, who am I?' the child looked up, and smiled, as she said, 'Dear mother—Timpey's dear mother!' and she put up her little fat hand to stroke her mother's face.
And then, when I saw that, I could feel no longer sorry that the child was going away.
I can well remember what a happy morning that was. Mr. and Mrs. Villiers were so kind to us, and so very grateful for all that my grandfather and I had done for their little girl. They thought her looking so much better and stronger than when she left India, and they were so pleased to find that she had not forgotten all the little lessons she had learnt at home. Mrs. Villiers seemed as if she could not take her eyes off the child; wherever little Timpey went, and whatever she was doing, her mother followed her, and I shall never forget how happy and how glad both the father and the mother looked.
But the most pleasant day will come to an end; and in the evening a boat was to come from shore to take Mr. and Mrs. Villiers and their child away.
'Dear me!' said my grandfather, with a groan, as he took the little girl on his knee, 'I never felt so sorry to lose anybody,never; I'm sure I didn't. Why, I calls her my little sunbeam, sir! You'll excuse me saying so, but I don't feel over and above kindly to you for taking her away from me; I don't indeed, sir.'
'Then I don't know what you will say to me when you hear I want to rob you further,' said Mr. Villiers.
'Rob me further?' repeated my grandfather.
'Yes,' said Mr. Villiers, putting his hand on my shoulder. 'I want to take this grandson of yours away too. It seems to me a great pity that such a fine lad should waste his days shut up on this little island. Let him come with me, and I will send him to a really good school for three or four years, and then I will get him some good clerkship, or something of that kind, and put him in the way of making his way in the world. Now then, my friend, will you and his father spare him?'
'Well,' said my grandfather, 'I don't know what to say to you, sir; it's very good of you—very good, indeed it is, and it would be a fine thing for Alick, it would indeed; but I always thought he would take my place here when I was dead.'
'Yes,' said my father; 'but, you see,Ishall be here to do that, father; and if Mr. Villiers is so very kind as to take Alick, I'm sure we ought only to be too glad for him to have such a friend.'
'You're right, David; yes, your right. We mustn't be selfish, sir; and you'd let him come and see us sometimes, wouldn't you?'
'Oh, to be sure,' said Mr. Villiers; 'he can come and spend his holidays here, and give you fine histories of his school life. Now, Alick, what say you? There's a capital school in the town where we are going to live, so you would be near us and you could come to see us on holiday afternoons, and see whether this little woman remembers all you have taught her. What say you?'
I was very pleased indeed, and very thankful for his kindness, and my father and grandfather said they would never be able to repay him.
'Repayme!' said Mr. Villiers. 'Why, my friends, it'sIwho can never repayyou.Just think, for one moment, of what you have given me'—and he put his arm round his little girl's neck.' So we may consider that matter settled. And now, when can Alick come?'
My grandfather begged for another month, and Mr. Villiers said that would do very well, as in that time the school would reopen after the holidays. And so it came to pass, that when I said good-bye to little Timpey that afternoon, it was with the hope of soon seeing her again.
Her father called her Lucy, which I found was her real name. Timpey was a pet name, which had been given her as a baby. But though Lucy was certainly a prettier name, still I felt I should always think of her as Timpey—mylittle Timpey.
I shall never forget my feelings that month. A strange new life was opening out before me, and I felt quite bewildered by the prospect.
My grandfather, and father, and I sat over the watchroom fire, night after night, talking over my future; and day after day I wandered over our dear little island, wondering how I should feel when I said good-bye to it, and went into the great world beyond.
Since old Mr. Davis's visit, there had been a great change in our little home. The great Bible had been taken down from its place and carefully read and studied, and Sunday was no longer spent by us like any other day, but was kept as well as it could be on that lonely island.
My grandfather, I felt sure, was a new man. Old things had passed away; all things had become new. He was dearer to me than ever, and I felt very sorrowful when I thought of parting from him.
'I could never have left you, grandfather,' I said one day, 'if my father had not been here.'
'No,' he said, 'I don't think I could have spared you, Alick; but your father just came back in right time,—didn't you, David?'
At last the day arrived on which Mr. Villiers had appointed to meet me at the town to which the steamer went every Monday morning, when it left the island. My father and grandfather walked with me down to the pier, and saw me on board. And the very last thing my grandfather said to me was, 'Alick, my lad, keep on the Rock—be sure you keep on the Rock!'
And I trust that I have never forgotten my grandfather's last words to me.
'It was founded upon a rock.'MATT. VII. 25
My hope is built on nothing lessThan Jesu's blood and righteousness;I dare not trust the sweetest frame,But wholly lean on Jesu's name.On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,All other ground is sinking sand.When long appears my toilsome race,I rest on His unchanging grace;In every high and stormy gale,My anchor holds within the veil.On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,All other ground is sinking sand.His oath, His covenant, and blood,Support me in the whelming flood;When every earthly prop gives way,He then is all my hope and stay.On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,All other ground is sinking sand.When the last trumpet's voice shall sound,Oh, may I then in Him be found;Robed in His righteousness alone,Faultless to stand before the throne.On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,All other ground is sinking sand.MOTE.
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.