COMING TO THE LIGHT.
O thou who out of the darkness
Reachest thy trembling hand,
Whose ears are open to welcome
Glad news of a better land;
Not always shalt thou be groping,
Night's shadows are well-nigh past:
The heart that for light is yearning
Attains to that light at last.
TWO years had passed away since Mrs. Evans's visit, as recorded in the
preceding chapter, and still little Mary's prayer seemed as far as ever
from being answered.
With the industry and patience of more mature years the child went
about her daily duties, and her mother depended upon her for many
things which do not generally form part of a child's occupations. Mary
had less time for dreaming now, and though Cader Idris was still the
spot with which her imagination associated Bible scenes and pictures,
she had little leisure for anything but her everyday duties. She still
accompanied her mother to the meetings, and from so continually coming
into contact with older people, rather than with children of her own
age, the child had grown more and more grave and earnest in face and
manner, and would have been called an old-fashioned girl if she had
lived in a place where any difference was known between old fashions
and new.
It was about this time that Jacob Jones came home one evening from
Abergynolwyn—a village two miles away from Llanfihangel—where he had
been disposing of the woollen cloth which he and Molly had been making
during the past months.
Jacob had been away the greater part of the day, yet he did not seem
tired. His eye was bright, and his lips wore a smile as he entered the
cottage and sat down in his accustomed place in the chimney corner.
Mary, whose observant eye rarely failed to note the least change in her
father's face and manner, sprang towards him, and stood before him,
regarding his bright face searchingly.
"What is it, father?" she said, her own dark eyes flashing back the
light in his. "Something pleasant has happened, or you wouldn't look
like that!"
"What a sharp little girl it is!" replied Jacob, fondly, drawing the
child nearer and seating her upon his knee. "What a very sharp little
woman to find out that her old dad has something to tell!"
"And is it something that concerns me, father?" asked Mary, stroking
Jacob's face caressingly.
"It 'is' something that concerns you most of all, my chick, and us
through you."
"What can it be?" murmured Mary, with a quick, impatient little sigh.
"What is it, father?" asked Mrs. Jones. "We both want to know."
"Well," replied Jacob, "what would you say, Molly dear, to our little
daughter here becoming quite a learned woman, perhaps knowing how to
read, and write, and cipher, and all a deal better than her parents
ever did before her?"
"Oh, father!"
The exclamation came from Mary, who in her excitement had slipped from
Jacob's knee, and now stood facing him, breathless with suspense, her
hands closely clasped.
Jacob looked at her a moment without speaking; then he said tenderly:
"Yes, child, there 'is' a school to be opened at Abergynolwyn, and a
master is chosen already; and as my little Mary thinks nought of a two
miles' walk, she shall go, and learn all she can."
"Oh, father!"
"Well," rejoined Jacob, now laughing outright, "how many 'Oh fathers!'
are we going to have? But I thought you'd be glad, my girl, and I was
not wrong. You are pleased, dear, aren't you?"
There was a pause; then Mary's reply came, low spoken, but with such
deep content in its tones.
"Pleased, father? Yes, indeed, for now I shall learn to read the Bible."
Then a thought struck her, and a shadow came across the happy face as
she said:
"But, mother, perhaps you won't be able to spare me?"
"Spare you? Yes, I will, child, though I can't deny as how it will be
difficult for me to do without my little right hand and help. But for
your good, my girl, I would do harder things than that."
"Dear, good mother!" cried Mary, putting an arm about Molly's neck and
kissing her. "But I don't want you to work too hard and tire yourself.
I'll get up an hour or two earlier, and do all I can before I start
for school." Then as the child sat down again to her work, her heart,
in its joyfulness, sent up a song of thanksgiving to the Lord who had
heard her prayer, and opened the way for her to learn, that she might
not grow up in darkness.
Presently Jacob went on:
"I went to see the room where the school is to be held, and who should
come in while I was there but Mr. Charles of Bala. I'd often heard of
him before, but I'd never seen him, and I was glad to set eyes on him
for once."
"What may he have looked like, Jacob?" asked Molly.
"Well, Molly, I never was a very good one for drawing a portrait, but
I should say he was between forty and fifty years old, with a fine big
forehead which doesn't look as though it had unfurnished apartments to
let behind it, but quite the opposite, as though he had done a sight
of thinking, and meant to do a great deal more. Still his face isn't
anything so 'very' special till he smiles, but when he does it's like
sunshine, and goes to your heart, and warms you right through. Now I've
seen him, and heard him speak, I can understand how he does so much
good. I hear he's going about from place to place opening schools for
the poor children, who would grow up ignorant otherwise."
[Illustration: THE REV. THOMAS CHARLES, OF BALA.
(_From the painting in the Bible House._)]
"Like me," murmured Mary, under her breath.
"And who's the master that's to be set over the school at
Abergynolwyn?" asked Molly.
"I heard tell that his name is John Ellis," replied Jacob; "a good man,
and right for the work, so they say; and I hope it'll prove so."
"And how soon is the school to open, Jacob?" asked his wife.
"In about three weeks, I believe," answered Jacob. "And now, Mary my
girl, if you can bring yourself to think of such a thing as supper,
after what I've been telling you, suppose you get some ready, for I
haven't broke my fast since noon."
The following three weeks passed more slowly for little Mary Jones
than any three months she could remember before. Such childishness
as there was in her seemed to show itself in impatience; and we must
confess that her home duties at this time were not so cheerfully or
so punctually performed as usual, owing to the fact that her thoughts
were far away, her heart being set on the thing she had longed for so
earnestly.
"If 'this' is the way it's going to be, Jacob," said Molly to her
husband one evening, "I shall wish there had never been a thought of
school at Abergynolwyn. The child's so off her head that she goes about
like one in a dream; what it'll be when that school begins, I daren't
think."
"Don't you fret, wife," replied Jacob smiling. "It'll all come right.
Don't you see that her poor little busy brain has been longing to grow,
and now that there's a chance of its being fed, she's all agog. But
you'll find, when she once gets started, she'll go on all right with
her home work as well. She's but ten years old, Molly, after all, and
for my own part, I'm not sorry to see there's a bit of the child left
in her, even if it shows itself this way, such a little old woman as
she's always been!"
But this longest three weeks that Mary ever spent came to an end at
last, and Mary began to go to school, thus commencing a new era in her
life.
Fairly hungering and thirsting after knowledge, the child found her
lessons an unmixed delight. What other children call drudgery was to
her only pleasure, and her eagerness was so great that she was almost
always at the top of her class; and in an incredibly short space of
time she began to read and write.
The master, who had a quick eye for observing the character and talents
of his pupils, soon remarked Mary's peculiarities, and encouraged her
in her pursuit of such knowledge as was taught in the school; and
the little girl repaid her master's kindness by the most unwearied
diligence and attention.
Nor while the brain was being fed did the heart grow cold, or the
practical powers decline. Molly Jones had now no fault to find with
Mary's performance of her home duties. The child rose early, and did
her work before breakfast; and after her return from school in the
afternoon she again helped her mother, only reserving for herself time
enough to prepare her lessons for the next day.
At school she was a general favourite, and never seemed to be regarded
with jealousy by her companions, this being due probably to her genial
disposition, and the kind way in which she was willing to help others
whenever she could.
One morning a little girl was seen to be crying sadly when she reached
the schoolhouse, and on being questioned as to what was the matter, she
said that on the way there, a big dog had snatched at the little paper
bag in which she was bringing her dinner to eat during recess, and had
carried it off, and so she should have to go hungry all day.
Some of the scholars laughed at the child for her carelessness, and
some called her a coward, for not running after the dog and getting
back her dinner; but Mary stole up to the little one's side, and
whispered something in her ear, and dried the wet eyes, and kissed the
flushed cheeks, and presently the child was smiling and happy again.
But when dinner-time came, Mary and the little dinnerless maiden sat
close together in a corner, and more than half of Mary's provisions
found their way to the smaller child's mouth.
The other scholars looked on, feeling somewhat ashamed, no doubt, that
none but Mary Jones had thought of doing so kind and neighbourly an
action, at the cost of a little self-denial. But the lesson was not
lost upon them, and from that day Mary's influence made itself felt in
the school for good.
In her studies she progressed steadily, and this again gave opportunity
for the development of the helpful qualities by which, from her
earliest childhood, she had been distinguished.
On one occasion, for instance, she was just getting ready to set off
on her two miles journey home, when she spied in a corner of the now
deserted schoolroom a little boy with a book open before him, and a
smeared slate and blunt pencil by its side. The poor little fellow's
tears were falling over his unfinished task, and evidently he was in
the last stage of childish despondency. He had dawdled away his time
during the school hours, or had not listened when the lesson had been
explained, and now school discipline required that he should stay
behind when the rest had gone, and attend to the work which he had
neglected.
Mary had a headache that day, and was longing to get home; but the
sight of that tearful, sad little face in the corner banished all
thought of self, and as the voices of the other children died away in
the distance, she crossed the room, and leaned over the small student's
shoulder.
"What is it, Robbie dear?" said she in her old-fashioned way and
tender, low-toned voice. "Oh, I see, you've got to do that sum! I
mayn't do it for you, you know, because that would be a sort of
cheating, but I can tell you how to do it yourself, and I think I can
make it plain."
So saying, Mary fetched her little bit of wet rag, and washed the
slate, and then got an old knife and sharpened the pencil.
"Now," said she, smiling cheerily, "see, I'll put down the sum as it is
in the book." And she wrote on the slate in clear, if not very elegant
figures, the sum in question.
Thus encouraged, Robbie gave his mind to his task, and with a little
help it was soon done, and Mary with a light heart, which made up for
her heavy head, trotted home, very glad that what she was herself
learning could be a benefit to others.
Not long after the commencement of the day school, a Sunday school
also was opened, and the very first Sunday that children were taught
there, behold our little friend as clean and fresh as soap and water
could make her, and with bright eyes and eager face, showing the keen
interest she felt, and her great desire to learn.
That evening, after service in the little meeting-house, as the
farmer's wife, good Mrs. Evans, was just going to get into her
pony-cart to drive home, she felt a light touch on her arm, while a
sweet voice she knew said, "Please, ma'am, might I speak to you a
moment?"
"Surely, my child," replied the good woman, turning her beaming face on
little Mary, "what have you got to say to me?"
"Two years ago, please ma'am, you were so kind as to promise that when
I'd learned to read I should come to the farm and read your Bible."
"I did, I remember it well," answered Mrs. Evans. "Well, child, do you
know how to read?"
"Yes, ma'am," responded Mary; "and now I've joined the Sunday school,
and shall have Bible lessons to prepare, and if you'd be so kind as to
let me come up to the farm one day in the week—perhaps Saturday, when
I've a half-holiday—I could never thank you enough."
"There's no need for thanks, little woman, come and welcome! I shall
expect you next Saturday; and may the Lord make His Word a great
blessing to you!"
Mrs. Evans held Mary's hand one moment with a cordial pressure; then
she got into her cart, and the pony started off quickly towards home,
as though he knew that old Farmer Evans was laid up with rheumatism,
and that his wife wished to get back to him as soon as possible.
[Illustration: A Bit of Bala Lake.]