Bud peered into the darkness and called several times to John. At last John approached the grating again. "Bud," he said quietly, "for God's sake go away and leave me alone; I'd rather drop dead than put another drop of that to my lips."
Bud did not immediately depart, despite the pleading of the man in the cellar, and not until a passer-by had entered into conversation with him, and the two had moved off together, did John pull himself to the sidewalk and drive away. "Oh, the smell of it near drove me mad for a few minutes," he said, as he confided the occurrence to his friends at the Manse. "If it wasn't for the little gal, and coming up here, I'd get far enough away from this place, so's I wouldn't have the same temptations."
"Temptation is not a matter of locality, John, and you would not escape it by crossing a continent, and besides, we need you right here. If you win out and give God the glory, you will do more to prove His power than a year of sermons could."
THE COLONEL'S OUTBREAK
"Bully for Colonel Monteith! He's a brick, by jinks he is! The words were uttered in an excited voice by the young minister on his return from one of his daily trips to the Post Office.
"Why, daddy," exclaimed the wife, "I'll report you to the Session for using bad language. But what has happened anyway?"
It was several minutes before the cause of the "bad language" could be satisfactorily narrated. The conversation in McKee's barber shop was related, and the indignation of the mistress of the Manse was all that could be desired.
"Well," continued the minister, "somebody who heard it happened casually to tell Colonel Monteith. Within half an hour, the Colonel was in the shop. McKee was lathering Lawyer Taskey, but that didn't seem an important matter to the Colonel, for without waiting until he was through he at once faced him with what he had heard, and asked if it was true. At first McKee tried to evade the question, but the Colonel pressed for an answer. 'Well, suppose I did. Is it any of your business?' replied McKee. Then with a sneer he added, 'And anyhow, I didn't know that you andMisterJohn Gage were such bosom friends.' 'Look here, McKee,' and the voice of the Colonel trembled with emotion, 'I hold no brief for this man Gage any more than I do for any other man in the village, but when a fellow puts up a fight like he has for the last two months—a fellow, as you know very well, with veins full of bad blood—it is in the highest degree reprehensible for any man to be even a party to such a devilish scheme as you tried to work out by making a poor sot like Bud Jenks your catspaw. And nobody, sir—I say, sir, nobody but a contemptible cur would attempt such a dastardly act.' And then the barber got impudent and told the dignified elder to go on a long trip. Moving nearer to him the Colonel said, 'Before I go there, McKee, there's a place I wish to accompany you,' and quick as a flash he grabbed McKee and tried to drag him to the back of the shop. McKee didn't know what was going to happen, and naturally objected some, but Jim Morton, who saw it, says the Colonel was 'mad from the toes up,' and after laming a few chairs, and damaging a mirror in the scuffle, he got the rear door open and pulled McKee after him down the bank to the creek. The barber likely surmised what was the next item on the programme, and not caring for cold baths in March, he did some furious scuffling, but though the Colonel's hat and a few buttons had disappeared, he was able to report progress. Jim says the language of McKee as he got near the water has never been surpassed in Emsdale. Lawyer Taskey felt like going to McKee's rescue, as he doubtless earnestly desired to have his shave finished, but when he got his hat on and started down the bank the Colonel thundered something at him that caused him to decide it would be pleasanter to remain in the shop.
"Unfortunately the Colonel could not part company with McKee at the critical moment, and the two of them fell into the water together. The Colonel stood the shock well enough to have sufficient presence of mind to immediately grab the barber and duck him thoroughly, and then the two of them scrambled out, and the air is still blue around McKee's place; but taking a conjunct view of the entire affair, the Colonel appeared satisfied.
"Jim says that the Colonel's language was not what would be expected from an elder, and that when there was the final scuffle at the edge of the creek, he heard him call McKee 'a blawsted skunk.' I suppose that's terrible in a member of St. Andrew's Session, but I'm sinner enough to be glad that McKee got a small percentage of his deserts, and my backbone feels stiffer and I shall carry my head a little higher because Colonel Monteith's on my Session."
The minister jumped to his feet, and swinging his arm in a circle above his head shouted, "Bully for Colonel Monteith, the man who turned McKee's 'joke' into a boomerang."
The eyes of the minister's wife had sparkled with interest as she listened to what had happened to McKee, and the minister was satisfied when at the conclusion of the incident she said quietly, "I am so sorry Colonel Monteith fell in the creek. Ask him up for dinner to-morrow, or some day soon. I'll do my very best to show my appreciation of his well-meaning defence of our John."
THE VALENTINE
Some weeks later John procured a position in a distant city. Ruth and her father went to the station to bid him farewell, the latter assuring him of the unfailing interest of his friends at the Manse, and uttering a few words of counsel, now that distance would prevent the frequent visits of the past.
For a while all went well, and encouraging reports reached the village Manse. Sometimes the letter was addressed to the Minister, but oftener to Ruth, and all of them revealed the strong hold the little one had upon the reforming man.
Then came word of dull times and scarcity of work and loneliness. It was after a letter that revealed unusual despondency, that an urgent invitation was sent for John to return to the village and spend a few weeks at the Manse until labour conditions improved.
No answer came to this invitation, but two weeks later a letter came from John's boarding-house, which read as follows:—
"Dear Sir,—I take the liberty of writing you, because there is a Mr. Gage boarding at my place, and he is real sick and don't seem to have no friends near here, and I can't take care of him no longer. He says you are his best friend, and so I thought you would tell me what to do, as he hasn't got no money, and I am a hard-working woman and can't afford to do without it. He ought to go to the Hospital, I guess, but he don't take to the notion. Please do something right away.—Mrs. JOHN McCAUL, 14, St. Lawrence Lane."
The following morning the minister started for the city, and late that afternoon stood at the door of No. 14, St. Lawrence Lane. The lane consisted of a long, monotonous row of dingy little houses on the one side, and a miscellaneous group of stables and sheds on the other. Factory buildings, with their "insolent towers that sprawl to the sky," overtowered the whole, shutting out much light, and pouring forth from their immense chimneys the smoke that usually hung like a pall over the narrow lane.
Mrs. McCaul was greatly relieved by the presence of the minister, and as they sat in the ventilation-proof parlour she told him of John's hard luck, interspersing most of her family history in the narration. "He's terrible discouraged," she added, "and the doctor says he'd oughter be in some more cheerfuller place, although I'm doing the best I can."
It was a poorly furnished dark bedroom into which the minister was ushered, and the surroundings of the whole place reminded him of a popular description of certain American city boarding-houses, which are said to "furnish all the facilities for dying."
John clasped the extended hand with gratitude, and the visitor's presence did much that medicine had failed to do. As he stood talking to the sick man, his eyes rested a moment on a little red Valentine that had been inserted between the glass and the frame of the tinselled mirror.
"I see you're looking at me Valentine," said John.
"Yes! I did notice it."
"Well, sir, many a day the last few weeks I've wondered whether I could hold out. When a fellow ain't got a job, and money and friends is scarce, it seems like it's easier for the devil to get th' inside track. There was some days when it seemed as if all the devils in hell was after me a-trying to get me back to the old life, and I used to come up here and look at me Valentine. I've stood before that there glass a good many times lately, and looked at the red heart what Ruthie cut out, and said, 'God help me to be faithful to the little gal.'"
After a good deal of persuasion John consented to go to the hospital, so that he might receive proper care.
For seven weeks the disease, which was a part of "the wages of sin," held sway. Once John thought the end was near, and that probably, ere many days, he must pass away. He expressed his fears in a broken voice to the nurse, and then asked for the Valentine. Tears filled his eyes as he gazed at the trifling token of a child's love. With an effort he controlled his voice and said huskily: "If anything happens, nurse, I want to have that Valentine with me. You know what I mean, don't you?"
The nurse nodded her head.
"You see, nurse, it was sent me by a little gal—the minister's little gal. I was pretty far gone a year ago, and if ever God sent an angel into this world to help lift up a poor wretch of a man, it was when that little gal started to be my friend. And when them little hands cut out the heart for my Valentine and sent it to me, and I read 'Ruth loves John,' I felt as good as if I'd been sent a fortune."
The news of John's sickness had its effect on Ruth's nightly prayer: "Please, God, make John better, because he's very sick. For Jesus' sake. Amen."
John's sickness was not unto death. Slowly he regained health and courage, and as soon as he was able to work he secured a position in a city factory. Much of his leisure is being given to City Mission Work.
He has often been seen on a street corner joining in an open-air service. Not long ago he was telling a crowd of men what the Gospel had done for him. "Say, fellows, when I think of it—think of what I was—I just know He's able for anything. I'm ashamed of myself, but I'm proud of Him."
As he finished his testimony a workman in the same factory, who was standing at the rear of the crowd, called out, "Yes, and John's the decentest feller in the factory, so he is."
The red heart has faded almost to a brown. It no longer occupies its place on the mirror. A stranger picking up John Gage's Bible might wonder why a soiled and worn bit of paper in the shape of a heart should be pasted on the front inside page; but often a tired workman, reading his "verses" for the night, turns first of all to the front inside page, and reads three words that light and time and dirt have almost effaced—"Ruth loves John."
Sometimes the gaze is long, and sometimes the fading words are still further dimmed by tears, but the faded Valentine is fragrant with precious memories of a child's love that resulted in the homecoming of the prodigal.
A transcontinental express was speeding across the prairies to its Pacific Coast terminus. Two hours before it shrieked its approach to a foothill city, the local police received a message which, being interpreted, read: "Detain Lavina Berson, travelling on No. 96; age about fifteen, black hair, very attractive. Travelling in company of two men when train left B——."
When No. 96 pulled into the depôt, two plain-clothes officers boarded the train and soon located the girl wanted. At first the flashing black eyes looked defiantly into the face of Staff-Inspector Kenney as he requested her to accompany him. But the law must be obeyed, and on being shown a detective's badge the little runaway passed with her escort comparatively unnoticed into the city street.
At the police-station she sat in the ante-room with the matron, while the inspector, the staff-inspector and the plain-clothes detective discussed the case. The girl's youthfulness and attractiveness appealed to their sympathies.
"It's too blamed bad to send a pretty youngster like that to the cells," said one.
"Why not send her to that new Rescue Home till we get more particulars? They'll take care of her. There's a woman there that knows her job alright."
And so to the Redemptive Home Lavina was sent, the authorities giving the usual instructions governing such a case. For a few hours the new-comer was silent, but few girls could long be silent in the presence of the big-hearted, winsome Superintendent of that Home. It was a new experience for Lavina; the only kindness she had known was the traitorous type, and it was hard for her to believe that there was such a thing as unselfish love. Forty-eight hours from the time she crossed the threshold of the Home, the hand that was almost ready to strike any one who seemed to have co-operated in checking her reckless career was slipped along the forearm of the Superintendent.
"Everybody thinks I'm bad, and I guess I am, but I believe if I had lived with you I might have wanted to be good."
The words did not come easily, but when the Superintendent stroked the black hair and put an arm around the wanderer, drawing the head to her shoulder, she realized that love had won its first battle in that misguided life.
The following morning a young man rang the door-bell of the Home in an impatient manner. When the Superintendent appeared he said, "Is this where Lavina Berson is?"
"Yes," was the reply.
"Well, I want her, and I want her d——d quick. She's a d——d nuisance. She's never been any good. Nobody can do anything with her." Then, drawing a rope from his pocket, he said, "I'll bind the little devil with this, and if that won't do I've something else in here (putting his hand over his hip-pocket) that will settle her." His face was red with passion, and his eyes flashed with anger. "Oh! you needn't tell me," he continued. "I know all about her; I'm her brother. I'm sick of getting her out of difficulties. I say she's a d——d nuisance, and I ain't going to let her forget this trip I've had to take, not on your bottom dollar I ain't. I've got something else to do than to be chasing over the country after her."
"You cannot get possession of your sister to-day," answered the Superintendent. "Even if I were not under obligation to the authorities to detain her, pending their instructions, I could not let her go with you just now. She is a friend of mine, and I love her. She has told me her story; she is only just sixteen. Ropes and pistols and policemen are not the remedy, sir; she needs a brother—a real brother. If you call in the morning I shall be glad to have a quiet talk with you."
Ten days later, in her own town, the court-room was crowded when the case of Lavina Berson was called. The trial resulted in a mass of evidence to show that she was bad. There seemed no other course open to the Judge but to send her to a reformatory. She had associated with the fastest boys and girls, and with the most lawless men and women her town had known. The policeman, giving evidence, made it clear that the town would be well rid of her. Not one witness, even to the girl's mother, had any hopeful word to speak.
In the face of such evidence there seemed only one course open. When the word "reformatory" reached the girl's ear she broke into a passion of weeping, so that the Judge hesitated a moment. Then there was some movement and whispering near the witness-box. The Superintendent mentioned had journeyed Eastward to be present at the trial, and she was now conferring with the Morality Inspector.
The weeping girl looked appealingly through her tears at the one who had befriended her. "Oh, please," she whispered, in a voice broken with sobs, "don't let them send me to that awful place. It'll only make me worse; take me with you. I'll do anything you tell me; please, oh! please, Miss Moffatt."
Turning to the Judge the Superintendent said, "Your Honour, I am a stranger to you, but as a representative of the Women's Council of the —— Church in Canada may I say a few words?" The Judge nodded assent, and with a heart full of love for the wayward, Miss Moffatt made one of the most impassioned appeals conceivable. In closing, she said, "I ask your Honour to give this girl into my charge for one year. In view of the evidence given, may I be allowed to say that she has been brutally sinned against. No man who has spoken has referred to her partners in sin, nor has any man suggested that the stronger sex has any responsibility to be a brother and protector of girls. The evidence reveals the fact that plenty of men co-operated in her downfall; apparently not one made any effort to uplift. Some of her betrayers are still counted as respectable men, while she receives all the blame and the shame. One remedy does not seem to have been tried, and in the name of the One who long ago said, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more,' I ask you to be gracious enough to allow me to try a corrective which I believe will be more effective than what has been suggested."
The Judge caught the light in those eyes, and with manifest emotion addressed the accused: "Lavina, you have found a friend; so long as you are true to her you will not again be called to appear before this Court. May Heaven's blessing rest upon such women as the one who has spoken in your behalf! The case is dismissed."
Once again Lavina journeyed Westward. Once again she was on No. 96, but no longer with betrayers. By her side was the Superintendent with her sweet, sheltering influence.
And so life began again for Lavina in the Redemptive Home. In view of her past life, it was worth crossing a continent to see the gladness in her eyes when one day Miss Moffatt put her hand upon her shoulder and said playfully, "Lavina is my right-hand girl; I think she'll soon be Assistant Superintendent."
As one of the workers was passing along the hallway upstairs some months later she was arrested by the sound of a pleading voice—some one was offering a prayer. Noiselessly she drew near the room from which the voice came. The last petition was being uttered, "O God, please help the other girls to be good like You helped me, for Jesus' sake. Amen." The little dark-eyed girl was kneeling by the bedside with arm around the shoulder of a young Hungarian maiden who had been rescued from a life of shame. It developed later that these two rescued ones were daily praying for others who were being sheltered in the Home.
How it all reminds one of that far-away scene! "No man could bind him; no, not with chains; because that he had been often bound with fetters and chains, and the chains had been plucked asunder by him, and the fetters broken in pieces: neither could any man tame him.... Jesus said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit." And the modern evil spirit and its rebuke is like unto that. "Nobody can do anything with her; I've got this rope to bind the little devil with." And then this: "O God, please help the other girls to be good like You helped me, for Jesus' sake. Amen." On the heels of the failure of all others Jesus comes and reveals Himself to-day, as of old, as the master of demons.
What the future days hold for Lavina Berson we know not, but the height of her ambition to-day is that she be accepted for training, so that some day she may work among those of the class to which she once belonged.
St. Andrew's Church was losing its respectability. It was one of the oldest in the Province, and the town in which it was situated had for some years prided itself in being a "Society" town. The select few who had for so long been undisturbed by the "common" people were having to endure the presence, in near-by pews, of some who had no entrance into the best social circles—and the shocking part of it was that the new minister, who was reported to have come from one of the best families in Montreal, rather gloried in this condition of affairs.
Two families had already withdrawn from the membership of St. Andrew's—two of the wealthiest and gayest—and that within six months of the minister's induction. The withdrawal of the Farsees and Shunums happened on this wise. A few Sabbath evenings previous to the "interview" that Mrs. Farsee had had with the minister, a young woman of unsavory reputation had dared to enter St. Andrew's. Perhaps the minister was not aware of what he did, but there was no denying the fact that he shook hands with the said young woman, and hoped she would "always feel welcome at St. Andrew's." After seeing, with her own eyes, a second and a third visit, and a second and a third welcome, Mrs. Farsee, with the moral backing of Mrs. Shunum, had her now much-talked-of interview with the Rev. Thomas Fearnon.
"Mr. Fearnon," she commenced in an agitated tone, "there is a matter that so greatly affects our church that, although it is rather a delicate subject, I felt I must be frank enough to speak with you about it. Do you know—but of course you don't know—the character of the young woman who has been sitting in Mrs. Greatheart's seat for the past three Sunday evenings, and to whom you have given three distinct welcomes to St. Andrew's?"
"Yes," was the reply, "I think I know something of her character and past, and it is very sad."
"But, Mr. Fearnon," exclaimed Mrs. Farsee, "you surely cannot sanction her attendance atourchurch! Whatwillpeople say?"
"Mrs. Farsee," was the quiet rejoinder, "I wonder what my Master would say if I did not sanction the presence of any for whom He died. For whom are our services, if not for the sinful?"
"Yes, but, Mr. Fearnon, that kind of person should go to some other place—for instance, there's the Salvation Army."
"Thank God there is the Salvation Army, but so long as Thomas Fearnon is pastor of this church, yonder doors shall never be too narrow to admit the sin-burdened." Thomas Fearnon's voice thrilled with emotion as he uttered these words.
"Well, I suppose it's no use saying anything more," said Mrs. Farsee with an injured air, "but it's hard to hear people sneer at one's church, and twice lately I've heard people—and prominent society people too—say that our church was getting to be a 'House of Refuge,' and I tell you that kind of thing goes hard with people who have taken the pride we have in St. Andrew's Church."
"To me," said Mr. Fearnon, "that report is encouraging, and I covet that intended sneer as a permanent tribute to any church of which I may be pastor—a House of Refuge is what I want St. Andrew's to be. Surely the young woman you have named needs a place of refuge?"
"Then I understand you will still allow her to attend our church, despite the wishes of two of the most loyal and best-giving families you have, Mr. Fearnon?" Mrs. Farsee placed an unmistakable emphasis on "best giving."
"Your understanding is quite correct, Mrs. Farsee, and if ever St. Andrew's Church closes its doors on any man or woman, in like circumstances to the one you refer to, I care not how sinworn and wretched, it closes them at the same time on Thomas Fearnon—we go out together."
"If that is your decision," replied Mrs. Farsee haughtily, "please remove the names of Mr. and Mrs. M. T. Farsee and Miss Lucy Farsee from the membership roll, and I am also authorized by Mrs. Shunum to tell you that all the Shunums withdraw from the church for the same reason."
Thomas Fearnon retired that night sad at heart—not that the loss of these two families from the membership roll gave him much concern, for to tell the truth he was more concerned to know how they ever came to be put on the roll, but he was concerned to find that kind of spirit among the membership of the congregation to which he had come with such high hopes, fresh from college. So far as losing members was concerned, he reminded himself that, in God's arithmetic, subtraction often produced an increase. Perhaps of his congregation the words of Scripture were true, "The people are yet too many." Nevertheless, the offended families needed His Saviour and the ministry of the church as much as, perhaps more, than the poor creature whose very presence they thought defiled their heretofore select congregation.
The following Sabbath morning the text was Luke xix. 10, "For the Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost." Those who had attended Mrs. Farsee's "afternoon bridge" on the preceding Thursday knew that the sermon was the outgrowth of the "interview." None of them used their favourite adjective "lovely" of Thomas Fearnon's sermon that morning; the mission of the Master and the consequent mission of His church was presented with a clearness and an earnestness that made not a few decidedly uncomfortable.
"I charge you, my fellow workers," he pleaded, "never to degenerate into dilettante church parlour triflers, but strike out for God in hard work to recover the lost. There are those whose life's roses are turned to ashes, those who have almost forgotten how to smile, those from whose hearts all music has fled. What an incomparable joy to tell them of, and seek to lead them to, the One who with divine delicacy said, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more.' That welcoming Saviour would speak through us to those whom too often we, professedly His followers, would cast out. If every individual in this world treated the fallen as you do, my friend, would it be easy or hard for that one to get into the Kingdom of God? Where shall the wanderers be welcome if not in the Father's House? Where shall those whom He created and for whom He died find friendship and help, if not in that company of worshippers who cry 'Our Father'?"
To not a few the message of that morning seemed intensely personal. In that inner judgment hall, where the prisoner and the judge are one, some verdicts were arrived at, and the verdicts were "guilty."
"If every individual in this world treated the fallen as you do, would it be easy or hard for that one to get into the Kingdom of God?"
Thomas Fearnon had asked that question with an intensity of feeling that revealed itself in the whispered words, and that produced a profound silence throughout the sanctuary. And it was not in vain that he had put his best into prayer and preparation for that morning's message. At least one in the congregation asked to be forgiven for passing by, like priest and Levite, needy ones to whom there should and could have been a ministry of mercy.
Jessie Buchanan saw the "vision splendid" that morning, and no longer could she be satisfied with her life of elegant ease. From that very hour her life and all the trappings of life were promised fully to her rightful Lord—no longer would she hope to have Him asSaviourbut reject Him asLord.
* * * * *
A peaceful Sabbath day's services had closed, and in the quiet of her beautiful and cosy little "den" Jessie Buchanan sat talking to a friend before the flickering embers in the fireplace. Three months had passed away since Thomas Fearnon's sermon on Luke xix. 10: three months of sometimes perplexing but always joyous service to Jessie Buchanan. Already several lives had been gladdened and helped by the radiating influence of her consecrated life.
The Buchanan home on the hillcrest had gladly opened its doors during these three months to some who had never expected to cross its threshold. And so to-night, for the third time, the young woman who had unknowingly caused the departure of two families from St. Andrew's Church, sat in the fire-light with her new-found friend.
Wisely and unostentatiously Jessie Buchanan had made her acquaintance, and their meetings had been invariably away from the public eye. But into the broken life was coming the conquering power of an unselfish love. To-night, as the flames diminished, the young woman unfolded a little of her life.
"Please don't hate me for it—I had to tell some one. Oh! if only some one like you had helped me when I first went to the city; but it was my own fault. Still, if you do wrong, there seem so many more to help you to keep on in the same way than there are to help you back."
For some minutes she talked on, and then Jessie Buchanan moved her chair a little closer and laid a hand sympathetically upon the girl's shoulder.
"You think my name is Flossie, don't you, Miss Buchanan?" the girl asked slowly. "Well, it isn't. Nobody here knows either of my right names, but I'm going to tell you: my right name is Nellie Gillard; and Miss Buchanan, I want to be good again, and maybe get back home soon—only, I am afraid, for I haven't even written for nearly a year." Tears were wiped away as the memory of the old home was revived in the light of new desires.
* * * * *
Another week was nearing its close, and Jessie Buchanan was as usual making her plans for a hospitable Sunday. Glancing down the driveway, she was surprised to see Nellie Gillard approaching the house. This was the first daylight visit Nellie had made, and Saturday morning was so unusual a time that Jessie Buchanan was at the door before the bell-handle could be pulled. A cordial greeting and Nellie was accompanied to the now familiar den. As the door closed the visitor at once made known the purpose of her visit. "Miss Buchanan, I'd like to go home, but I cannot—I dare not go alone."
"Oh! I'm so glad you have decided. How soon do you wish to go, dear?" Jessie Buchanan's voice and face revealed her joy and thankfulness.
"I'd like to go right away" was the reply.
Within a few hours Nellie and her new-found friend were on their way to the railway station.
The "local" was nearly three hours late when almost at midnight it pulled into a little flag station in North-Western Ontario. It was over two miles to the Gillards' home, and Jessie Buchanan suggested the desirability of getting the station agent to assist them in procuring a vehicle and driver.
The night was clear and bright, and Nellie urged that if it was not too tiring for her companion she would much rather walk. "I know every step of the way, and—and—well you are the only one I want with me just now."
In the moonlight of that early October night two young women might have been seen walking along the fifth concession.
At a turn of the road Nellie pointed to a little building: "There is the schoolhouse I attended." When a church spire stood out clear against the sky, there was a sob in the voice, "I used to teach in that Sunday School and sing in the choir."
The gate of the old homestead was reached at last. The wanderer's hand clung for a moment to the top rail and the head rested on her forearm.
"I wonder—I wonder if Father will let me in; I don't deserve it, but I believe he will." And she was not mistaken.
At the side of the old roughcast dwelling, two bedroom windows had been raised a few inches. Beneath these the only daughter of the home called out in a trembling voice, "Father." There was no response. Could anything have happened? A second time on the silent night the voice anxiously uttered the same word. Immediately thereafter they heard a movement and a man's head appeared at the window. "Father! it's Nell: I want to be your Nell again. Will you let me come home?"
"Let you come home? You bet I will, Nell—you bet I will." The last words were re-uttered after the head had disappeared.
The only other words they heard were, "Ma! Ma!" uttered in a voice trembling with joy.
No pen can adequately describe that home-coming. Jessie Buchanan was forgotten for the moment, but as she saw the daughter's head resting first on father's and then on mother's shoulder, and heard the old man say again and again, "My Nell: oh! my Nell," her cup of joy was full.
It was not what one could call a praying home, but on that early Sabbath morning four people knelt in the little sitting-room, and Jessie Buchanan's first audible prayer was offered in thanksgiving for the home-coming of the wanderer. And to-day, in the little church in the grove, one of the regular worshippers is Nellie Gillard.