"Where are you going?" she inquired.
"Where I don't want you to follow me again," he said gloomily, almost sternly. "I have a feverish thirst on me, Miriam; I know that I ought to abstain; but there are some things too hard for flesh and blood, as you told me a minute ago."
All that Hamil's words meant flashed upon Miriam Macbean; his danger was, in some respects like, while yet so unlike, her own. Each had a duty to perform, each had a sacrifice to make; Miriam had urged her brother to the conflict, and now, like a coward, was flinching from it herself.
"Oh! Hamil!" exclaimed the poor girl, in a faltering tone of entreaty, "Go back to your quarters at once, and I will go back to my home. You do your duty, and may God help me to do mine, pride shall not win the victory over your sister."
A smile and a warm grasp of the hand were all that passed then between the twins. Miriam turned and sped on her way; but ere she reached the end of the street, she stopped and looked back with a throbbing heart. She saw her brother's tall form as he strode onwards, far beyond that perilous place which he was never to enter again; and the girl's spirit rose in thanksgiving and prayer—prayer for herself, thanksgiving for him.
Victory.
MIRIAM'S ring at the door of Mrs. Mellor's dwelling was answered by Caroline. The girl looked pale, and her eyes were swollen as if with crying.
"Caroline," said Miriam at once, for every moment of delay made the effort of speaking more painful, "I am sorry for what passed this afternoon between us."
"I'm sure that you are not more sorry than I am!" cried Caroline. "I wish that silver knife had been at the bottom of the sea—I heartily do—mistress is so displeased with me, and I never thought that I was doing such mischief by speaking a word."
"Let us both forgive and forget," said Miriam, and she held out her hand.
Poor Caroline shook it readily and heartily, she was surprised and relieved at the thundercloud having so rapidly passed away. Caroline was not of a proud or passionate temper herself and had cowered beneath the tempest of anger which she had thoughtlessly raised.
Nothing had ever convinced Caroline so much of the power of religion as Miriam's saying, as she did now, "I am sorry that I used such language towards you."
Caroline knew Miriam's character well enough to feel assured that no earthly motive would have brought her to humble herself thus to one who had deeply offended her.
Miriam passed up the staircase quickly, her mind relieved of a heavy burden. She had found the performance of duty less painful than she had expected, and it was such a comfort to be again at peace with herself and with all the world. The beautiful words of St. Paul recurred to her mind with more force than they ever had done before: "let all bitterness and wrath, and anger and clamour, and evil-speaking be put away from you, with all malice. And be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God, for Christ's sake, hath forgiven you." *
* Eph. iv. 31, 32.
On the landing-place, Miriam happened to meet her mistress. There was still a grave expression of displeasure upon Mrs. Mellor's face, as she thus addressed her young servant.
"Have you seen your brother, Miriam?"
On Miriam's replying that she had just done so, the lady continued, in the same cold manner, "And what does he think of the hasty step which you have taken in giving me warning?"
"He thinks it a foolish one, ma'am," replied Miriam, colouring up to her eyes, and pressing the bannister tightly with her hand, for it was hard to a proud spirit to make the humbling confession.
"Then perhaps you would wish to remain in my service still," said the lady, "and I should be very willing to keep you, and overlook the burst of temper into which you were betrayed in my presence, had I reason to hope that such bursts would not again recur. But I cannot," continued Mrs. Mellor, "have perpetual quarrelling in my kitchen; I cannot keep two servants who will not live in harmony together, I must—and will have my house an abode of peace, as every Christian home should be."
"Oh! Ma'am, if you would but try me," cried Miriam. "Caroline and I have made up our quarrel, and I hope that it will be our last."
The face of Mrs. Mellor brightened. "If such be the case," said the lady, "I will gladly try you again."
And never had Mrs. Mellor cause to regret having done so. It was not that Miriam was never again tempted to give way to a temper naturally violent; it was not that the hasty word would not rise to her tongue, nor the angry blood to her cheek; evil habits and evil tempers are not to be conquered without a struggle, sometimes long as well as severe.
But both Miriam and Hamil had learned to keep watch against besetting sins, and knew where to look for help in their time of need; they both pressed onwards where duty called them, as faithful soldiers of the cross; and they hoped one day to join in the song of triumph which the redeemed will raise: "thanks be to God which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." *
* 1 Cor. xv. 57.
A LIGHT
OR,
A CHRISTIAN IN INFLUENCE.
The Young Stepmother.
"THIS is most vexatious, most perplexing; I am sure that I scarcely know which way to turn," exclaimed Mrs. Fairley, as she entered the room in which her firstborn babe lay asleep in his cradle, trimmed with muslin, blue ribbon, and lace.
The lady was very young, and looked even younger than she was. She had but lately left the school-room when she had married Mr. Fairley, a widower, and so had become stepmother to his two children, who were six and seven years of age. Little suited was a lively girl, who had never so much as paid a bill for herself, to undertake at once the care of a house and family.
"Then I suppose that Dr. Blane thinks, ma'am, that Master Tom's rash is something infectious; I felt sure that it was," said the nurse.
"He says that it is scarlatina in a very mild form, and that Jessy's sore throat has been the same, though we never guessed what was the matter with her," replied Mrs. Fairley. "My terror now is for the babe—my little, fragile darling!" continued the young mother, gazing with anxious love on the sleeping infant. "His brother and sister have the malady slightly, but for a babe not five weeks old to take such a complaint might be—I dare not think what it might be." And the eyes of the lady filled with tears, for her baby was the very delight of her heart.
"I suppose, ma'am, that you'll join master in London at once," suggested the nurse; "it would be a sad risk for baby to remain in this house while the scarlet fever is in it."
"I feel as if we must go—and yet," said the poor young mistress, pressing her brow with her hand, "I cannot bear to leave the other dear children—above all, when they are not in health."
"Oh, ma'am, Miss Jessy is all right again; and as for Master Tom, he will need nothing but a little care," observed Leah, the nurse.
"If I were but sure that he would have it, I should leave with an easier mind," said the lady; "but I must take you to look after baby, and I leave the two children with a girl whom I never saw till a few days ago—a girl who has never been in service before. It seems so strange—so unkind."
"Susan looks as steady a girl as ever I saw in my life, ma'am; she comes out of a good nest too; her mother was highly respected, and kept a school. Depend upon it, Susan will take good care of Master Tom and his sister," observed Leah.
"I wish that I knew what to do," said the young mother, with an anxious sigh, as she seated herself by the cradle. Before her marriage, Lucy had never had to decide on any matter more important than the colour of a dress, or the choice of an amusement. Now she found herself in a position of serious responsibility as mistress and mother, with no experience, no strength of will, no knowledge of character, to help her. Mrs. Fairley wished to do her duty towards her husband's children; kind and gentle she always had been to them both, but she dreaded scarlet fever much for herself, and a great deal more for her baby, and dared not remain at the risk of catching the disease from Jessy or her brother.
"If I might be bold to speak, ma'am," said the nurse, "I'd say we'd better be off by the afternoon's train, and none of us go nigh the children. It's lucky they are on the upper floor, and that they have not been with baby since Miss Jessy complained of her throat. But scarlet fever is the most catching thing in the world, ma'am, 'specially after the rash has come out. Susan will look after the others, but we must think of the baby. He's sickly, he is, poor darling; a very little illness would make him go off like the snuff of a candle."
Mrs. Fairley shuddered at the thought of danger to her child. She hastily rose from her seat.
"You are right, quite right, nurse," she said; "we must leave this house at once; you had better see to the packing directly. I will speak to Susan myself, and give her the strictest orders, and tell her—And, oh! I must write at once to put off the children's party that we were to have had on Friday to keep Tommy's birthday. I must send notes to the Hardys, the Lauries, the Wares. It will be a sad disappointment to poor Tommy and Jessy not to have their young friends, but I'll give them each a new five-shilling piece to make up for their disappointment."
And so the young stepmother hurried away to write her notes, give her orders, arrange what dresses she should take to London, send for a conveyance, do the twenty little things which were needful to be done before suddenly quitting her country home, things which might each be trifles in themselves, but which required thought, and care, and time, so became serious matters to Mr. Fairley's young wife.
"I am so vexed to leave Tommy and Jessy under the care of a new nursery-maid, a mere girl!" repeated Mrs. Fairley, as she locked her desk, after hurriedly writing off her notes. "What will the world say? What will my husband say? It seems like deserting the children. But neither of them can be called really ill, and they will have every comfort which they can require; Dr. Blane is skilful and kind, and certainly. If one can judge by face and manner, Susan is to be trusted, yes, I hope, I think that she is to be trusted!"
And repeating this again and again to herself, to quiet her own anxiety, young Mrs. Fairley went on with her preparations for her sudden journey to London.
Off to the Station.
"YES, she is going away, I told you that she was! There's Giles carrying out the big black box, with the cords tied about it, to put it up by the coachman!" exclaimed Tom Fairley in a tone of fierce passion, as he stood on a chair by the window, grasping the bars with his hands, and looking down on the carriage which was waiting at the door to take his stepmother to the station.
Master Tom had been ordered to keep his bed during that day, but Tom cared little for orders. He was a spoilt, passionate boy, whom his gentle new mamma had never been able to manage. He loved Mrs. Fairley a little perhaps, but he had never learned to obey her.
"Perhaps mamma is only going for a drive," said Jessy, a pale little girl with large dark eyes, who was seated on a foot-stool nursing the doll that had been her stepmother's gift.
"Going to take a drive with a big corded box, you stupid!" exclaimed Tom. "I tell you she is going to London. Giles is bringing more packages out—one—two—three—and there's a hamper besides! There's nursie coming out with baby wrapped up in the large India shawl. She has got into the carriage, and here comes mamma in her pink bonnet. She is going to London without us—when she promised long ago to take us there with her!"
"Mamma won't go without bidding us good-bye!" exclaimed Jessy, starting up from her seat and running to the window with her doll in her arms. She clambered up on the chair beside her brother, and flattening her nose against the pane, glanced down as eagerly as Tom at the departure.
"She will go without bidding us good-bye, she's in the carriage, she'll soon be off!" And Tom stamped so violently with his shoeless foot on the chair, that he almost pushed off his sister.
The boy was only half-dressed, for he had lately escaped from his bed; he had neither jacket on his back, nor shoes on his feet; his hair was a wild mop round a face which looked as red as scarlet, but quite as much from passion as from fever.
"She's cruel, she's very, very unkind!" cried Jessy. "Betsy told us quite true, she doesn't care for us, not one pin, 'cause she is not our own mamma!"
The last nursery-maid had done great wrong both to her mistress and the children by trying to make the latter think that their stepmother did not love them as if they were her own. More from folly than from a wish to do mischief, Betsy had been sowing evil in the minds of those committed to her care.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God." * But oh! How unblessed must they be who help to destroy peace in families, whose tongues, like Satan's own darts, kindle malice, distrust, and jealousy in the hearts of those around them! Well had it been for the little Fairleys that Betsy had been dismissed from her place.
* Matthew v. 9.
"Mamma is looking up at the window, she is kissing her hand!" cried Tom. "But I won't kiss my hand to her," he sulkily added. "Why does she go and leave us! There—she's driving away—away to the station!"
The boy jumped down from the chair, and flung himself on his chest on the carpet, kicking with passion. He could not bear to watch the carriage disappearing behind the trees.
"I'll never, never again believe that mamma loves me!" exclaimed Jessy, bursting into tears as she got down more slowly.
"Oh I never say that, Miss Jessy!" cried the mild voice of Susan, who had just entered the room. She was a bright, cheerful-looking girl of sixteen, very neatly dressed, with hair smooth as satin beneath her simple little white cap.
"I'll say what I choose," sobbed Jessy; "it was very unkind to go without us, and never even to come to bid us good-bye."
"Mistress is as much vexed as you are about it," said Susan. "Yes, indeed," she continued, without appearing to notice a volley of angry kicks on the floor, by which Tom expressed his utter disbelief, "mistress dared not come near you after the doctor had told her what was the matter with you both, lest she should carry infection to the baby."
"She cares for no one but the baby!" growled Tom. "It's unfair, it's horridly unfair."
"Now, Master Tom, will you listen to reason?" said Susan, turning towards the boy in a cheerful, good-humoured manner. "Suppose that you had to decide whether your mamma should come and give you a good-bye kiss, at the risk of carrying back illness to your own little brother, would you ask her—would you wish her to come to you at such risk?"
"She did not want to come—she did not choose to come!" muttered Tom, who was not inclined to listen to reason.
"She never thought about us at all," cried Jessy.
"Nay, Miss Jessy, I can answer for it that mistress has been thinking a great deal about both of you," said the young maid. "She has been giving me such particular directions about your comfort, and the tears were in her eyes when she spoke of going to London and leaving you behind."
"Were they?" asked Tom, in a softened tone. He raised himself to a sitting posture on the floor, and looked up at Susan through the rough tumbled hair which was hanging over his eyes.
Some people have an art of putting things in the brightest, fairest light, of smoothing down angry tempers, and raising kindly feelings in the hearts of others. Susan was one who had learned this art in the school of the Gospel. She shewed so clearly that it was no unkindness that had taken the young stepmother away, she made the children realise so vividly what sad consequences would be likely to follow should their baby brother take the infection of scarlet fever, that all the storm of anger was lulled. When Susan gave to Jessy and her brother the two bright crown pieces sent to them by Mrs. Fairley, even the words "How kind!" came from the lips of the girl.
Susan had, however, a great deal of trouble in coaxing Tom to obey the doctor's orders by returning to his crib. She had no authority to punish, and it was very hard to persuade. Susan promised the boy to sit beside him, and read to him, so that the time should not seem dull.
"I'm tired of every one of my books, they're so stupid," cried Tom. "I've read Blue Beard ever so often, and I don't care for any of the rest."
"I've a little book of my own, which will be quite new to you, I daresay," said Susan. "It is in my box; I will go for it directly. And I wonder," she added, playfully, "whether, when I come back, I shall find Master Tommy in bed."
As soon as the door was closed behind Susan, Tom scrambled back into his crib in just as much haste as he had left it, and pulled the bed-clothes almost over his rough little head, "to give Susan a surprise," as he said. Tom was, perhaps, a little tired and weak, for though the attack of scarlatina had been but slight, the fever had not quite left him.
Susan had a soft pleasant voice, and as she read one after another of "Anecdotes of Christian Graces," choosing such as would be most likely to interest her young charges, Jessy drew near and sat close beside her, resting her doll upon Susan's knee, while Tom lay quietly listening till his eyelids grew heavy and drooped, and long breathing soon told that the little boy had fallen asleep.
Susan was very young, and she felt that hers was an anxious and responsible charge, left as the two children were entirely under her care during the absence of their parents. The burden upon the nursery-maid was all the more heavy as the training of the young Fairleys had been in some points neglected, and in others mismanaged; they did not submit, they would not obey, nor had they learned to look up with fear and love to a Father in heaven.
Jessy, indeed, before she went to rest, knelt down before a chest of drawers, put her little hands together, and gabbled over something which was meant for a prayer, her wandering eyes and careless tone showing that she gave not a thought to the solemn act of addressing the High and Holy One whose Name she was taking in vain every time that it passed her lips.
Susan saw all this, and it grieved her, but she felt that she must have patience and ask for grace, that she might be a humble means of leading to God the precious souls of these two children. Very different from Jessy's careless "saying prayers" was the young servant girl's earnest pleading when she knelt down by her sleeping charges that night. She entreated forgiveness for all her past sins, as one who knows how hateful in the sight of God is all sin; she asked for the grace of the Holy Spirit to make her heart pure, and to guide all her thoughts, words, and actions. Susan also prayed, and prayed heartily for her young charges—asking God to enable her to do her duty towards them, both in caring for their health and comfort, and in watching over their souls.
"Bless me, and make me a blessing to others," had been Susan's earnest prayer since she had first learned to feel that she was not her own, but "bought with a price," * that she and all her powers should be devoted to her Lord. It was a great comfort to the young nursery-maid to be able to go straight to God for the guidance and help that she needed, looking unto Him in all her troubles and cares, and doing her work as unto Him.
* 1 Cor. vi. 20.
There was no human being to watch whether Susan faithfully did her duty towards her absent mistress; there was no one to find fault if—as too many girls would have done—she cared first for her own comfort and ease. But Susan had not read in vain the Word of the Lord: "Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of heart; not with eye-service, as men-pleasers, but as the servants of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart." *
* Eph. vi. 5, 6.
Three times during the night did the anxious young maid rise to see if her charges were resting quietly. She gently replaced the coverlet which Tom had tossed off in his sleep. The night-light placed on the saucer was burning very feebly indeed; it was flickering, dying; in a few moments more it would go out, and leave the nursery in darkness. Susan took another from the box, lit it, and stood for a little space watching the tiny spark.
"I am a poor weak girl," thought Susan. "I can do very little, indeed, to show my love for my Lord, but there was one command which He gave to all His servants, and so to me amongst the rest: 'Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.' † I cannot serve God as clergymen and missionaries do, learned and holy men who shine as great lights in the world; but may not even I be as this tiny night-light, shut up in a quiet nursery, where no one cares to look at it, yet throwing its feeble light around, useful according to its power, shining as well as it can, though it seems little more than a spark? Even I, in my humble way, may spend and be spent for my Lord, and help to cheer and enlighten others, though they be but two little children."
† Matt. v. 16.
The thought was a sweet one to Susan, and she fell asleep with the prayer on her lips, "Oh, bless me, and make me a blessing!"
A Dinner-Party.
TOM FAIRLEY arose in the morning perfectly free from fever, and the doctor, when he came in the forenoon, said that the boy would soon be as well as ever, and that in one or two days, should the weather continue warm, he and his little sister might take a turn in the garden.
"A turn in the garden indeed," muttered Tom, as soon as the doctor had left the room, "it's not there that I'm going, to trot up and down the stupid gravel walks, or make daisy-chains like a baby. Susan, you shall take us to the toy-shop in the town, and there we will spend all our money, and buy lots of pretty things, and sweeties besides, and make ourselves jolly."
The boy finished his sentence by spinning his crown-piece on the table, amusing himself by watching the round half-transparent silver globe which it seemed to form, till the motion given by his fingers became less rapid, and gradually the globe rattled down into its natural form, and lay as a piece of money on the table.
Susan waited till the noise of the spinning was over, and then quietly observed, "I am afraid, Master Tom, that a long time must pass before it will be right for you and your sister to shop in the town."
"Why, mamma often takes us there," said the boy.
"Remember that for weeks, if not months, there will be a risk of your giving the fever to any one whom you meet. You carry infection with you."
"Oh, hang the infection!" exclaimed Tom, angrily. "I don't mean to be shut up like a wild beast in a cage." And the boy looked so fierce as he said this that he seemed to have enough of the wild beast about him to render the cage a somewhat desirable thing.
"No one will guess that we have had any fever at all," observed Jessy, who, while better tempered than her brother, was less straightforward and open. "See—there are no marks left; and if you are not so cross as to tell, no one will know that anything has been the matter with Tom or with me."
"Oh, Miss Jessy, your own conscience would know it; your own conscience would whisper, 'Is it right, for my own selfish pleasure, to run the risk of carrying sickness, and perhaps even death, into some happy home? If I should hear of some poor child catching the fever and dying, could I ever feel happy again?'"
Jessy stared at Susan in surprise. The idea of being guided by the secret voice of conscience in her heart was new to the child, who had hitherto cared only to follow self-will.
Tom broke out abruptly with the question, "As you make such a mighty fuss about infection, Susan, are you not afraid of catching the fever yourself? I wonder that you don't run away in a fright, like mamma with the baby."
"It was your mamma's duty to go; it is my duty to stay," replied the young nursery-maid, with a smile. "I am not in the least afraid, for I trust in God who careth for me."
"Do you mean that because you trust in God, He will keep you from catching the fever?" asked Jessy.
"I did not mean that," replied Susan. "God sometimes lets His people have troubles, and sickness is often one of them; but He helps and cheers His servants in distress, and brings them out of it at last. God teaches them sweet lessons of patience and hope and faith, so that every tried Christian will be able to say, sooner or later, 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted.' * If we trust in God, King David's beautiful words may be ours, 'I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me;' † for the Lord will either keep trials away, or He will, by His power and love, turn the trials themselves into blessings."
* Psalm cxix. 71. † Psalm xxiii. 4.
The Fairleys would have cared nothing for teaching on the subject of religion from one whose conduct did not show its power over herself; but Susan lived as she tried to teach the children to live, and therefore her words had some influence. Tom and Jessy could see that she who feared God had no other fear, and that while caring for others, she could, with happy trust, leave the care of herself unto Him. This was the children's first lesson of faith in a watchful Providence.
Susan had a good deal to try her temper during the rest of that day. The Fairleys, like most children when recovering from illness, were very impatient and cross; they would not bear contradiction, they quarrelled, they broke their toys, they tore their books, they grumbled against the doctor who kept them in-doors when they chose to go out. Susan came in for a large share of their rudeness; but she was quiet and patient, never returned a cross word, and did all that she could to give pleasure to those who seemed resolved not to be pleased.
Dinner in some degree restored the Fairleys to good humour. After being kept for some days on low diet, the children were very hungry, and keenly enjoyed their meal.
As Tom was finishing a leg of chicken after having eaten a wing, he abruptly stopped, struck the handle of his knife and fork upon the table, and exclaimed, as a thought suddenly arose in his mind, "I hope all this nonsense about infection has not made mamma put off my birthday party!"
He looked Susan full in the face as he spoke, and her silence was answer sufficient.
Knife and fork were flung to the other end of the table, Tom started to his feet in a violent fury, and Jessy burst into tears.
It was some time before Susan could gain a hearing. The birthday party had been looked forward to with delight; the Fairleys were very little accustomed to disappointment, and knew not how to bear it. Gradually, however, the storm lulled a little, and Susan was able to suggest a few thoughts of comfort. The children should have a birthday feast after all, she would ask Mason the cook for a little flour, eggs, and strawberry jam, she would show Tom and Jessy how to make pastry themselves, and that would be far better fun than having it up from the kitchen, or from a confectioner's shop.
Jessy dried her eyes, listened and smiled; the child was accustomed to the pleasure of eating pastry, but the pleasure of helping to make it was something entirely new. Tom's passion subsided into sulky ill-humour, as he sat balancing his crown-piece on his thumb, then throwing it up and catching it again.
"What's the use of having a feast with no guests to eat it?" muttered the boy. "And what's the use of having money when one is not able to spend it?"
"Well, Master Tom," said Susan, gaily, "if you can't tell what to do with your money, I know a famous way in which you could spend it; and if you want guests, I know how you can get as many as you please to invite."
"You do—do you?" cried the boy, with eager surprise.
"It happens," said Susan, "that my dear mother's birthday falls on the same day as yours, and I have been intending, for some time past, to give a feast to four children in honour of the day."
"You—a nursery-maid!" exclaimed Tom Fairley. "And pray, does mamma know what you are after?"
"Oh! No," replied Susan, smiling, "no one knows but myself; but perhaps, if you are very good, I may let you into my secret?"
"But you've no business to invite any one into our house," cried Tom, in an insolent tone. "It would be a pretty joke indeed if you could have friends here, when we are not allowed to have one."
"My guests will not eat their dinner here," replied Susan. "I shall send it for them in so clever a way that all the four dinners could be easily packed up in my thimble."
"Your thimble! Oh! What do you mean—what can you mean?" cried both the Fairleys in a breath.
And Jessy added, with a merry little laugh, "I don't think that such a feast as yours would feed a hungry mouse."
"Ah! Missie, you are quite mistaken there," cried Susan, amused at the children's looks of surprise. "My guests shall have right good cheer. Would you like to know what fare will be provided?"
"Let's hear all about it," said Tom.
"What would you think of meat, potatoes, rice, and onions made up into a nice Irish stew, and a good slice of bread into the bargain? Each of my guests will have this."
"I say!" exclaimed the astonished Tom, dropping his money in his surprise. "And can that—meat, onions and all—go into your thimble?"
"Not exactly the dinner itself, but the dinner price," replied Susan. "And one good thing about my feast is this—I am quite sure that my little guests will be pleased, not one will go grumbling away. They will most likely not have tasted meat for a whole week before, and will enjoy their hot Irish stew as much, perhaps more, than you, Master Tom, did your chicken."
"I don't like riddles," cried the boy, impatiently. "Who are these hungry guests of yours? And how can you have them to dinner? Just tell us straight out what you mean."
Susan was pleased at the opportunity of explaining to her young listeners the simple but beautiful arrangements of the DESTITUTE CHILDREN'S DINNER SOCIETY, * by which a half-starved boy or girl from the miserable dens of London is provided with an excellent meal for threepence, bringing a single penny in addition. She spoke of the poor little ragged wanderers who have never in their lives known what it is to have a comfortable home, nor perhaps—till this charity was begun—a really satisfying meal.
* See "Ragged School Magazine" for February 1868.
Susan had been in London with an uncle who kept a cook-shop. She told how it made her heart ache to see pale, thin, barefooted children hovering round the place to smell the savoury scent which to them must have been so tantalising, and to gaze through the windows at the tempting food which they might not taste. Susan did not say how often she had stinted herself in her meals that she might give to those who needed.
"I was thankful," said Susan, "to find that God had put it into the hearts of the wise and good to feed these poor hungry lambs, and in a way so simple and easy that even a servant girl can help a little in the work."
"How will you do it, how will you send your dinners," asked Jessy, "when you live so far-away from London?"
"Twelve postage stamps can be bought for one shilling; I will put twelve stamps into a letter, and direct it to Mr. Gent, 1 Exeter Hall, Strand, London. I will merely write inside, 'For children's dinners, from a cheerful giver.' And then, when my letter is dropped into the post-box, I know that it is all the same as if I had sent off four invitations to dinner. I am sure that four pairs of eyes will look brighter, and four young hearts will be merrier, and I shall enjoy my own meals a great deal more when I think of my poor little guests."
"Why, I could have a dinner-party of twenty for my five shillings!" exclaimed Tom, who had picked up his silver crown-piece. "Mamma never asks more than a dozen at a time, and I am sure that the feasting them costs her a lot of money, for I've heard her talking to papa about the dreadful long bills."
"I think that I'll get you to change my big piece of money into five shillings, Susan," said Jessy, "and take one of them for stamps, and send my stamps with yours, and then there will be eight hungry children feasted, and two 'cheerful givers,' you know."
The eyes of Susan glistened. It was not so much that she was glad that the hungry should be fed, but that she rejoiced at having been the means of giving to her young charge this first lesson in Christian love. It was for this, and for this alone, that Susan had mentioned to any one her own intended deed of kindness. She felt that she could in no way teach so well as by her own example; the children might be quick to imitate, though they would be slow to obey.
"You'll not have any of my money for your dirty, ragged beggar-boys," said Tom, laughing, as he chucked up his crown-piece again. "I'll not spend it on mutton, potatoes, and onions, or pack up twenty hot dinners in a letter. I know what I'll do, since this stupid infection won't let me go to the town. I'll ask Giles to go shopping for me; he shall buy me a top, a whip, some string, and all sorts of things that I fancy."
Jessy came up smiling to the nursery-maid, and slipped her crown-piece into Susan's hand. "I can't cut this into five bits, you know, but you will get Giles to change it, and buy the twelve stamps for the dinners."
Susan took the money with a thoughtful air.
"Are you not pleased?" asked Jessy.
"I was just thinking," observed Susan, "that it would never do to pack up infection in the paper."
"Could you do that?" cried Tom in surprise. "I never heard of anything like this horrid infection!"
"I know of one thing that is like it," said Susan, gravely, "the infection of a sinful example. Evil spreads from one soul to another, as fever from person to person. Oh! How grievous it would be by one's works or one's words to give something far worse than any sickness to those whom we love."
"I suppose," observed Tom, "that bad men are shut up in prison that they mayn't infect other people with their wicked example."
"There are many who do harm in that way, whom no one would think of shutting up," replied Susan. "The selfish, the idle, the worldly, the proud, may be spreading the infection of their faults around them, and yet their company may be thought very good, and not dangerous in the least. No one would willingly take a fever, but how many willingly take bad advice, and follow an evil example."
"But what is to be done about the dinners?" interrupted Jessy. "It would never do to pack up scarlet fever with potatoes and mutton."
Susan considered for a moment or two. "Giles seems very good-natured," she observed. "Perhaps he would kindly take the trouble of not only buying the stamps, but putting them up in the letter!"
"That will do famously," cried Jessy.
Susan then removed the cloth from the table, and carried away the plates and dishes. The heart of the young maid warmed towards her little charge.
"I doubt that my dear young lady ever before thought of helping the needy," reflected Susan, "and now she does so simply from kindness of heart; she knows nothing yet of mercy to the poor, shown as a proof of grateful love to the Lord. But it is well to make a beginning," said Susan to herself, as she carried the tray downstairs. "The time may come when Jessy will delight in doing good, with the means and power to do much, such as I never will have.
"Ah! The tiniest spark that glimmers in a night-light may kindle a very large fire, or a beacon that will be seen for many miles round! Who knows but that, by God's blessing, a poor nursery-maid's simple teaching may be the means of drawing children's hearts to the Lord; and that these children, in future days, may be burning and shining lights, so as both by their words and works to glorify their Father in Heaven!"
Battle in the Nursery.
SUSAN felt shy of speaking to Giles about writing a letter for her, and sending the stamps. She would far rather not have told her little secret to the man-servant, who, she feared, would laugh at her plan. But Giles, on the contrary, was pleased as well as amused at the idea of sending dinners to Exeter Hall.
"I don't mind putting up a third dozen stamps of my own," said the butler, as he pulled out his brown leather purse to give change for Jessy's crown-piece. "I like this notion of giving dinners, and I've often an odd shilling to spare that I never should miss. I was one of twelve children myself, and know what a struggle it costs even a man in good work to fill so many hungry mouths; I can't think how the orphans get fed at all. I'm going to the town to-morrow, so I'll get an envelope ready in the morning, and I'll mention the matter to cook—dinners are just in her line; I should not wonder if she, too, pulled out her shilling."
There are thousands of households in our land where kind hearts and generous hands would be ready to aid in such works of love, if so simple a way of doing good were suggested. In the servants' hall as well as in the drawing-room "cheerful givers" would be found. Well would it be, if in every rich man's kitchen, where the fire roars up the chimney, and the joint turns round on the spit, and the place is filled with the scent of steaming soups and savoury dishes, a little collecting-box were kept for "Destitute Children's Dinner Society," into which those who never themselves know want might sometimes drop in a penny unseen, to help friendless little ones, faint and pining with hunger.
Susan was delighted at her unexpected success. "How good does come out of evil!" thought she. "But for this fear of conveying infection by writing the letter myself while nursing my little patients, I should never have dreamed of mentioning the matter to Giles. I should quietly have dropped my letter into the post-box, and my fellow-servants would have known nothing about it. My poor little shilling is likely to grow into four, and this is not the best part of the business: three persons may begin from to-day to take a pleasure in feeding the poor, and who can tell how many meals to the hungry, and what rich blessings to those who care for them, may spring from so tiny a seed as my mentioning that good society to little Miss Jessy to-day?"
Susan was returning upstairs with a very light heart, when the sounds which reached her ear from the nursery made her quicken her steps to a run. There were screams either of passion or of pain, and when Susan opened the door she saw Tom, scarlet with rage, holding Jessy's doll by the feet, and banging its head against the fender, while the little girl was vainly struggling to rescue her toy from his hands.
In another minute, Mrs. Fairley's pretty gift would have been battered to pieces, had not Susan darted forwards, wrenched it away from the hold of the boy, and put the doll on the top of the cupboard, beyond the reach of the furious child.
Tom's passion was instantly turned upon her who had dared thus to interfere between him and his sister. He flew like a wild cat on Susan, struck her with violence, and then actually bit her on the arm, then flung himself on the carpet, kicking and roaring with passionate fury.
Thus cruelly attacked by a cowardly bully, Susan felt at first anger as well as pain. Had her master been in the house, she would have complained to him, and Master Tom might for once have met with the punishment which he so richly deserved.
But poor Susan had no one to appeal to, and she had been given no authority to inflict chastisement herself. She must bear and forbear, and by patience endeavour to overcome evil by good.
"Oh! The bad, bad boy—how he has hurt you!" cried Jessy, indignantly, as Susan drew up her sleeve, and showed the marks left by his cruel teeth on her arm. "I wish I could beat him—I do!"
"When Master Tommy thinks quietly over his conduct, I am sure that he will be sorry that he has hurt his poor nurse," observed Susan, in a tone of gentle reproof.
This was all which she trusted herself to say on the subject.
She occupied herself in quieting and comforting Jessy. The hair of the doll, rudely torn from its head, was picked up by Susan, smoothed, and replaced; a few stitches repaired the doll's dress, which had been rent in the struggle. Jessy was soon made happy again, and then listened with interest to the account given by Susan of her conversation with John. The young nursery-maid forgot her pain when seeing the pleasure caused by the news that sixteen guests instead of eight were likely to be invited to share the hot Irish stew.
Susan, for the rest of the day, took no outward notice of Tom, except by attending to all his wants. It would not be wise or right to treat him as if nothing had happened, until he should ask forgiveness; this would be to make him think lightly of his sin.
Susan's silence towards him was more distressing to the boy than would have been the passionate chiding or even slap which he would have had from Betsy, had he treated her half as ill as he had treated Susan. Tom tried indeed to show that he did not care for being in disgrace, and for the first half-hour made as much noise as he could, spinning his crown-piece, drumming with his feet, and singing snatches of rude songs to make-believe that he was happy. But Tom could not keep up this show for long; Susan's patience tired out his passion. The boy became silent, sulky, and sad; Susan could not help thinking that Tom was ashamed of himself, though too proud to own that he was so.
In the meantime, the young maid made Jessy as happy as possible, playing with or reading to her in a soft low tone, to which Tom could listen if he would, as he sat with his back turned towards her, pulling an old basket to pieces, and scattering the bits on the floor.
When the children's bedtime drew near, Susan, remembering the careless way in which Jessy had said the Lord's Prayer, thought that she could not better employ a few minutes than in giving her charge a short and simple explanation of the holy words, which had so often passed her lips without her mind having an idea of their meaning. Susan took Jessy upon her knee, and explained as well as she could how great and holy is the Being who permits us to call Him "Father," and how the bright, happy angels do His will in the glorious Heaven above. It was sweet to Susan thus to feed her Lord's little lamb.
When Susan came to the fourth petition in the Lord's Prayer, Jessy looked pleasantly into her face and observed, "God always gives me daily bread, and meat, and nice things besides; won't God be pleased that I am going to give some to the poor little hungry children?"
Susan kissed the child, and replied, "The Lord is always pleased when we try to do His will, by being kind to His poor."
When the fifth petition in the prayer was explained, again Jessy looked full into the eyes of her nurse. "Can you forgive Tom out and out?" asked the child.
"I can—I do," replied Susan.
"I can't, and I don't," cried Jessy.
"Oh, dear Missie, we must pray for the spirit of forgiveness, for without it we dare not hope to be forgiven by God. The Lord has taught us mercy and love to those who have wronged us; not only by His words, but by His blessed example."
And then to her quiet, attentive hearer Susan told that touching story of prayer even for murderers, which, while it is a lofty theme for angels, falls sweetly on the ear of a child.
Susan did not speak long, for she feared to weary Jessy. The servant did not know what force her own gentleness and kindness gave to her words. Jessy felt that Susan, who thought and talked about holy things, was a very different person in her conduct and ways from what Betsy had been—she who never cared for religion. Even a child could draw the conclusion that what made Susan good must be good—that what made Susan happy would be likely to make herself happy; and a wish arose in Jessy's heart that she might grow more like Susan. The tiny night-light was already casting its radiance around.
After Jessy had laid her little head on her pillow, Susan put Master Tommy to bed. The little boy still seemed sulky, neither attempted to say his prayers, nor bade good-night to his nurse. He carried his money with him to his bed, and thrust it under his pillow.
"Master Tom," said Susan, gently, as she bent over the child, "I could not bear to go to sleep till I had asked forgiveness of God, and of any one whom I might have treated unkindly."
Tom made no reply, but pulled his coverlet over his head, and turned his face to the wall.
The boy was struggling against the better feelings which were rising up in his heart. The teaching and example of Susan had made quite as deep an impression upon Tow as upon his sister, but pride and temper were strong within him. Tom fell asleep muttering to himself that he was not sorry, he did not care! As for begging pardon—that was a thing which he had never done in his life, except when he had been in immediate fear of a flogging from his father.
Silver Turned into Gold.
TOM's sleep was, however, troubled, and did not last very long. He awoke feeling restless and thirsty. He wished to call for some milk and water, but the room was so still that he fancied that Susan must be asleep, and if she were at all like Betsy, there would be no use in trying to awaken her. The candle had been put out, only the tiny night-light was gleaming, casting long black shadows from curtains and bed-posts upon the nursery wall. Nothing was heard but the ticking of the clock, and to the nervous ear of the boy it seemed to tick strangely loud.
Conscience was awake in Tom's heart, and in the stillness of night, its voice was louder than usual. The child softly drew back the curtain of his crib, and looked towards the corner where he supposed that the young nurse was lying asleep.
He saw Susan kneeling before a chair, her head bowed down on her clasped hands; in the quiet hour, when she believed that her charges were slumbering, she was pouring out her heart to her God.
The boy watched, but did not dare to disturb her. Even he, young as he was, could feel that real prayer made that room a more holy place. Susan was speaking to One who could hear, to One who was near; the answer to the young servant's prayers was already seen in her life.
When Susan arose from her knees, Tom softly called her by her name. In a moment, the nursery-maid was by the side of her charge.
"Did you want anything that I can give you?" she gently inquired.
"Were you praying for me?" asked Tom, in a low and earnest tone.
"Yes; I should not be easy about the children under my care, unless I often prayed for them," the nursery-maid replied. "I am afraid that you went to sleep without asking a blessing for yourself, and so there was all the more need that I should ask it for you."
To Susan's great surprise, the child's arms were suddenly thrown round her neck, and in the voice of one struggling against a sob, he exclaimed, "Oh! Susan, I'm sorry—so sorry that I hurt you so much!" His rough little head was on her shoulder, and her dress was wet with his tears.
Gently and tenderly Susan forgave, and tried to soothe the boy. She did not, however, as in mistaken kindness some might have done, tell him that his fault was nothing, that he need not trouble himself about it. But she assured him how freely and gladly she forgave it, and told him to seek forgiveness from God, and ask from Him that grace by which alone he could conquer his temper in future.
Susan then brought milk and water to relieve the feverish thirst of her charge, beat up his pillow, and made him as comfortable as it was in her power to make him.
Tom was in a nervous excited state, and wished Susan to stay by his bedside.
"I feel so hot and restless," he despairingly said, "I never shall get to sleep."
"Shall we pray the Lord to give you sweet sleep?" asked Susan.
Tom looked at her in surprise. "Can we pray about things like that?" he inquired.
"Oh! Yes, we can bring all our little troubles and trials to our Lord," replied the young maid. "It is He who giveth rest both to the soul and the poor weary body."
Perhaps the first time that Tom Fairley had ever asked anything from God with a desire and hope of having what he asked for, was when he prayed on that night for sleep. When he had done so, he thrust his little hand under his pillow, pulled forth his silver crown-piece, and tried to force it into the hand of his nurse.
"This is for you—you shall have it for your own, it's to make up—" cried the boy.
"No, Master Tommy, no indeed—I thank you all the same," said Susan, drawing back her hand with decision.
"Take it for the hungry children, then," persisted Tom.
"Not now, dear, certainly not now; you are tired and sleepy, you have had no time to think over the matter," said Susan, who would have deemed it wrong to take advantage of the excited state of the child, even to help a charitable cause. "Turn round and go to sleep now, dear boy; perhaps you may think in the morning of some quite different way in which you would like to spend your money."
Tom was too sleepy to reply; his mind was growing calm and his eyelids heavy. The touch of Susan's soft hand was lulling him to rest, with the sound of her soothing voice as she repeated a simple but beautiful verse—
"This night I lay me down to sleep,I give my soul to Christ to keep;Wake I soon, or wake I never,I give my soul to Christ for ever."
The young nurse did not quit Tom's side till he had sunk into deep, sweet slumber.
Susan had expected that Tom would change his mind in the morning regarding the way of spending his crown; but she had done the boy injustice. The heart of Tom Fairley was like rich and generous soil which had been covered with a thick growth of weeds: there was much that was noble in him, but it had never till then been drawn forth.
Tom was heartily sorry for having struck and bitten the gentle girl who had so carefully and tenderly watched over his comfort. He was resolved to make what amends he could, and as Susan would accept none of his money for herself, he insisted that every penny of it should go in the way which he knew would please her most. Tom refused to taste his breakfast till Susan should have carried his crown-piece to Giles to increase the number of invitations to be sent to destitute children.
"Well, to be sure, I never knew money grow like your shilling!" exclaimed Giles, when Susan, with pleasure beaming in her eyes, brought him the crown-piece to add to the little collection.
"Master Tommy gives it, and with all his heart. May he never know, dear child, what it is to want a meal!" cried Susan.
Giles smiled good-humouredly as he turned the crown-piece round and round. "Four shillings and five make nine," he muttered, "that's an odd number, and would buy an awkward lot of stamps to send in a letter. I'll do the handsome thing myself—and follow this new fashion set in the nursery; 'tis but one shilling more to give—I'll turn all the silver into one little bit of gold, and send it safely in a registered letter to Exeter Hall. We'll have a grand dinner-party amongst us, and invite forty young folk at once."
It was keen delight to Susan to feel that her little offering of one piece of silver had been—as it were—changed into gold; that where she had meant to give food to four, she had been the means of spreading the table for forty!
But far more important than the extension of this little work of charity in the dwelling of Mrs. Fairley, was the good which Susan's influence was silently working around her in the hearts of those who could watch the "tiny night-light" of her example. The little Fairleys were learning lessons of piety and love which were likely to make them, when they should grow up, holy and happy Christians, influencing in their turn, perhaps, hundreds of their fellow creatures.
Let no servant of God, in however lowly a state, think that "one talent" may safely be buried, or the feeblest light safely be hidden. Especially let those who live amongst children remember how great the power of their own influence may be for evil or good. Those who have showered blessings on thousands may have received in the nursery their first impressions of religion. A servant girl of whom the world never has heard, may be found on that day when all secrets are known, to have helped to form the character of a Wilberforce or a Howard.
To some Christians whose lives have been very obscure, may yet be fulfilled that glorious promise, "they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever." *
* Daniel xii. 3.
A THANKFUL GUEST
OR,
A CHRISTIAN IN COMMUNION.
Back Again.
"THAT's he—that's he—hurrah! Look, wife, look! He's a-sitting on the box of the coach that we may see him the better! Hurrah!" And with a cheer which came from the heart, Michael Garth lifted the straw hat from his wrinkled brow and grey hair, as a carriage drove rapidly along the country road, by the side of which stood his neat little cottage.
"Bless him! Bless him!" faltered old Martha, grasping eagerly her husband's arm with her trembling fingers, and straining her dim eyes to see the vicar's sailor son returning after ten years' absence from England.
"He sees us—he minds us!" said Michael.
"He's a-lifting up his cap—cheer, Mat, cheer—are ye dumb, lad!" cried Martha to her grandson, a red-haired lad of sixteen, who had come running from the plough to see the officer drive past.
Mat cheered, and his grandfather cheered; hearty and strong sounded the old man's voice—if an old man he could be called who had none of the weakness or infirmity of age.
And Lieutenant Harry Maude nodded and smiled, and shouted out as he passed a kindly greeting to the good old couple whom he had known from his childhood.
"He's not changed—not a bit changed!" cried Michael, as the carriage rolled away down the dusty hill. "A trifle older, may be, and a trifle browner, and he hadn't them fine whiskers afore; but there's just the same smile, the same merry look, as when I lifted him, over the five-bar-gate when he was a little chap no higher than my knee."
"How happy the vicar and all the ladies will be," said Martha, wiping her eyes with her apron, for the pleasure of seeing the young master come back had made them fill with joyful tears.
"Ay, to have him at home again, and after such dangers," cried Michael.
"Warn't there a shipwreck?" asked Mat.
"A shipwreck—a dreadful one," answered the old labourer. "Didn't ye see the account of it in the 'Times' the vicar lent me, and which went the round of the village till the paper a'most dropped to pieces, 'cause every one wanted a reading. I forgot—my memory's not what it was—ye were on the job at the farm down in Surrey. Master Harry there, he did wonders, brought off a lot of poor souls, I can't mind me how many, but I knows as he got thanks and praises without end. And the Queen—bless her!—sent him some medal—I take it she was proud of him, she was!"
"We are all proud of Master Harry!" cried Martha. "If I was the Queen, I'd make him a duke. I hopes now he's got such a deal of honour he'll not be above thinking of poor folk like me."
"He'll not forget us, not he!" said old Michael, rubbing his chin. "Master Harry won't never forget us. We'll have him at the cottage to-morrow, I'll be bound."
"Nay, nay, old man, we mustn't look for that," said Martha. "Mind ye what a many years he's been from his family, and what lots they'll have to say to each other, and what a many friends will be coming to see the lieutenant. We mustn't expect him to-morrow, nor the day after, for that's when the Squire's daughter is to be married, and Master Harry will be at the wedding, on course."
"He'll be bridesman, I s'pose," observed Michael.
"And more looked at and thought of a deal than the bridegroom himself, save by Miss Lily the bride," said old Martha, as she turned and re-entered her cottage.
Though the good woman had expressed her belief that a visit from Lieutenant Maude was not to be expected for two days longer at least, there can be no doubt that she kept her cottage in as high a state of preparation as if he might at any moment appear. There was not a spot on her pots and pans; not a speck of dust rested on the rows of plates (willow-pattern), that adorned the shelf on the wall, nor on her clean washed floor. Fresh snowdrops were put into the broken-handled crockery-teapot, which served as a jar for flowers. The glass of the case which held the stuffed owl which Harry in his boyhood had so often admired, was rubbed as bright as a mirror.
Martha took into daily wear that green shawl which the young sailor had presented her with before going abroad, and which she had reserved for high days and holidays, as she had deemed it "much too good for a poor old body."
Even the approaching wedding of Miss Lily was a small event in the eyes of the old labourer and his wife, compared to the return to the vicarage of "brave Master Harry" from sea.
Neglected Duty.
IF there was pleasure in the cottage at the officer's return, what was the joy within the home of his parents! Perhaps there was not a more cheerful group in all England than that which gathered round the pastor's fireside on that cold evening in March. There were eager questionings, pleasant replies; every eye was turned towards Harry as he sat with his feet resting on the fender, and his mother's hand clasped in his own. Harry had much to relate which every one wanted to hear, and half the tale seemed untold when, at a later hour than usual, the family retired to rest, after the evening prayer had been prayed, and the evening hymn sung by voices which trembled with thankful joy.
Before breakfast on the following morning, as the vicar was taking his usual early walk round his lawn, he heard a quick step behind him, and then Harry's hand was laid on his arm.
"Ah! My boy, glad to see you! I could hardly have a word with you yesterday, your mother and the girls seemed resolved to have you all to themselves," said the vicar, as he wrung the hand of his son.
"It is so delightful to be at home once more!" observed Harry, while he sauntered along the gravel path at his father's side. "Everything looks just as when I left it, I could fancy myself, as in old times, just returning from school. It was a pleasure to me yesterday to see the familiar faces of good old Garth and his wife, who were standing in front of their cottage. I suppose that the hulking lad at their side was 'little Mat,' whom I remember at the Sunday class, when I made my first essay at teaching. Precious hard work it was to ram anything into his brain!"
"Mat is a good lad, though not a bright one," observed the vicar. "As for the Garths, there is not a more honest fellow in the village than Michael, and Martha is one of the kindest-hearted creatures that I ever met with in my life."
"I recollect," remarked the young officer, "that there was only one thing about the Garths which you used to regret in old days. They were steady in attendance at church, but they were not communicants then."
"Nor are they now," said the vicar, stopping for a moment in his walk. "It is to me a strange, an almost unaccountable thing, that God-fearing, God-serving people such as they, who attend the Lord's house, and prize His Word, should yet, month after month, year after year, turn their backs upon His table."
"They brought their children to be baptised," remarked the lieutenant.
"Ay, and their grandchild too," added the vicar, resuming his walk; "the Garths would have looked upon themselves as heathen had they neglected the one sacrament ordained by our Lord, while, apparently without any scruple, they constantly neglect the other. I have preached in public, and spoken in private on the subject, but still I am grieved to see three-fourths of my flock leave the church before the communion service begins, and the Garths always amongst them."
"Have they ever given a reason for this?" asked Harry.
"I doubt whether they have any reason which they could put into words," answered his father. "Garth agrees to everything that I say, will, as he says, 'attend some day, but not yet awhile;' his wife folds her hands, looks down, and says nothing. I suppose that if either of them were to be taken dangerously ill, I should be sent for in haste to administer the communion to the sick; as if they thought that there was some charm in the service to smooth their journey through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, or that life-long disobedience to their Master's command could be atoned for by one dying attempt to do His bidding when, perhaps, the mind would scarcely have power to grasp the meaning of the service."
"Or death may come suddenly, as I have seen it come so often to the strong and the young," observed the naval officer. "How little we can tell whether, when our summons comes, we shall be left one hour for preparation! I remember when I was ashore in one of the West India ports, I ventured to say something to a friend of mine, a young merchant, who was showing me kind hospitality, about his practice of doing business on Sundays. He answered me with perfect good humour, that he was obliged to work hard, for that he had set his heart on scraping up enough to take him home; that he would act very differently when in old England again, there he would take his rest on Sundays, go to church, and attend to his soul."
"'Now, I've no time,' added he.
"'My friend,' I ventured to observe, 'I often think of a proverb of Zeller—'
"'"The Americans say that time is money, the Christian says that time is Grace!"'
"The merchant smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and turned away. Poor fellow! His time of grace was to be short! He was seized with yellow fever that night, and remained unconscious of all that was passing around him, until called to meet his God!"
A shade of sadness passed over the face of Harry Maude, as he recalled the last moments of the poor young man who had been so busy in making the money which he was never to spend, as to have no time to spare in preparing for that eternity on which he so soon was to enter!
The vicar and his son walked on some paces in silence, then Harry said in a more cheerful tone, "I think that I'll drop in at Garth's cottage to-day; I know that the kind old folk won't be sorry to see me enter it again."
"And you might find some opportunity, Harry, of giving a word in season."
"I'm a little shy of doing that," replied the young officer; "I don't feel myself fit to teach others, there's so much that I myself need to learn."
"But you have learned two things, my son, which are the very root and foundation of all Christian knowledge; you have learned that you are a sinner, and that Jesus Christ is a Saviour. It is not the minister alone who is bound to spread the glad tidings of salvation. The woman of Samaria, as soon as she had found the Messiah, left her water-pot, and hastened away to carry the good news to all whom she met."
"I believe that it is a cowardly feeling of shame that so often keeps us from speaking on the subject of religion," said Harry; "at least it is so with me."
"Certainly cowardice is the last thing of which any one but yourself would have accused the winner of the Albert medal," observed the vicar with a smile. "You showed, on that awful night of the shipwreck, how ready you were to risk your life or limb to save the bodies of your fellow creatures; you are scarcely the man to flinch back when far more precious souls are in danger. But here come two of the girls to seek you; our sailor is not likely to be left much to himself after ten years of absence. Let us go and meet your sisters, my son."