Onward sped the busy days, until at last there came an evening which made it exactly three years since Edward had first set foot in Albany. They had been years of wonderful progress to him. He had gone on steadily with his evening studies; he had been an eager pupil, and Ray had been a faithful teacher. This evening he sat in the library waiting for Ray, but he had a very troubled face. Once more he took Kitty's long letter out of his pocket. Kitty wrote long letters once in two weeks, but it was a rare thing to have a postscript added by his mother. He turned to this and read it again; it was a very kind one. They were doing well now, so she wrote. Her health was very good, now that she slept quietly at night; and just here Edward knew there had come in a heavy sigh, because there was no constant coughing to disturb her rest. She had steady work, and could support Kitty and herself nicely without his help; he must keep what he earned for himself after this. "Kitty says you want to go to school," so the letter ran; "if you do, save up your money for that. Your poor father had a notion that you would make a scholar; I think it would please him if you did."
Surely he could not wish for a kinder, more thoughtful letter than this; coming from hismother, too! she must have changed much, as well as himself. But this very letter had greatly unsettled his quiet life; the old longing to give himself up to study, to prepare for the ministry, had broken loose, and well-nigh overwhelmed him with its power. He wanted it, oh, so much! it had grown strong, instead of weak, during these three years. But what to do, and how to do it? That was the question. Certainly he was not prepared to answer it. If he stayed where he was, led his busy life all day in the store, how was he ever to go through with the necessary course of study, which it was high time he commenced in earnest? If he left them, these dear friends, who had taken him into their home and hearts, and made him feel like one of thorn, how was he to live while he studied? How, indeed, could he study at all? The truth was, Edward, calling to mind Mr. Holbrook's lecture that last evening in the home prayer-meeting, and his resolution taken then, thought that the stone was ahead of him no longer, but that he had walkedcloseup to it, and could not take another step because of it, and very large and impossible to move did it look to his shortsighted eyes.
Just as he was growing hopelessly moody, Lay came in, and settled himself among the cushions, rather wearily.
"Ray," said Edward anxiously, "you are not well enough for lessons to-night."
"No," answered Ray, smiling, however, as he spoke; "I think I am not, because I want to talk instead. I am full of a scheme which needs your help; for once we'll let the lessons go. It is an age since I have heard anything concerning your plans; you have not given up your desire for the ministry, I hope?"
"No, Ray; I shall never give that up."
"I thought not; it would not be like you. That being the case, isn't it time to do something definite?"
"Time, certainly," Edward answered gloomily; "but what's to do?"
"That brings me to the unfolding of my scheme. Edward, do you know that it was my lifelong desire to reach the point towards which you are looking?"
"No," said Edward, with pitying interest; "I never thought of it."
"Well," and Ray smiled sadly, "it is so; and I hope you may never know how hard it is to have to give up such a wish. I cannot say that I did actually give it up entirely until very lately. I gave up all study three years ago, and came home to regain strength!youknow how well I have succeeded in that." And Ray pressed his thin, wasting hand across his damp forehead. "It is all over now,utterly." The hand did duty now for a moment, shading his eyes from the light. Presently he spoke more cheerily. "All over for myself, but not for you; so, Edward, what I want to say to-night, in brief, is this: You have talents, perseverance, and health; I have money,—the four combined cannot fail to speed you in your work. What say you?"
"I—I don't understand you," Edward spoke, in complete bewilderment.
"Let me speak more plainly. I want you to go now,immediately, to some good preparatory school, thence to college, thence to the seminary, and the means wherewith to do these three important things shall be at your disposal. Isn't that plain?"
"Why," said Edward, "I don't know what to say; I am too much astonished, and—and thankful."
"Then you will do it?"
"Only,—Ray?"
"Well?"
"Isn't there a right kind of pride, about being helped in these things?"
"There is a great deal of wrong kind of pride. Let me show you;" and he sat up and spoke eagerly. "It is right and honourable for people to help themselves in this world, but very vain and foolish to refuse help which would greatly aid the cause that they profess to have at heart. You see how it is: God has given me money; I am ready and waiting to give it back to Him. I would gladly give myself to Him in the ministry; I have longed and prayed for this; but He has seen fit not to answer as I wished. I have no strength to give; you have, and are ready to give it. Do you think God would be less pleased with the offering if we united it, thus giving me a chance to do something?"
"No," said Edward, speaking very slowly; "only, I had hoped to accomplish my plans without help from any one but God."
Ray leaned back again among the cushions, and spoke wearily,—
"That is, you prefer to be a great many years longer in preparation than you need be, and have about half as much strength finally as you would have, had you not overworked, rather than give me a chance to do what I could, since I cannot do what I would."
"But, Ray, there are plenty of people to help, even if you do no more for me. The world is full of poor young men, struggling to get an education."
"Yes, that is so; and I suppose you would enjoy helping some young man out in Oregon, of whom you had never heard, quite as well as you would me."
Edward came quickly to the sofa where Ray was lying, and laid his hand tenderly over the closed eyes.
"Ray, there is nothing in the world I would not do for you."
"Will you let me help you into the ministry, as rapidly as moneycanhelp?"
"I will be glad to; it is a great, noble offer, and I thank you from my heart. You mustn't think that I don't; only I thought—perhaps"
"I know," said Ray, for Edward had stopped doubtfully; "I understand just how you feel; but Idothink the feeling, in this case at least, is wrong; and, my dear brother, you will be glad when you know how thankful you have made me."
"Yes; and after all you will not be doing any more for me—youcan't—than you have done. I think money is very little, compared with that. Ray," and Edward sank down among the cushions in front of him, "I do believe you are more to me than any other human being ever will be."
Ray smiled, quite as if he did not think so, but would not unsay it for anything.
"It is all right," he said gently, after a little silence. "I think you will do so much more than I evercouldhave done. God bless you, my dear brother!"
After that Edward went up to his room, got out his little red Bible, his precious lamp, and, opening at the history of the rock-bound grave, read on until he came to the verse, "And when they looked, they saw that the stone was rolled away." Around this he made heavy marks with his pencil, thinking, meantime, that the angel of the Lord was still at work on earth.
"Bob," said Edward, stopping before Bob's counter, two days after this matter was settled, "I am going to start for home in the morning."
"Are you, though?" Bob answered eagerly, stopping his work to take the sentence in fully. "My! I wish I was going along, just to see what folks would say."
"Aboutyou, do you mean?" said Edward, laughing, and thinking wonderingly, as well as joyfully, of the change which there had been in Bob Turner.
Bob had a counter too, and was no longer an errand-boy; there had very rarely been known such a rapid promotion in that store; but the truth was, Mr. Minturn had early learned that Bob Turner was destined to be, not a minister, nor a lawyer, not even a scholar, but a thorough, energetic, successful merchant. He had no sooner made this discovery than he determined to give the boy a chance.
So Bob had earned a name and a place in the store, and was a general favourite with the other clerks, and was beginning to have customers who sought him out, and liked to make purchases of him. More than all, Bob was an earnest Christian; his loving tenderness for, and almost worship of, Ray Minturn, kept him from being much led into temptation, and his influence over the younger clerks was growing to be for good. He was destined to be more popular than Edward had been; for Edward had risen too rapidly, and was too much at home with the entire Minturn family, not to be looked upon with some degree of envy.
"Well, Tip,"—Bob had never learned not to say Tip, and probably never would, but Edward had long since forgotten to care,—"tell every one at home that I'm well and happy, and never want to see one of them again. I don't believe I have a friend there: anyhow, I know I don't deserve to have."
Kitty Lewis shook out the folds of her new bright pink calico dress, walked to the little looking-glass, for about the tenth time, to see if the dainty white ruffle around her neck was in order; then took a survey of the room, lest there might possibly be something else to do which would improve its appearance.
It was the same little room in which Kitty had spent her childhood, from which Johnny first, and then long afterwards the husband and father, had been carried out to return no more. And yet it was not the same,—there was a neat rag carpet on the floor, a Christmas gift from Mrs. Minturn; the round table in the corner was covered with a bright red cloth, and strewn with a few books and papers; the full white curtain was looped away from the window, and the light of a clear sunset glimmered in the room; everything was neat and bright and cheery. The table was set for tea, the white cloth showing just the folds in which it was ironed; there were three plates and three cups and saucers, instead of two, while Kitty, in her restless wanderings around the room, and Mrs. Lewis, in her frequent glances out of the window, both showed that somebody was being watched and waited for.
"The eastern train is in," Kitty said finally "Now, if he comes to-night, he'll be here in three minutes." And it could not have been much more than that when a quick, crushing step was heard on the gravel outside, then on the plank before the door, then the door swung open, and Edward Lewis walked into the little room out of which he had gone three years before.
Kitty was all ready to spring forward, say, "Oh, Tip!" and throw her arms right around his neck. Instead, she stood still. Some way, in spite of the long letters which had passed between them during these years, Kitty had fully expected to see a stout, tanned boy, in a strong, coarse suit of grey, with thick boots and a new straw hat. Of, at least,—why, of course, she knew he must have changed some; hadn't she? But then she didnotthink he would be so tall, and have a face and hands without tan or freckle, or that his clothes would be soveryblack and fine, and fit as though they had grown on him, or that his collar would be so white and glossy, or his boots so small and shiny. So Kitty stood still in embarrassed silence. But the mother,—oh, she saw in him the picture of the dear, dead father, as he used to come to her long, long ago; the husband who, through all change and poverty and pain, she hadalwaysloved! And all the tenderness that had ever been in her heart took form, and spoke in those words with which she came forward to greet her son,—"Oh, mydearboy!"
There was happiness in the little home that night; only the bedroom door was closed, and Edward knew that his father's bed was vacant.
Such a queer feeling as possessed him all the next day, while he went around the village! He wenteverywhere. He felt like walking through every street, and stepping on every stone on which his feet had trod in the old life, now utterly gone from him. He wandered down to the river-bank, where he had lain that summer morning and envied the fishes; and, standing there, thanked God for the mission class in Mr. Holbrook's Sabbath school. Thence to the cemetery, where by the side of little Johnny's grave the new life had been commenced. There was a long grave beside the short one now; and, standing there, he thanked God for the hope which he had of meeting the father and the baby in heaven. Thence to the great elm-tree at the foot of the hill; and, standing there, he took out once more the little red Bible, and turned the leaves lovingly; lingered over the name written by Mr. Holbrook's hand, turned again to the first verse which he had ever read from its pages: "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path." Time and again had he proved the truth of that verse. There, under that very tree, it had helped him to fight battles with Satan and come off conqueror. And he thanked God for the Bible. After that he went directly to the village; just looked in at the meat market for the sake of the old days.
Somebody told Mr. Dewey who was coming, and he was just ready to say, "Hallo, Tip!" but instead, he came around from behind the counter, and, holding out his hand, said, "How do you do, Lewis? Glad to see you." Something, either in the city-made clothes or the quiet air of dignity with which they were worn, made him dislike to say "Hallo, Tip!" to the tall young man before him.
Mr. Minturn shook him heartily by the hand. "Never rejoiced over any one's luck more in my life!" he said; then, in the same breath, "How's Ray? Oh yes, I see how it is, poor fellow! And you love him too; of course, every one does."
There was still the schoolroom to visit, and as Edward went up the familiar walk he wished Bob Turner could have been with him to make this call. But Bob was probably rushing like a top through the city store, without a thought of the old schoolhouse or the miserable days which he had spent there.
Mr. Burrows himself answered the knock, and gave him a hearty greeting. Three years had made changes there. Edward found himself looking eagerly towards the back row of seats fur the old faces,—Will, Howard, Ellis, and half a dozen others,—before he remembered that they had long since entered higher schools. The boys whom he hid left plodding through long division were filling those back seats now, and leading their classes in algebra and Latin. He sat down near the blackboard to watch the progress of Joe Bartlett through an example in division. And behold, he was doing that old never-to-be-forgotten example about the cows and sheep! He picked up an arithmetic eagerly.
"Mr. Burrows, do you remember that example?'
"I remember that it has puzzled some forty or more of my boys in the course of time," said Mr. Burrows, laughing; "but nothing very special about it."
"I do; it was the cause of my first promotion."
"Was it, indeed! I'm afraid it will never be the cause of poor Joseph's; it seems to be mastering him."
Mr. Burrows was engaged with a grammar class, and Edward offered to assist the bewildered Joseph.
"I remember those sheep of old," he said kindly, as he turned to the board. "Isn't it the 'stood him in' that troubles you?"
"Yes, it is," Joe answered grumbly. "I don't see no sense to it."
"Let me show you. Suppose"—And he went through with the well—remembered explanation. It was successful, Joe understood it, and went on briskly with the figures.
Edward turned towards Mr. Burrows. "It was the way my father explained it to me," he said, with eyes that glistened a little.
Some one brought Mr. Burrows a note, and, as he read and laid it down, he said, "Now, Edward, if you had continued at school instead of running away from us, I should get you to hear this recitation in algebra, and take leave of absence for a few minutes. There is a friend in town whom I would give much to see before the next train leaves."
"Suppose you set me at it as it is."
Mr. Burrows looked surprised.
"Have you been studying algebra, Edward?"
"Somewhat."
"How far have you been?"
"Through."
"Do you feelpositivethat you could do examples over here?" turning to "Evolution."
"Entirely,"Edward answered, smiling at Mr. Burrows' doubts. Ray had been a thorough teacher.
So Mr. Burrows went away, and Edward took his seat on the stage and commenced the recitation. At first the boys were disposed to be wise, and display their knowledge; when they had known him last, he was in division. But he was in algebra now, or rather through it, and they speedily discovered that he seemed to have every example in the lesson committed to memory.
Meantime, Mr. Burrows returned, and listened with astonishment and delight.
"Thank you heartily," he said afterwards. "You ought to fit yourself for teaching. But, Edward, you did not get through algebra alone?"
"No," said Edward, flushing at the thought of Ray; "I had the best and wisest teacher on earth."
Well, he sat down in what had been his seat, and tried to imagine that it was his seat still; that Bob would be in pretty soon, and plague him while he studied his spelling-lesson. But he could not do it. "Things were different,"—very different. First and foremost, there was Ray: he had not knownhimin those days; if he had, he said to himself, things would have been different long before they were.
Going back up town he met Mr. Holbrook, who turned and walked with him.
"And so," he said, after the long talk was concluded, "you go next week, do you?"
"Next Tuesday, sir."
"Well, God bless you, my friend, as He has, and will." Then, after a minute, "Edward, my son is a wanderer yet: do you still remember him?"
"Always, sir," Edward answered, in firm, steady tones; "and, Mr. Holbrook, Godneverforgets!"
As he went on past Mr. Minturn's store, could he have heard the remarks that were made there, very likely he might have remembered a certain statement which he made to the little fishes that summer morning.
Mr. Minturn, looking out after him, said to Mr. Dewey,—
"There goes one of the finest and most promising young men in this town."
"Yes," answered Mr. Dewey, laughing a little; "I used to notice that he improved every day after he brought back those circus tickets."
"Come in;" and the Rev. Edward Lewis laid down his book, pushed back his study chair, and was ready to receive whoever was knocking at his study door.
"Mr. Lewis," said the little girl who came in in answer to his invitation, "father has just come from the post office, and he brought you some letters, and here they are."
Mr. Lewis thanked his little next-door neighbour, took his letters, and, when the room was quiet again, settled back in his chair to enjoy them.
The first one was from a brother minister, begging an exchange. The next brought a look of surprise and delight to his face, for he recognised Ellis Holbrook's handwriting. And the delight spread and deepened as he read; especially when he came to one sentence: "I asked father what message he had for you, and he replied, Send him this verse, and tell him that again it is peculiarly his, 'I love the Lord, because He has heard my voice and my supplication.'" That, you see, would have told me the whole story, without this long letter. "I thank God that He put it into your heart to pray for me, as also that He has heard your prayers. God bless you. By the way, father wants you to assist him on the first Sabbath in July. I earnestly hope you can do so; he thinks you will be coming east about that time."
Was there ever a more thankful heart than was that minister's as he laid down his old schoolfellow's letter? How constantly, how sometimes almost hopelessly, had he prayed for Ellis Holbrook! How many times had he been obliged to reassure himself with the promise, "In due season we shall reap, if we faint not." And now again had God's word been verified to him. He took the letter up once more, to look lovingly at that closing, never before written by Ellis,—"Your brother in Christ."
There was still another letter to read. That writing, too, was familiar; he had received many reminders of it during the past years. He laughed as he read, it sounded so like the writer:—
ALBANY,June—, 18—.
"DEAR TIP,—Do you have Fourth of July out your way this year? We do here in Albany; rather, I'm going to have one in my yard. Perhaps you remember a Fourth of July which you took me to once, when we were ragged little wretches at home? I do, anyhow, and this is to be twin-brother to that time. All the ugly, dingy little urchins that I know have been invited. We're to have fine fireworks and fine singing and fineeating. My wife added that last item,—thought it a great improvement. I'm not sure but it is; most things are that she has a hand in. Now, to come to the point of this letter,—you're to make the speech on that occasion. No getting out of it now! I planned this thing one day in the old schoolhouse. Oh, did you know Mr. Burrows had given up teaching? Grown too old. Queer, isn't it? Don't seem as if anybody was growing old except me. At first I wasn't going to have my feast on the Fourth, because, you remember, it was onthatday that our blessed Ray left us; but, talking with Mr. Minturn about it, he said Ray would have been delighted with it all,—and so he would, you know. Don't think we are going to gather in all Albany; it's only the younger scholars of the mission school, in which my wife and I are interested.
"Tell Howard and Kitty to be sure and come; they can put their visit a few weeks earlier as well as not.
"Oh, by the way, if you have heard from Ellis Holbrook lately, you are singing 'Glory Hallelujah' by this time!
"I am writing this in the counting-room, and am in a great hurry, though you wouldn't think it. Shall expect you by the third,certainly.—
"Yours, etc.,
"BOB TURNER."
"BOB TURNER."
These letters came on Saturday evening. The next morning, in Sabbath school, when the superintendent's bell rang, the minister left his class of mission scholars, and went up the aisle towards the altar, pausing first to speak with a bright-eyed little lady, who sat before her class of bright-eyed little girls.
"Kitty, where is Howard?"
"At home, coaxing a fit of sick headache."
"Well, here are letters that will interest you both,—came last evening; one contains an invitation. Tell Howard I think we must try to go. Mother bade me tell you she wanted to see you at the parsonage in the morning; she is not out to-day."
Then he went on. The scholars began to sit up straight, and fold their arms; they knew they must listen if they wanted Mr. Lewis to talk to them. When every eye was fixed on him, he began,—
"Children, I have a very short story to tell you to-day about myself. Years ago, when I was a little boy, my Sabbath school teacher told us a story, one morning, which was the means of bringing me to Jesus. I have to thank that lady, next to God, that I am standing here to-day a minister of Christ. She was not our regular teacher, but was a stranger; I never saw her after that Sabbath. Perhaps you can imagine how I have longed, since I became a man and a minister, to find that lady, and tell her what one hour of faithful teaching did for me. I thought it would help her, encourage her. I thought she would be likely to tell it to other teachers, and it would help them. But though I had it always in mind, and made very earnest efforts to find her, I never succeeded until last week. You know, children, it is ten years since I came here to be your pastor, and last week I learned that during all this time I have been living within twenty miles of the lady whom I have so long been seeking. And what else do you think I heard of her? Why, that two weeks ago she died. Scholars, my first thought was a sad one, that I never could thank her now. But you know I can; I expect to one of these days. Why, when I get to heaven, one of the first things I shall do will be to seek her out and tell her about it. So, you see, she will know it, even if some of the watching angels up there have not told her already.
"Just here, I want to say one word to the teachers. This incident should come with wonderful encouragement to your hearts, reminding you that you may often speak words which spring up and bear fruit that reaches up to God, though you do not know it, andwillnot, until in heaven you take your crowns, and question why there are so many stars.
"Children, next Sabbath I will tell you the story which led me to Christ; and all this week I am going to pray that it may have the same effect on some of my scholars.
"It is time now for your verse. If any of you can find out why what I have been telling you to-day made me think of this verse, you may tell me next Sabbath. Now repeat,—'Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.'"