CONCLUSION
IT was Sunday afternoon. The children's service at St. John's was
nearly at an end; and now the Vicar had ascended into the pulpit to
address a few simple words to his congregation before giving out the
number of the concluding hymn. He took for his text the Saviour's
promise, "He that followeth Me shall not walk in darkness," and, in
the first place, reminded his hearers that in a very few days, they
would be commemorating the birth of Him Who is called "The Light of the
World." Would they not try to follow Him? he asked.
Then he pictured the childhood of Jesus, and many a pair of bright
young eyes grew earnest and thoughtful as their owners' interest was
chained by the story which the Vicar knew so well how to tell, pointing
out to the children that the Christ-Child should be their pattern,
that, like Him, they should be good, and kind, and obedient. And that,
if they trusted in Him, He would be their Saviour and their Friend.
Finally, he explained that darkness meant selfishness and sin, and that
the child who was untruthful, or dishonest, or unkind, was walking in
darkness, apart from God. And that to follow Jesus, they must learn to
be gentle, and pitiful, and loving, and faithful in word and deed: then
would Christ's promise be for them—"He that followeth Me shall not walk
in darkness!"
It was a very short sermon, but so simple that no child could fail to
understand it; and when it was over, and the Vicar descended from the
pulpit, Peggy Pringle, who, seated by her brother's side, had listened
to every word Mr. Maloney had said with the closest attention, turned
her face to Billy with a pleased smile curving her lips, and thus
allowed an old lady close behind her, a sight of her profile.
The old lady, who was no other than Miss Leighton, felt her heart begin
to beat unevenly as she recognised Peggy. She had been on the lookout
for her all through the service; but the church was so full of children
that she had not picked out her little great-niece amongst so many, and
lo! All the while she had been within reach of her hand.
In another minute the congregation had arisen, and with a dream-like
sensation, Miss Leighton once more listened to the same hymn Peggy had
sung to her in Cornwall months before:
"Holy Father, cheer our way
With Thy love's perpetual ray:
Grant us every closing day
Light at evening time."
Tears dimmed the old lady's eyes, and a softening influence stole
into her proud heart; and when, at the conclusion of the hymn, the
congregation knelt in prayer, Miss Leighton covered her face with her
hands and prayed fervently that she, who had walked in darkness so
long, might be guided into the way of light.
"Barnes, I must speak to Peggy," she said in an agitated voice, as she
and her maid left the church and stood under the lamp outside. "Do not
let her pass us by."
"She is with her brother, ma'am," Barnes answered. "I do not think Mrs.
Pringle is here."
At that instant Peggy and Billy appeared, hand in hand, and Miss
Leighton stepped quickly forward; but, immediately, Billy put himself
between her and his sister.
"Go away!" he cried indignantly, for he had recognised Miss Leighton,
and the wild idea that she might wish to lure Peggy away from him, then
and there had flashed through his mind. "I'm not going to let you touch
her!"
"What do you mean?" demanded Miss Leighton in surprise. "Peggy! It's
I—Aunt Caroline! Won't you speak to me, child?"
At the sound of the well-remembered voice the little girl flushed
rosily, a look of astonishment and—Miss Leighton saw she was not
mistaken—of joy lighting up her face; seeing which, Billy allowed her
to receive the old lady's warm embrace, though he still retained a firm
grasp of her hand.
"How are you, Peggy?" Miss Leighton began. "You look very well," she
continued, without waiting for a reply. "We—Barnes and I—came to hear
your friend Mr. Maloney preach, and I thought I should like a word with
you. We sat close behind you in church."
"Did you?" said Peggy, smiling. "Wasn't it a nice sermon? And we had my
favourite hymn! Oh, Aunt Caroline," she proceeded sympathetically, "we
were so sorry to hear you had been ill. Are you really quite well now?
Yes. Oh, I'm so glad! Oh, Barnes, how do you do? Aunt Caroline, this is
Billy. Billy, you remember Aunt Caroline, don't you? You know you saw
her once before and you said you would know her again."
Billy had no alternative but to shake hands with Miss Leighton. And,
now he came to regard her more closely, she did not look the sort of
person who would steal his sister from him. He thought he read goodwill
towards himself in her face, as he scrutinised it in the light of the
lamp near which they were standing, and she showed no resentment for
the decidedly rude way in which he had treated her, the real fact
being that she had guessed the impulse which had prompted his strange
behaviour. For some minutes, he watched her talking to Peggy whilst
Barnes stood aside patiently waiting. Then, he reminded his sister that
if they did not go home, their mother would wonder what had become of
them.
"Yes," agreed Peggy, "we mustn't wait any longer. Mother's at home
alone—it's Sarah's afternoon out—and she's always anxious if we're
later than she expects us."
"One moment more," said Miss Leighton. "I must wish you a very happy
Christmas before we part, and I want you to tell me what I can give
you for a present. Choose whatever you like. And Billy—he must choose
something too!"
"Oh, how kind of you!" cried Peggy. Whilst Billy's eyes glistened
with delight, and a look of approval settled on his face—approval of
this great-aunt of his, against whom he had entertained such a strong
prejudice before.
"I want to do something to add to your happiness," Miss Leighton said,
in a voice which trembled with an emotion which she tried in vain to
repress.
"Do you, Aunt Caroline?" the little girl questioned earnestly. "Do you,
indeed?"
"Yes, my dear—"
"Then if you really and truly want to add to my happiness," Peggy broke
in excitedly, "you'll come home with us now—we've not far to go—and be
friends with mother again! Oh, do come! It grieves mother dreadfully to
think you're angry with her! But, you're not angry any longer, are you?"
Miss Leighton could not say she was, for her bitterness against Peggy's
mother had been slowly fading away since she had known Peggy herself.
Her head was in a whirl with conflicting thoughts. But she felt she
must accept or decline her little niece's invitation at once—she could
not discuss it there in the street.
"My dear, I cannot—" she was beginning, when a rush of tenderer,
better feelings than she had experienced for years filled her heart
and caused her to hesitate. She looked at Peggy's expectant face with
its sightless blue eyes, and the last remnant of her pride died away,
though she repeated, "I cannot, I cannot!"
But the sharp ears of the blind child had caught the note of indecision
in the other's tone, and taking the old lady by the hand she said
persuasively:
"Come, Aunt Caroline, we will go on, and Barnes and Billy will follow.
I know the way quite well. Oh, do come!"
And, much to Barnes's astonishment, and Billy's intense excitement,
Miss Leighton answered in a voice which no longer wavered, but had
become decided and firm:
"To please you, little Sunbeam, I will!"
* * * * *
"Here's wonderful news from the Pringles!" exclaimed Mrs. Tiddy on
Christmas morning, as she stood in the hall at Lower Brimley, ready
to start for church with her husband, and glanced hastily through the
letter she held in her hand—one of several which the postman had just
delivered. "I cannot stay to read all Margaret says now, but I see she
has had a visit from her aunt, and there must have been a complete
reconciliation, for—fancy, Ebenezer!—the old lady is going to dine with
them to-day!"
"I'm heartily glad to hear it," Mr. Tiddy responded. "Depend upon it,
Peggy has brought that about—the reconciliation, I mean. But come, my
dear, or we shall be late for church."
Then as they passed down the garden path, side by side, he continued:
"I always felt there was One above Who arranged that Miss Leighton and
Peggy should meet here and get to know each other. I expect the old
lady will have a happier Christmas to-day than she has had for many a
long year."
And Mr. Tiddy was right, for this year, Miss Leighton found fresh
beauty in the angels' message of peace and goodwill, and her Christmas
Day was a very happy one, spent in her niece's home. God had softened
her proud heart by the unconscious influence of the blind child, and He
was granting her light in the evening time of her life. Miss Leighton
had never felt so rich before as she did on this Christmas Day.
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