"I COULD be perfectly happy if I could live always in a cottage like that, and look-out on such a view!" sighed Vera, as she and her mother sat one evening on a stile, and looked over into a peaceful field, covered with daisies, and with a pond in front whose deep shadows were now and then broken by snowy ducks swimming across them.
Her mother smiled a little, but did not otherwise answer.
"I get so tired of the houses opposite us!" Vera went on, "And our holiday seems so soon over, and we have to go back to the dull streets and noisy trams. Don't you, mother?"
"Yes, dear, a little, sometimes; but I am sure we ought not to encourage such a feeling—"
"I can't help it," interrupted Vera, a little vehemently, "I was made so!"
Her mother gave a little laugh. "That is very comfortable," she said, archly.
"Well, then—I don't know how to help it!" pursued Vera. "I perfectly love pretty scenery, and country flowers, and blue skies, and—and—"
"Oh, stop, Vera! So do I; but now let us look at the other side. Think of the hundreds and thousands who have to live in the towns, and who have not the great treat which you and I have been given, of spending a whole fortnight in this sweet place."
"That doesn't make me more contented, it only makes me so sorry for them that I can't enjoy myself one bit."
Vera dashed two or three tears from her eyes, and looked over the pretty prospect.
"Well, dear, let us think of it like this. God, our loving Father, sees what we need. He knows all about us; all about our delight in pretty, refined things; all about how tired and weary we have been, you with your examinations, and I with the cares of home, and so He has sent us what will rest us, and help us to go on again."
"When I look at this holiday as His gift, and thank Him for it, it makes every fresh beauty more beautiful; it helps me to pray for the weary ones who have not got one, and to plan how, in our little way, we may shed brightness and pleasure round on those we do know—"
"You're always trying to do that!" said Vera, "But—"
"As to happiness being found in a country cottage," said her mother, "if we do not make happiness in our everyday life for each other, by being loving and unselfish, we should not get it, though we might live in the most beautiful scenery in the world!"
Vera put her hand in her mother's. "I'll try," she said, impulsively; and her mother, with a bright smile, added some lines of George Herbert's, she often repeated to herself:
"Not thankful when it pleaseth me,As if Thy blessings had spare days;But such a heart—whose pulse should beThy praise!"
"WHERE have you been all the afternoon, Aunt Ruth?" asked Oswald, as they assembled after school hours. "We could not find you!"
"Ah, I have a trophy to show you, though!" said Aunt Ruth. "Just look!"
"Well, if I didn't think I smelled violets," exclaimed Rose; "and I could not believe it! Where—if it is not a secret, Auntie?"
"No secret at all. You see, I lived here years ago, and I know where to look."
The four gathered round her little vase, and took turns in smelling, till Jean said there would be no scent left.
"But where did they grow?" asked Tom.
"I knew long ago a certain bank under a hedge, where, sheltered from the winds and storms, and warmed by the sun, the violets grew and flourished. So this afternoon as I wanted a walk, I made my way to the old spot, and, presently, as I went along, something delicious seemed to surround me, and without thinking, I exclaimed, 'Violets!' And then laughed at myself, for what else was I searching for? So when I had found a few I sat down on the warm, sunny bank, and thought—"
"You always have 'thoughts,' I do believe, Auntie," said Oswald. "Let's have them, then!"
"I thought—I wondered whether we Christians could be like the violets."
Jean smiled. "They are hidden," she said.
"And sweet," said Tom.
"And pleasant to look at, and have about you," said Rose.
"And they fulfil their Maker's purpose," said Oswald, slowly, as if considering; "yes—they certainly do that—"
"And when the great Gardener goes round His kingdom to seek them, there they are, ready to look up into His face and greet Him with joy," said Aunt Ruth.
"And He sent them rain and showers and sunshine to help them to grow!" said Oswald.
Aunt Ruth's eyes gave a little flash. "Yes!" she answered earnestly; "and He planted them just where He knew they would grow best; where He wished them to grow."
"That's nice," said Jean, "for sometimes I'm discontented when things don't happen right, and I almost wish I were growing somewhere else!"
"I often do!" said Tom, bluntly.
"Well," said Aunt Ruth, "I fancy we all do. We think that any other cross but the one we have to carry would be more bearable. 'If we were in So-and-So's shoes, we could be much more contented!'"
"Yes," said Rose; "I often think if I were in my friend Gertrude's place, I should not have half so many hindrances to being good!" Her eyes filled as she turned away.
"Well," said Aunt Ruth, "if we are really wishing to please God in the circumstances in which He has put us, what I took as my violet-text may be a help to us; for though it speaks of humbleness, I think it is one of the most wonderfully exalting texts that can be!"
"Let's have it, Auntie," said Oswald. "I like your plan of making the Bible into a book to live on!"
She smiled brightly at that.
"Here it is, then," she said; "'For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.'"
"That's a very nice one," said Rose. "Thank you, Auntie!"
"WHERE did you spend your summer holiday?" asked Aunt Ruth, in a smiling but significant tone.
The fact was, the four children had got into rather a hot dispute one day at tea over a trifling difference of opinion, and Aunt Ruth had interrupted with a quick, bright question, which had made them all turn their eyes towards her.
"Why?" asked Tom, answering the tone of the question, rather than the words.
"That is what we used to say at home when we wanted to change the subject," said Aunt Ruth.
"Did you want to change the subject?" asked Oswald. Then pausing, "Oh, I see," with a conscious laugh. "Well, I suppose it would be as well to talk of something else, as we are never likely to agree over it."
"Oh, oh!" said Tom, "That is beginning again! Well—Auntie—as you know very well where we spent our summer holiday, let's hear where you did."
"I'm quite willing. Come along to the summer-house, and when I hear the bees humming among the pear blossoms, I shall get taken back in imagination to last year, and shall be able to tell you where I did spend mine."
She led the way out of doors, and the children scampered after her, carrying certain camp stools and chairs, which were kept in the passage leading to the garden. Aunt Ruth had caught up her writing case, which Jean wondered at, but when they were settled in their usual places, this was explained by her producing from it a sketch, which she handed round.
"This is where I spent my summer holiday," she said lovingly, as if the place were dear to her.
"Oh!" said Rose. "That is why you said you must come out near the pear blossoms. I see now. Were there bees there?"
"It was an ideal place. I was in urgent need of rest and refreshment and quiet (as you know), and I heard of this little cottage on the borders of the Downs. This clematis-covered porch was my entrance, and the other door was the good woman's. I could go out on the Downs with my camp chair, and sit and look at the sea, and feel the breezes blow round me, or I could bask in the sunshine to my heart's content, sheltered by the cottage from the cold winds."
"And the bees?" asked Rose.
"Yes, the bees seem to link themselves with the restful thoughts of those days, for when I was near the cottage, with its flowers, their song seemed to tell me over and over again what I think I shall never forget—"
"And that was—?" asked Jean, putting her soft hand into her auntie's.
All the children knew that Aunt Ruth had had some great trial, but they had never been told what it was.
"The lesson I learned in that peaceful time was, 'The Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory; no good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly.'"
"I learned, dears, that God wishes to be to us all a Sun and a Shield. As a Sun, He warms and cheers us with the light of His countenance; as a Shield, He shelters us from that which would hurt us and do us harm."
"Just as those hives were put in the sunniest place, so they were also put in a sheltered place. 'A Sun and Shield.' God is near us for both; and when the cold winds of trouble, or sorrow, or temptation blow, we must hide in Him, for He is our Shield."
"Oh, I see!" said Tom. "Now, Auntie, what else did the bees say?"
"Heaps of things! But I did not learn all, nor should I have time to tell you, either."
"I thought that they taught me that there was great good in being busy—"
Rose nodded approvingly.
"They worked steadily and patiently; they went about their tasks with a will, and they gathered—what?"
Aunt Ruth turned round smiling on the four faces.
"Poison?" she asked. "Unkindness, quarrelling, selfishness, self-will? No, no! What did they gather as they hovered over the pretty flowers?"
"Sweetness!" said Jean, gently.
"Yes—that is a lovely word for it!" exclaimed Aunt Ruth.
"They gathered 'sweetness,' enough and to spare. They brought it home for those who did not go out; they stored it up for the rainy and dark days, when the flowers might not be there. God had been their Sun and Shield, and they had done their part in gathering the sweetness which He had provided, so that others might be blessed and cheered and comforted."
"Oh, Aunt Ruth, I shall always think of that when there is honey on the table!" said Oswald.
"Do, it is worth learning," she answered.
"What did you do all day, Auntie?"
"I sat out in the sunshine and sketched most of the time, or watched the bees and thought of what God could be to me if I would let Him."
"Then you did this drawing?" said Tom.
"Yes, and a good many more. See, I have written underneath this one a few lines I often say to myself from 'A Song in the day of the East Wind,' written nearly three hundred years ago by Tersteegen; and it often reminds me of those sunny days:"
"'My heart in joy upleapeth;Grief cannot linger there;She singeth high in glory,Amid the sunshine fair.The sun that shines upon meIs Jesus and His love,And the fountain of my singingIs deep in heaven above!'"
"I WANT to love God and do what pleases Him," sighed Norman to himself; "but I make such a poor hand at it. Here I'm at school all day, and my head is cram full of lessons, and when I get to bed I'm so tired, and so dissatisfied with myself, that I feel quite disheartened."
He was on his way to spend the week-end with one of his school-fellows, who lived among the mountains in Cumberland.
He had left the station some hours ago, and his friend's house was still a long way off, and the evening shadows were falling over the land.
He knew his way pretty well, and was not anxious about his destination, so that he had plenty of time to think.
He was an earnest boy, and really wished to do right, but somehow he had got into rather a muddle lately, and did not know how to extricate himself.
"I don't doubt my love to Him," he pursued, "but it's so cold and lifeless—such a poor return, that sometimes—"
Then he glanced up at the sunset clouds, and his troubled thoughts took the form of a prayer—a very simple, child-like one—"O God, show me some one who will help me where I am going!"
With a lightened heart, he made his way across the bridge, and now could take in the glory and refreshment of the scene.
When he reached his school-fellow's house he was, however, dismayed to find that Jack had set out an hour ago to meet him, and they must have missed.
He was asked into the library to wait, and there, seated by a fire, was an invalid gentleman who glanced up from his book to welcome him.
After the first civilities had passed, the invalid asked Norman if he would help him by turning over some leaves for him, as with his crippled hands he found it difficult.
"I am searching for the 'Becauses,'" he said, looking up with his genial smile; "and I want to find this one, 'We love Him "because" He first loved us!'"
Norman's face flushed as he turned over the pages as directed to the First Epistle of John, and the fourth chapter, and the nineteenth verse. Was this an answer to his questionings?
"I have been thinking a great deal about that one," Jack's father went on; "and it has comforted me to remember that though my love is often cold and faint, yet my salvation does not depend on that, for it is because He loved me that I am His at all!"
Norman's eyes flashed an answering look of joyful acquiescence, and something prompted him to say: "That's just what I wanted, sir. I'd got all mixed up!"
"Ah!" said the invalid, "We do! The more earnest we are in wishing to please God, the more, I think, Satan tries to discourage us and make us doubt that we are serving Him at all. And this is where my 'because' comes in; not my love, but His, being my safety."
The invalid smiled happily; and then they heard Jack's step come bounding through the house, and his "Hullo, Norman, have you come?" sounded with a hearty, cheery welcome.
"You will be disappointed if you expect too much," said Agnes, holding the door in her hand and looking into five eager faces congregated on the landing.
"Let us in, then, and we'll tell you!" answered Hugh, a tall boy of about fifteen. "You are as bad as the 'penny-a-liners,' who pile up the interest to the end of the chapter, and then leave you in the lurch!"
Agnes laughed a little at that, as she threw open the door of the chamber in their uncle's old house, which, for many a day, had had the repute of being haunted.
She and her two sisters, with her brothers John and Hugh, had come to spend a fortnight of their Christmas holidays in this old-fashioned abode, where every corner seemed to have a history, if not a mystery; and Agnes Headley, ever on the look-out to do a little work for her Heavenly Master, found that she could carry out, in her present weird surroundings, a thought she had long had in her mind.
"Come here, Florence," she said, holding out her hand to a little cousin, who, like themselves, had come for a visit; "if you are at all nervous, we will got the lamp—only—"
Florence disdained to acknowledge herself nervous, and was sure she should not be frightened; so, taking her cousin Minnie's little soft hand, she entered the moonlit room with the rest, wondering what Agnes would have to show them so very particular.
"Though this is uncle's haunted room, I must explain to you that we have nothing to do with it for that reason; but, as what I have to show you is kept here, I thought we could not have a better place in which to have our little talk."
"But we can't see anything," said Minnie, squeezing Florence's hand very hard. "I wish you would strike a match, Agnes."
"All in good time, Minnie. Here, John, light the lantern, and let us see what there is to be seen."
John, the eldest brother, though not in the secret, knew from experience that Agnes generally had something pleasant in her little preparations, and took the lantern from her hand to do as she desired.
When its fitful gleams shone out in the haunted chamber, the young people looked round curiously, not without a certain creepiness in their hair and a shiver down their backs.
The room was not very large, but was gloomy and dark; the corners were unlighted, and the moonlight shining along the floor was almost brighter than the rays of the shaded light in John's hand.
At one end some garments hung against the wall, and, as their eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, they could see dimly the shapes of old-fashioned armour, swords, and spears, arranged in set patterns, against the oak panelling.
In one corner a knight, with a coat of mail, stood up gaunt and still, his visor down, his hand clasping his sword, his foot advanced, as if ready to step forward to the fight.
"I don't like it much, Agnes," whispered Minnie, clinging to her side. "I wish you would not make it so dark."
"There is nothing in the world to be afraid of," said her sister, "and, if you will come here between me and Alice, you will feel all right, shall you not? But, if you are afraid, I will take you downstairs again, only I did want you to hear about it, too, Minnie."
The little girl was reassured by the loving arms wrapped round her, and by the warm kisses pressed on her flushed cheeks.
"That knight in armour, who looks so terrible there," explained Agnes, "is not a real man, though he has on real armour, which was used in real warfare, long ago. So, before I tell you my story, Minnie and Florence shall have a good look at him to make sure that it is only a wooden man, and not a hero of bygone ages come to life again."
Florence laughed a little nervously as she advanced to where John's light shone brightly, but she was sufficiently courageous to touch the steel-clad foot with her hand, and to peep up earnestly to see if there might be any face behind those iron bars.
But no eyes looked out from the dark cavity, and no movement came from those rigid arms. Florence stepped back to Minnie's side with a whispered:
"It's all right, Minnie; you needn't be one bit afraid—he's not real."
"Now for the story!" said Hugh, who had been impatient all this time, if not to get it over, at any rate to find out what it was.
"Come, then," answered Agnes, turning towards the window, and pointing to an old-fashioned settle covered with a warm rug. "Sit down here, opposite to the old knight, and I will tell you what I have been thinking about."
They quickly obeyed, and now Minnie could feel her two sisters on either side of her, and could gaze up at the familiar face of the clear moon, she began to feel enough at home to enjoy herself.
"You remember," began Agnes, "that when Uncle Hugh came home from India, he bought this old house, furniture, pictures, and all, with that money which had been unexpectedly left him?"
"Yes—yes," broke from several lips.
"The first day after we came, he called me into his library, and said that he intended to make me a present of one of the old curiosities it contained, and wished me to say what I would like best, reserving to himself the right of altering my choice should it fall upon something he could not part with."
"I was greatly at a loss, as you may suppose; but ever since I had seen those knights standing in the hall downstairs, I had had an idea which, if he were willing, could now carry out; so I told him, if it were not too much to ask, to make me a present of one of his armed knights!"
"You may guess that he had a good laugh at my request, but all the same, he granted it."
Hugh and John felt as if they would have been very delighted to have had the chance themselves of such a gift, but before they could say anything beyond a low exclamation of surprise, Agnes went on—
"I asked him if he would be hurt if I did just as I liked with my knight; but very soon I found I had to take him into my confidence: so he knows all about it, and approves."
"Well?" asked Alice.
"My thought was this, as I stood and looked that first morning on those motionless figures, dressed in armour, that had been used, now only shadows, as it were, of what once had been—that each one of us living and breathing, and enjoying life had a set of armour which we ought to put on, but which often lay hidden away, rusty and useless, because we disregarded the message our great Captain had sent us—sent to each one who loves and serves Him—'Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and, having done all, to stand.'"
"Oh, I see now!" said John.
"You do not see all," answered Agnes, gently. "That old knight in the corner is not my knight, for I have pulled mine to pieces."
"Have you?" asked Hugh, regretfully.
"Yes," said Agnes. "Here is his armour, hanging up against the wall. I asked Uncle if I might divide his armour between us six, and he willingly gave me leave. Now, what I want to know is this—which of us is willing, earnestly and faithfully, to take his or her share of this invisible armour, and begin this very day to clasp on one piece at any rate, that so we may make the first step towards 'taking unto us the whole armour of God.'"
"But, Agnes," objected John, "many of us—all, I hope—have taken the great step of enlisting under the Captain; you do not mean that?"
"Oh no," answered Agnes quickly, "we are all soldiers; but we fail to put on the armour God has appointed in order that we may be able to stand! We walk along satisfied in our own strength, far too often."
"Oh, that's all right," answered John earnestly. "I was only afraid lest for the sake of an illustration, and a very nice idea, Agnes, any one might forget for a moment that, ere we can be soldiers, we must be redeemed by precious blood."
"I did not mean that," said Agnes, "but was thinking of ourselves, because I hope we all home been washed in that precious blood."
"Then what is it you want us to undertake so seriously?" asked Hugh from his dark corner.
"I want us all to choose a piece of this spiritual armour—not because one piece will do, but because one piece is better than none; when we have got used to our one piece, we shall begin to think of trying another!"
"All right," answered Hugh. "Go ahead, Agnes."
"Who will try to wield the sword—the sword of the Spirit?"
"I don't mind having that," said John. Agnes got up and crossed the room, taking from the wall the sword which hung there.
"But this is not intangible," said John, hesitating.
"Only that something tangible may remind us—"
"For my own, or lent to me?" he asked. "For your own. Now, Hugh, you may choose, there are five more things."
"What will you have, Agnes?"
"The one that is left; Hugh, choose!"
"I'll have the breastplate of righteousness, then; for I suppose you mean to take the Scripture list?"
"You have guessed quite right. Alice, what for you?"
"I'll have the truth one."
"That's the coat of mail, 'loins girt about with truth.' Florence, what would you like?"
"I don't remember the meanings exactly," answered Florence shyly, "but I like the helmet. What is it, Agnes?"
"'The hope of salvation,' joy now and always; do you like that, Florence?"
A very soft little "That will do for me!" came up from a very faithful little heart.
"Now, Minnie?"
"Might I have the shield? 'The shield of Faith.' But there'll be nothing nice left for you, Aggie!"
"The very thing is left for her that is most suitable!" exclaimed Alice warmly.
"Her 'feet shod with the preparation of the Gospel of peace.' Agnes is a thorough peacemaker, and she loves to tell people about the Gospel of peace, too."
"So I do; but not half as I ought," answered Agnes, lifting down the pieces of armour and handing each to the various possessors.
"They will serve as reminders, 'with a vengeance,'" said Hugh. "Where shall we put them?"
"I mean to hang mine up at home over my mantelshelf," said Agnes. "It will be quite an ornament, and if—"
"Yes," said John, taking up the word. "If we think of them, and by and by take unto us the whole armour of God—"
"Agnes' kindness and thought for us will not be in vain," added Alice, kissing her warmly.
"To-morrow," said Agnes, "we will have some more talk about our different pieces of armour, for it will be easier to us to use what God has provided, if we can understand the sorts of weapons which will be used against us."
"Oh! Tell us now, Aggie," exclaimed her little sister.
"Not to-night; let us go downstairs now, and try to make the evening bright to uncle Hugh."
The young people carried their armour to their respective rooms, placing it in full view on chests of drawers, bureaus, &c., each touched with Agnes' unselfishness, which had caused her, in that house full of treasures to choose something which she meant but to receive and then to give away.
When they reached the drawing-room, their uncle met them at the door with an unusually bright look on his face.
"Agnes," he said, leading her up to an easel, which stood under the chandelier in the middle of the room, "I have looked out another little treasure for you, in remembrance of your knight! I felt, after what we talked about yesterday, that it ought to belong to no one else."
When Agnes reached the easel, what was her surprise to see a beautiful oil painting of a soldier, clad in armour, kneeling before his sovereign, receiving from his hands the victor's laurels and rewards!
His face, patient with many a hardship, holy with many a self-denial, earnest with many a purpose, radiant with many a victory, his face touched the hearts of the lookers on, all fresh from Agnes' earnest words, and a silent sort of awe fell upon them, as they thought of what they had undertaken, and of what the end would be.
Their uncle's voice, gentle and solemn, broke the pause—
"'I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day.'"
"I cannot attempt to thank you," said Agnes in a low voice, putting her hand in her uncle's, "but—"
"Don't try to, my dear. Rather would I thank you for having turned my haunted chamber into an armoury of light!"
That night as Hugh, the last of the party, crossed the hall on his way to bed, he paused by the marble pillars and looked round.
The moon had left the windows of the haunted chamber, and had come round to the front, where it streamed along the pavement, touching the feet of the gaunt knights, and casting fairy shadows from the ferns and palms between which they stood.
"'The whole armour of God,'" he murmured softly, "I wonder how long I shall be before I have strength to buckle it all on? But I'm glad there are those words: 'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me!'"
* * * * * *
"Agnes, the best thing you can do is to come into the haunted room and tell us what you promised," said Hugh one evening soon after the giving out of the armour. "We could not have a better place to sit, and we shall be uninterrupted."
"I do not mind, if you all like it best," answered Agnes. "When shall we begin?"
"No time like the present," said John, laughing, and taking his sister round the waist; "we will lead the way, Agnes, and face the haunted room altogether, if need be!"
The rest soon followed; and before long all were seated by the window, where the first rays of the moon were peeping in, instead of leaving it, as they had been a few days before.
"Well, Agnes?" began Alice.
"I daresay some of you have thought of your pieces of armour since we had our other talk?" asked Agnes.
"I've thought ever so much," said Hugh.
"So have I," pursued Agnes, "and I think we had better begin in the order in which we find the list in Ephesians. Who is it who has the coat of Mail—Truth? 'Loins girt about with truth'?"
"That is my piece of armour," answered Alice. "What have you to tell us about that, Agnes?"
"It seems to me that truth is a sort of strengthening of our minds; as in the East they would gird up their encumbering robes, so as to walk along more bravely in a difficult path. Do you think of it like that, Alice?"
"Yes," answered her sister. "I was reading these words on Sunday: 'Grace and truth came by Jesus Christ.' I suppose that has something to do with my piece of armour."
"Of course it has!" exclaimed Agnes eagerly. "And it is so difficult to combine those two things in the same person—grace and truth. People can be truthful, but they find it very hard to be gracious also; or they are so gracious that they fail to be truthful."
"I don't see how you mean," said Hugh.
"In this sort of way," answered Agnes. "One day lately, I heard a girl say something like this: Oh, you know, she asked me how I liked her drawing, and I said it was sweetly pretty; but really, you know, it was not a bit nice, nor a quarter as well done as so-and-so's.'"
"Oh, Agnes! You did not hear me say that!" exclaimed Alice, shocked.
"No, not you; but every day we hear this sort of compromise. If that girl I spoke of, had been taxed with not speaking the truth, she would have answered: Well, it was very pretty, or, if I didn't think so, she did, and that made it quite true.'"
"I would not have said such a thing for the world," exclaimed Alice.
"I am sure you would not; but I find, for myself, that these difficulties meet one at every step, and that our being 'girt about with truth' is an everyday necessity."
"I'm sure it is," said John, "in a hundred ways. If we look-out for them, they will come to us fast enough, and we shall get used to watching ourselves."
"Is that all about Truth?" asked Florence.
"Not half enough, but you must think it out for yourselves; we shall not have time to-night for more than a few suggestions. We must now proceed to the 'Breastplate of Righteousness.'"
"That's mine," said Hugh.
"All of us need it," answered Agnes, "for I think it is one of our best weapons against Satan."
"How?" asked Hugh.
"Don't you see that it is only as we carry the 'Breastplate of Righteousness' we can face Satan boldly, without fear?"
"But," said Hugh, very soberly, "I don't always feel bold when I meet Satan, for he often accuses me, and I have nothing to say!"
"Yes," answered Agnes, "and that is the very reason, I believe, why our God has provided the Breastplate of Righteousness—not ours but His—the perfect righteousness of Christ, in which we may face all our foes with calm confidence. Who shall lay anything to the charge of God's elect?'"
"That is a nice thought," said Hugh heartily; and Agnes, glancing up at the moment, saw the moonbeams resting on a very bright, earnest face, in which a look of peace had taken up its abode.
"It strikes me, we shall find all we need, every piece as we come to them," said John.
Agnes smiled to herself, and then Minnie, who was looking up in her eyes, said, "Shall we, Aggie?"
"I should not wonder," she answered.
"But what comes next?" asked Minnie.
"'Shod with the preparation of the Gospel of peace,'" said John. "That belongs to Agnes, and it suits her."
"I wish it did," she answered; "but I have thought of it like this. To have feet always ready to do our Lord's bidding; to go everywhere, not with our own poor, bare, tired feet, but shod with His Gospel of peace; a covering which will make us welcome wherever we go."
"What next, Agnes?" asked Hugh.
"'The Shield of Faith,' Minnie's great piece of armour."
"Yes, that's mine," nodded Minnie.
"Here we come across another reference to the power of Satan," said Agnes, "and you see there is no disgrace in taking refuge under the Shield. Satan hurls darts at those who are bearing God's name, and carrying His armour, and he hopes by their terrible fiery nature to beat down the combatant. But our Captain, who has not sent us out to battle unarmed, has provided a shield, which not only protects us from the fiery darts, but actually quenches them! The Shield of Faith. Minnie, whatever people say as you go on in life, whatever Satan may say, take your Shield of Faith and answer, 'If God be for us, who can be against us?' 'He that believeth shall not make haste.'"
"I never knew what it meant before," said Minnie.
"If you think it over, you will find that Jesus is your Shield in more ways than you can count; but I must leave you to find these out for yourselves. I think the other thought is the main one in our present subject."
"Florence's Helmet is next," remarked Hugh, as Agnes paused.
"Yes—the crowning of all—the hope which lifts the head proudly before every foe. Salvation! Victory at last; no defeat or dismay for those who trust Him. 'Take the Helmet of Salvation,' and the joy of the Lord shall be your strength!"
"Oh, Agnes," whispered Florence, "how nice!"
"And then," pursued Agnes, "the last equipment must be taken in hand, and never put down till the fight is fought. 'Take ... the Sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.'"
"I often think how our Lord conquered Satan when He was on earth. Don't you remember that at every attack, He answered him by the Word of God? Satan hates to have Scripture quoted to him. He knows its power, and would by every device urge the soldier to lay down this powerful weapon. But let us all be too wary for this. Let us brighten our Sword ere we go to bed; let us grasp it afresh when we rise in the morning; let us wield it in our hearts and in our lives all day, that so the Word of Christ may dwell in us richly, and we may be able to fight the good fight of faith."
Agnes paused, and all her listeners were silent.
"Do you catch my meaning, dears?" she asked gently.
"Oh yes, Agnes," answered several voices, and then John spoke earnestly.
"Agnes, there's one thing I've learned from what you have been saying (besides many other things). As you went along, I came to this conclusion—"
"Well, John dear?"
"That, though our one piece of armour will be a first-rate reminder all through this New Year, the upshot saying is this—we must take unto us the whole armour, or we shall not be able to stand!"
"Rather," corrected Agnes, earnestly, "that we may be able to stand! You are quite right, John, it is the whole armour of God which we need."
ON Christmas Day, three children were walking down the lighted streets of a dark city, and were all, from different directions, wending their way to the same place.
This place was a mission-room in one of the crowded streets near the East End.
Even though it was Christmas night, there were a few people who preferred the warm mission-room to their own homes, and these children were some of them.
One was a ragged boy who had no home.
The second was a little girl, who wandered in for the sake of the warm stove, for she was perished with cold.
The third was the clergyman's son, who came because his father came, and because on this night, he could not bear him to come alone.
The ragged boy, cold to the bones, with a body wasted by disease and want, crouched down in a corner, intending to go to sleep till a cup of coffee, which he knew would be given, should be offered him.
The girl put her feet as near the stove as she could, but she knew nothing about the coffee, and only prepared herself to wait till she was warm, and then intended to slip out and go away.
And the clergyman's son was longing to get home to his Christmas presents and the bright party he had left for his father's sake.
But every one of them received a Gift which they little expected, and which altered their whole lives from that day forth.
"Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in and sup with him, and he with Me."
By the time the clergyman had impressed this verse and its meaning on the attention of his hearers, the poor little girl was warm, and shrinkingly giving a glance behind her, for fear she should be chidden, she slipped out into the cold, windy, winter air.
Drawing her thin little shawl closer around her, she ran as fast as she could to the court in which was her home. She found her way up the dark stairs, and soon stood within her mother's attic.
There was a glimmer of fire in the grate, but it was too small to shed any light in the room.
"How long you've been!" exclaimed her mother's voice from a corner, sounding near the floor, for bedstead there was none.
"No, I ain't," answered the little girl, remembering, as she said the words, that she must have stayed full half an hour by that warm stove.
"I know it don't take you all this time to get that candle and a bit of bread; and there's yer brother been whining the whole time you've been gone."
The voice was sharp with pain and suffering, and at the same moment little Bill began his whining again.
The poor little girl lighted the farthing candle and cut her brother a piece of bread, then placed another by her mother's side, and lastly seized, rather than took, a piece herself, and sat down by the tiny fire to eat it.
But as she ate the first food she had tasted that day, before her eyes came up a picture, living as it were, and she saw over again a Kingly Stranger knocking for admittance, and promising to enter and sup with those who opened to Him.
The little girl glanced round the wretched room: no loving hand had been there to put it tidy, no hope had entered it to make it bright, no relief had come to cheer and comfort.
All that dreary Christmas Day, her mother had lain moaning on her miserable straw, and her little crippled brother had cried for food since early dawn, when the Christmas bells had sounded on the frosty air.
Ah! no help, no succour, no happiness; nothing but want, and sin, and misery.
An hour before, a neighbour, pitying the wretchedness of the poor starving family, had made her way up the dark stairs.
"It ain't much I've got to give," she said abruptly, "but on Christmas night, I don't like to feel as you've not had a bit in your mouths all day; so here's sixpence, and you're kindly welcome."
With that she laid down the little coin, and without waiting for thanks or to inquire how the invalid was, she hastened back to her room.
And so it was to her kindness, they were indebted for that bit of candle and loaf of bread.
Again the child heard the voice, "I stand and knock; I will come in and sup."
"He said it was our hearts," she murmured to herself, looking still at the picture in the fire.
"What?" asked her mother sharply.
"The gen'lman said as He was askin' to come in, and if He came in, He'd make the place as beautiful as a palace—that He would!"
"We don't want no one in here," gasped her mother; "leastways, unless they bring some'ut with 'em!"
"The gen'lman said as He would, if we opened the door."
"Then open it!" exclaimed the sick woman, rousing herself suddenly.
"It's our hearts," said the girl, musingly, "and I daren't open the door for such as Him to come in; it ain't fit."
The sick woman threw herself back impatiently, but after a long, long silence she said more softly:
"Say them words over again, Meg; I've heard 'em afore, and I believe it's the Saviour as is knocking and wants to come in."
"Yes, mother," answered Meg, eagerly; "I couldn't call it to mind afore. It's the Saviour as sez He's a-coming in, if we'll have Him!"
"He's waited a long time for me to open the door," said the sick woman, "but—if He'll forgive—"
* * * * * *
And the clergyman's son heard the message, as he had so often heard it before, and he turned away from it as he had so often turned before.
But when he reached his own chamber that night, after the pleasant family party was over, his mind went back to what he had witnessed in that mission-room.
The little starving, emaciated, ragged boy had sat with his hungry eyes waiting for the coffee; but, though the child had intended to go to sleep, he did not do it, for the clergyman made it so plain that the Saviour was knocking at his heart that he could not forget it, and he listened with deep attention to every word.
"If any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in."
"That's me," he said; "I'm anyone, anyhow. But I'm so 'ungry and so cold and so wretched, I don't see as 'ow He can care to come into my heart."
So he listened again; and again, he heard the words, "He wants every one of you to be happy and blessed."
"He's a kind 'un, then," said the boy to himself, as the rare tears filled his sunken eyes. And then the cup of steaming coffee had come, and he had swallowed it quickly enough, and the kind clergyman had said a few words to him about the love of Jesus, and then the boy had crouched down again in the same corner as before, too ill and miserable to move.
"My poor boy," said the minister, "I am afraid you must leave here, we are going to shut it up."
"What, sir?" asked the boy, rousing a little, while a deathly pallor overspread his face.
The sentence was repeated even more gently, but the child did not take it in. He started up and stretched out his arms, calling, in a voice in which love, and yearning, and joy were all expressed, "Oh, come in, come in; I've opened the door for yer!"
With that his arms fell, and then they saw that he needed no more earthly care, for he had gone in to supper with the King of kings.
* * * * * *
This was what the clergyman's son had seen, and as he stood in his room alone that night he thought that the knock had come to him too, and woe be to him, if he disregarded it!
He knelt down by his bedside.
"So sinful," he whispered, "so forgetful, so full of selfishness and self-seeking—if Thou comest in, Thou King of Glory, it is Thou who must make it fit, for I cannot. Nevertheless, if Thou dost knock—and Thou dost, I hear Thee—Thou shalt not knock in vain; for this very night I will echo those dying words, 'Come in, come in!'"
* * * * * *
"Children," said Agatha, "He knocks at your hearts to-night. He wants you to let Him in, that He may bless you and dwell with you all this coming year. You will not keep Him waiting, you will not hold the door fast! Surely you will say too, 'Saviour, come in, come in.'"
So the moonlight city faded away, the little guests bade their entertainers good-night, and each one went home with new thoughts, and some of them with new hopes for the New Year.
AUNT RUTH had been out all the evening, and when she came home the children were walking up and down the gravel path, waiting for her.
The darkness had fallen, and the young moon had set, so that there was nothing now but the blue vault of heaven studded with twinkling, sparkling stars.
"I love starlight," said Jean, pressing close to her side.
"Yes; the stars seem to bring one so near to God!"
"Where have you been Auntie?" asked Tom.
"I've been to the prayer-meeting," she said. "I want to tell you about the old woman who went to the prayer-meeting last week! It's a lovely story. I have wanted to get home quickly so that I might repeat it to you—"
"Did she tell you?" asked Oswald.
"No; she told a neighbour the next morning, and the neighbour told me, with tears in her eyes, just now."
Aunt Ruth spoke in an unusually eager voice, and all the while she seemed gazing up into the sky.
"This is what the neighbour told me. There is a dear old woman who comes to the prayer-meeting very often. She is very poor, and is thankful for any little bits of work that are put in her way."
"Last week, as she was coming home from the meeting, and looking up at the stars, as we are, she suddenly thought, 'God is my Father! I'll tell Him!'"
"So she said very simply and gently, 'Lord, you know we're very hungry, and there's nothing in the cupboard at home. Please, dear Father, send us something, because you know we are hungry.'"
"So, with a heart at rest, she made her way home, and opened the cottage door."
"'Look here, wife,' called her invalid husband, 'here's a great basket that somebody's sent us!'"
"The old woman cast her eyes upon the hamper, and then, instead of opening it, she sank on her knees by the table."
"'Dear Lord,' she said, 'I knew you'd not forget your hungry children! Thank you, dear, heavenly Father!'"
"Then she rose with a wonderful happiness, and opened the basket."
"As she took out the things one by one, she told her neighbour 'it was just like the Lord,' for there was bread, and butter, tea and sugar, and a piece of bacon! 'And didn't we have a good supper!' she concluded."
"And did that really happen here, auntie?" asked Rose.
"Really happened here!" said Aunt Ruth. "The Lord is the same Lord always, 'rich unto all that call upon Him.'"
"But sometimes we ask for things and don't get an answer?" ventured Tom, in his downright fashion. "Why do you think that is, Auntie?"
"I think it may be this," said Aunt Ruth, slowly, "'your Heavenly Father knoweth what things you have need of.' Sometimes we ask for things we think we have need of, and God sees that to have them would have been the very worst thing for us."
Tom looked thoughtful for a minute, and the others were thinking of instances when they had asked and not received.
"Then how are we to know?" asked Tom at last.
"Ask for the thing you want, simply and trustfully, and say from your heart, 'If it is best for me, if it is according to Thy will—Thou knowest best,' and then leave it."
There was a pause. Then, emboldened by the darkness and the tenderness of the conversation, Jean said softly:
"I did so want something the other day, and I prayed for it; I daresay you'll think it nonsense, but I thought my tennis shoes were too shabby to go to that party in. But God did not send them, and I did not think I ought to ask mother for them—"
"Well?" said Aunt Ruth gently, pressing her arm. "What did you do?"
"When I found mother said nothing about them, I felt bad for a little while; then I prayed again, and asked Jesus not to let me mind so much—"
"And then?" asked Aunt Ruth softly.
"Then—well, I forgot all about it in the end, and had a very nice afternoon."
"That is just the way I find the Lord Jesus does help," exclaimed Aunt Ruth. "To the old woman who is hungry, He sends bread and all she wants, and to the little girl who is worried about her shoes, He sends the best thing for her in His wisdom and love—an acquiescence in His provision, and then forgetfulness of what she thought would spoil her day!"
They turned indoors now, and Jean with tear-filled eyes ran up to her bedroom, and knelt down for one instant.
"Dear Lord Jesus," she whispered, "I know you know best; help me to trust you always!"
"AUNT RUTH," exclaimed Jean, "do come and sit down by this fire. See! I've blown it into such a lovely blaze, because I know you love blazes."
Aunt Ruth laughed. "Where did you find that nice pair of bellows?" she asked. "I never saw them before."
"I should think you hadn't!" said Jean. "I was searching in the garret this afternoon for something mother wanted in that old chest of hers, and I came upon them, wrapped up in a sheet of old-fashioned paper, as yellow as yellow."
"Among her treasures?" asked Aunt Ruth.
"Yes; she would hardly let me use them, they were such a treasure! But I told her they did nobody any good up there, hidden away, and if I left them there they would be forgotten for another twenty years—"
"Where shall you keep them?" asked Aunt Ruth.
"Handy!" returned Jean, emphatically.
With which words she began blowing up the wood fire with fresh energy, enjoying the effect to the full, as who does not?
"Go it!" said Tom, coming behind, "Or let me."
"Oh! Here you all are!" said Aunt Ruth.
"Yes, just ready for a nice twilight story," said Rose. "They are getting the tea, and there is just time."
Aunt Ruth was always willing, though she seldom suggested a talk unless they did. Often she seized upon a little lesson from what was passing at the moment, which the children were grateful for, and did not forget.
"Well, come along, settle yourselves quickly," she said, "for if Rose is right about the tea, there will not be much time."
They all gathered round her affectionately.
"Well, auntie?" said Oswald, by way of a beginning.
"Well," she responded, "it struck me as if by a flash when I saw Jean fanning the fire into that beautiful flame, how the dull fire was typical of our dull hearts, cold and dead, the spark of love and faith nearly extinguished by adverse circumstances—"
"Yes, auntie," said Tom eagerly, "what then?"
"Then comes a force outside ourselves, and with the breath of living power, He fans the little sparks till they brighten and grow warm, fanned by the love of God, and the breath of the Holy Spirit."
"I don't understand much about the Holy Spirit," said Oswald, in a low tone, "it always seems too high a subject for me."
"Yes, I can understand that, but if we think of the Holy Spirit as 'He,' not 'it,' we shall better understand that He is a Person; not only an influence, but Someone we may speak to and love."
"Does that make a difference?" asked Rose.
"I am sure it does. We can pray to Him, if He is a Person—unseen, indeed, but very near and very real. When we pray to Him, the first effect I think that we shall find, will be that the little spark of love which we had to Jesus will brighten and glow."
"Oh! Now I see!" smiled Jean, thinking of her dull fire.
"And then as the Holy Spirit becomes more to us—more of a living reality—the spark of our love to Jesus will grow and glow, and at length burst into a bright flame, so that others will see in our faces a beam of His holy love and holy life!"
"And we shall be warm and happy," sighed Jean, in a comfortable rested tone.
"Well," said Oswald, hesitating a little, "that's too difficult a subject for me."
"I don't think it is, when you think it over," said Aunt Ruth, looking up. "I heard a celebrated preacher once speak on this very subject. He pressed his hearers very earnestly to make a decision then and there; to say 'Yes' to the Holy Spirit, and let Him enter their hearts. In the solemn pause which ensued, the little girl next me seemed very earnest, but it was not till afterwards that I knew about the great transaction that had taken place in her life in that quiet church."
"As we were sitting in the train going home, her hand lovingly within my arm, and her face close to my shoulder, I whispered, 'What answer did you give, darling?' And she squeezed my arm earnestly, as she whispered back, 'I said yes.'"
"Since then, children, that girl has been a devoted servant of Christ, and has done much for Him."
"WE are going home to-morrow!" said Jean, with a sigh. "Auntie, are you not very sorry? Now, confess!"
"Very sorry to leave this nice place, and the sea, but not to be going home."
Tom, who was sitting on the grass at her feet, looked up suddenly.
"Is our home going to be yours?" he asked, gently and earnestly.
"I do not know, Tom!"
"Have mother and father asked you? Don't answer if you'd rather not, auntie," he said, his cheeks burning, as he still looked in her face, "but mother is better and back again now, and she said in her letter this morning—"
"It was not curiosity," apologised Rose, "but because we did so hope you might be able."
Aunt Ruth's eyes filled. "It makes me very happy to think you want me," she said in a low tone; "but I have not been able to decide yet."
"I am afraid I ought not to have asked," said Tom, earnestly; "but as Rose said, we were so hoping you would, as mother told us before we came away, she hoped it would be settled so—"
Aunt Ruth did not gainsay it. She was looking earnestly at the quiet river and the golden trees, lighted up just now by the setting sun.
"I do not mind your having asked me in the least, dears. I have been thinking about telling you about my— about the blow that came upon me last year."
Their faces of sympathy and interest were enough encouragement to her to go on.
"You know I lost my dear father then, and when everything was settled up, instead of my having an income sufficient to keep me, through no fault of his, but because some investments had gone down, it was found there was not nearly enough to keep me—"
Jean showered kisses on the hand she was holding, and Oswald opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again, and was silent.
Tom was the first to venture a remark, and his gentle, grave tone was full of sympathy.
"I heard how bravely and sweetly you bore it, auntie—"
"There were many days when I could not; when I felt as if the waves went over my head. You would not understand how many things hinged on that insufficient income of mine; how hopes that had long been cherished were blighted—"
"And yet, auntie," said Rose, "you told us the Lord was your 'Sun and Shield.'"
"So He was, and is; I do not forget that, dears."
"Several homes have been offered to me, and I have been waiting to see where God would let me go."
"To us, I hope," said Tom, earnestly.
"Your father and mother have been most kind, and not least in allowing me time to decide, so as to do nothing in a hurry."
"Mother is far from strong," said Rose. "I know she would be very glad if you were never to leave us—"
"But you and Jean will be able to help her in a year or two," said Aunt Ruth, "what then?"
"Time enough for that," said downright Tom, "and if you're right in coming to us now, when the next step comes, you'll be able to see it! Eh, auntie?"
She smiled happily, and bent forward to kiss his forehead, as he knelt before her.
"I've got hopes that in a year or two, there may be several things altered," he said, decidedly.
Aunt Ruth looked earnestly at him. "What do you mean, dear?"
"I mean that there are 'promises' for you, auntie, just as much as there are for us."
"'Promises?'" she asked, stroking his hair, and thinking that, for a boy of fifteen, he had been a wonderful comfort to her all this year.
"Yes," he answered, not guessing her thoughts; "there's one that I've had on my mind all the week, 'Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you!'"
"Yes—" she answered, with a long-drawn breath, as if some heavy care were rolling off as she spoke, "yes—I must not forget that."
"And you'll come and settle down with us till some other home wants you more than we do?" asked Tom, with a gravity and sweetness which she wondered at.
Aunt Ruth was silent, still stroking his sunny hair.
"You seem to think there are a great many homes likely to want me!" she said, hesitating, with a questioning, shy look in her eyes.
"I did not say a great many," said Tom, gravely. "I know of one that isn't ready yet—and in America—and till then we want you!"
Aunt Ruth pointed to the sunset, and rose to go in; but as Tom struggled to his feet, she said softly: "Tom, I don't think there is any home in America getting ready—"
"But I know there is," said Tom, bluntly; "meanwhile, and always, 'He careth for you,' auntie!"
They went in at last, and as they were wishing good-night, Aunt Ruth said: "Children, as you all seem to want me to live with you, I am only too happy to come."
There was a bright joy on every face, and not least on Aunt Ruth's patient one.
"You did persuade her well!" whispered Rose to Tom on the stairs.
"I think it was God's assurance did it," said Tom. "I told her that she as well as we had His promise, 'He careth for you.'"
SO the summer and the holidays had come to an end, and Aunt Ruth had "settled down," as Tom called it, and filled her own quiet little niche very happily.
After their last evening's talk at the seaside, the others were very curious to know whether Tom knew, really, of a home which was getting ready for Aunt Ruth.
Tom only shook his head whenever they asked him. "I know what I know," he said gravely, "and I have my own conclusions. It is not for me to say to everybody what I think. I'm glad Aunt Ruth is going to be with us for the present! That's all I have to do with, and you won't get more out of me if you ask me for a year!"
But all the same for that, when he got a letter one morning from America, he never mentioned the contents to anyone but his mother, and they did not know of that. It was not his own secret he was keeping.
"What makes you so bright, Tom?" asked his aunt wistfully one wintry day, as they sat over the fire together.
"Whenever I look at you, I say to myself, 'He careth for you,' auntie, and that does me good."
"But why, dear—I am very happy," she added. "You are all so loving, and I have such a much easier life than if I had to turn out on the world."
"Yes, 'He careth for you,'" said the boy, smiling. "You came and taught us to trust Him more than we ever did before, and now God lets me pass it back to you, so that you take courage to keep on!"
He smiled at her lovingly, and went to fetch his lesson books.
Tom read and re-read that letter from America, and could not make up his mind about it.
The letter said:
"You cannot think how you have comforted me about your Aunt Ruth! Tom! If you see any cause to tell her, or if you think it will add to her happiness, show her this letter. No one knows what it cost me to leave her without a word—but I seemed to have no right—at least, I thought so then. But sometimes I have thought—Tom, I am getting on nicely. Your text has been a great comfort, 'Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you.'""God has cared for me wonderfully, and if you think that she whom I love would be happier to know there is some one working for her, then—then tell her, Tom, or show her this letter, and ask her if I may write the next to her."
Tom had gone up to fetch his books. As he stood in the cold, reading over these words, he felt perplexed. It seemed such a great responsibility.
Then he thought of his text, and knelt down for an instant. "Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you."
For a minute he looked soberly at the letter, then with brightening cheeks, and ran downstairs. How thankful he was that the others were out!
"Aunt Ruth," he said, hesitating a little, "I have a letter here which I was to give you or not, as I considered best. It was a great honour to be charged with so much, but I think if I were in your place, I should like to see it."
He held out his hand, and it trembled. Aunt Ruth looked up earnestly. "Who is it from, Tom?"
"Some one you knew before your grand-papa died—some one who went abroad because—"
Tom choked. "You'll see what he says; it can't do any harm, and it may be a Christmas present for you, auntie!"
He caught up his books, and was gone before she could speak.
Presently—it seemed a good while to Tom in the cold—Aunt Ruth came to his door.
"Tom, dear," she said, with averted face, "how can I tell you how glad I am that you told me! God has been very good to me, and, indeed, His assurance which I trusted has come abundantly true, 'He careth for you.'"