AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR.
Meanwhile, Mona Cameron, who had no such philanthropic schemes to occupy
her energies, was no less busy with schemes of an altogether different
character. She was thoroughly roused by this time, by Minnie's utter
impregnability to all established methods of provocation, so that she
found herself obliged to invent new ones, which up to this time had been
attended with no better success.
She was not naturally malicious, nor did it afford her any sort of
pleasure to rouse and anger Minnie as she so often did, neither did she
dislike the girl herself; but circumstances had been too much for her in
the beginning, and her nature was such that now it seemed to her almost
impossible to change her policy and adopt any other line of conduct. She
sometimes rebelled against the rivalry which, she considered, stood
between them and any possibility of friendship, but was still firm in
her belief, that it was a difficulty which could not be bridged, and the
subject had not hitherto been considered by Minnie at all; she simply
accepted it, as she did most other things, as it stood, and it had not
yet occurred to her that it could or should be changed.
One afternoon, Minnie stood at the outer door of the schoolroom
waiting on Mabel coming down stairs from the music-room. There were
perhaps a dozen girls inside, but she stood just where they could not
observe her--at least, with the exception of Mona Cameron--who seemed
much too intent upon her work to notice anything. At last, however, she
appeared to have got over the part which demanded such urgent attention,
and began to talk.
"I say, girls!" She said in an animated tone, which instantly secured
the attention of every one present, at the same time moving nearer the
window for the purpose, as it seemed, of obtaining better light. "Have
you heard the news?"
"What news?" eagerly exclaimed a dozen voices.
"Why, that Minnie Kimberly has turned Methodist."
Minnie started, scarce knowing whether to leave immediately or return
and proclaim her presence.
"What?" cried the girls, not quite understanding what Mona meant to
convey by that appellation.
"Methodist," repeated Mona, quite enjoying their mystification. "One of
those people who profess to go about continually doing good with tracts
in their pocket--though it's my private opinion they usually contrive to
do the very opposite. That's the sort of thing Minnie's going in for
just now, though I really think she is a little ashamed of it, she keeps
it so well hidden. You see my penetration was not at fault--I said it
was revival meetings or something of that sort."
Minnie turned, and with a firm step and fast beating heart walked back
into the schoolroom.
Mona did not seem to notice her but went on.
"Yes, isn't it fun! Quite a romance I'm sure! A sort of juvenile Mrs.
Fry or some person of that stamp, converting the heathen down in
Hollowmell."
"O, hush!" whispered some one, as Minnie walked straight into their
midst, her eyes flashing, but her cheeks pale as marble.
"I do not know what you may mean to insinuate by calling me Methodist as
you did just now. It may either be that you intend it as a term of
reproach to me, or as a mark of disrespect to the worthy body of people
who bear that name--"
"You hear her!" Interrupted Mona with a laugh, "you hear her defending
them. Didn't I tell you so?"
"I mean to say," continued Minnie, ignoring the interruption, "that if
you mean by calling me Methodist that I profess to go about continually
doing good, you are mistaken. Until now, I have not as you hinted, made
any profession at all, but I am not ashamed to own that I consider it
the noblest thing in life, to be good and to do good, and if by taking
the name of Methodist I might the better attain that object I should be
happy to do so."
"Ah!" replied Mona with a sneer, as no one else spoke, "it is quite
affecting I'm sure, to hear you say so. I should not be at all surprised
if that good-looking Methodist Minister from Canningate, had something
to do with these novel notions. I heard he had evinced great interest
in the heathen of Hollowmell."
Minnie's pale cheeks flushed with indignation, and for a moment she
forgot everything but Mona's cruel insinuation.
"It is certainly flattering to know you take such an interest in my
proceedings," she began, angrily, then checking herself hastily, she
continued in a softer tone: "I don't know why you should say such a
thing of me, Mona. What I have done (and the motive I had for keeping it
secret, was because it was so little), I have done from a simple wish to
make my life of some use, and benefit my father's tenants."
Mona smiled derisively but did not speak.
"I do not fear to say I am a Christian," continued Minnie, turning to
the other girls after a short pause. "Even in spite of Mona's sarcasm,
and though I do often come short of what one bearing that name should
be, I am not the less determined to persevere in my endeavours to make
these failures as few and far between as possible; and that any one here
will intentionally attempt to frustrate these efforts I cannot believe."
"That is a challenge directed to me, I suppose," observed Mona laughing
disagreeably.
"For shame, Mona!" cried one of the girls with warmth. "Your sharpness
is no match for Minnie's earnestness, I am sure all here think so!" and
she turned to the rest for confirmation.
"Yes, yes!" cried several voices enthusiastically.
"And I, for one," continued the young lady who had spoken, "though I
cannot give as good an account of myself, either in words or actions as
Minnie can, would have no objection to doing some good too, and if she
will accept my help, I shall be glad to render it such as it is."
Minnie thanked her with tears in her eyes, and accepted her offer with
simple gratitude, whereupon several of the others also volunteered their
aid, and some who lived too far away to render actual assistance begged
to know if there was no way in which they could help.
Minnie had by this time explained the plan of working adopted by Mabel
and herself, which was received with expressions of unmixed approval by
all, with the exception of Mona, who sat silently during their
conversation with her head bent over her work.
Mabel appeared in the midst of their discussion, and was greatly
surprised to learn the subject of it. She, however, entered heartily
into the debate, and a plan was quickly sketched out whereby the eager
desire displayed by all present to join in the work was to be satisfied.
Mabel was all this while wondering how their doings at Hollowmell had
come to be known among the girls, but no one explained, and even after
Minnie and she were on their way home, Minnie spoke no word in
explanation of this strange circumstance.
On the following day, of course, she received a full account from one of
those who had been present, and her love and respect for her friend
increased tenfold on becoming acquainted with the part she had played on
the occasion.
"She is a true heroine," thought Mabel when left to herself again, "I
don't understand how she can do things like that. I am sure if they were
required of me I could not do them. Why is there such a difference
between us? She seems to do everything so well, though she is just newly
conscious that there are things like this to do, and I have been
acquainted with the fact all my life. I am distracted by doubts and
fears--I, who have known the reality of God's love and goodness so long,
and she, who only a few weeks ago wakened up to that reality, is able to
rest in it without question or misgiving. Ah! that is the difference, I
only know of its existence, while she feels it--breathes it--lives in
it."
Just then her meditations were broken in upon by Minnie herself who ran
in, exclaiming breathlessly, "O, I am so glad you're here early, I did
so want to have a chat with you before the school commenced!"
"All right," replied Mabel, who had been occupied during her reflections
in slowly unlacing her boot. She now set about the task with right good
will, and was soon ready; but Minnie was quicker, and was already in the
inner room, depositing the books of both in their respective desks when
Mabel came in. Minnie turned to address some remark to her on the
subject of her dilatoriness, and then for the first time her eye was
caught by a paper fastened upon the opposite wall with a pin. It was a
large paper, and had notice printed in large capitals on the top.
Beneath was written in Mona Cameron's beautiful writing the following
advertisement:--
"_MISSION TO THE HEATHEN OF HOLLOWMELL._
"A meeting of Christian friends favourable to the above scheme will
be held in Hollowmell Hall, on the evening of Wednesday, the 22nd
inst.
"All Christians--(especially Methodists)--are invited to attend."
Minnie's exclamation brought all the girls then in the room to the spot,
and great was the indignation of those who had been witnesses of the
scene on the preceding evening, but some who as yet knew nothing about
it laughed and thought it rather clever.
Minnie's first impulse was to tear down the obnoxious notice and burn it
before them all, but fortunately her better sense prevailed, and after a
momentary struggle with her angry feelings, and also with her keen
personal distress, she looked up and read it aloud, omitting the
objectionable parenthesis, and said with a smile to those who were in
the secret:
"It is a very good joke, I daresay, so we'll make it a true one," and
then, with their permission, she told all about their proposed plan, and
how Mona had laughed at it, and ended by inviting them all to attend the
meeting advertised from so unexpected a quarter, in the Hollowmell Hall.
"Only," she added, "we will hold it on Friday evening instead of
Wednesday as Mona suggests--not considering, I apprehend, our onerous
duties in the matter of lessons on that evening."
The teachers entered the room at this juncture, and consequently the
curiosity of many who had come in during Minnie's speech was left
unsatisfied except for various disconnected whispers which were
exchanged during the morning with such as were better acquainted with
the matter, and these, it may be supposed, were not of the most
satisfactory character.
There was quite a sensation created in Minnie's favour when the girls
were free again at the mid-day recess, and the whole story came out;
Mona had to endure, as best she could, the spectacle of Minnie elevated
to the pedestal of heroism, and finding herself all but sent to
Coventry. As may be imagined, this state of affairs did not tend to
soothe her already ruffled feelings, but rather the opposite, so that,
by the time school was dismissed she was in no enviable frame of mind.
She did not sit at her work chatting and laughing with the others who
remained behind, long after school hours, but immediately left the
schoolroom, and proceeded to don her hat and ulster in haste, lest any
one should come out before she could leave. Just as she lifted her glove
she noticed something white on a table in one corner, and
notwithstanding her haste she was moved by a strong desire to go over
and look at it. It turned out to be a heap of manuscript.
"Why, it's Minnie Kimberly's," she said to herself. "Her Latin
translation for the examination! just like her to leave it about in this
manner!" she ran her eye over several lines.
"How beautiful!" she exclaimed, under her breath, "I could do nothing
like it if I tried a hundred years. I am not afraid of her in anything
else, but if she sends this, I may give up hope."
Then a strong temptation seized her to hide the manuscript, and so not
only be revenged on Minnie for her humiliation, but also secure the
certainty of her success in the examination.
"Why should she have everything?" she asked petulantly, "Is it not
enough for her that she has sweet temper, and popularity,
and--Christianity," and her lip did not curl at the word now that she
was alone as it certainly would have done had there been others by. An
expression of deep pain came into her beautiful face, and putting down
the manuscript where she had found it, she laid her head on the dusty
table and something like a sigh escaped her.
"No!" she said, in her excitement speaking aloud. "Minnie _shall_ have
the prize. She deserves it as she does all the gifts my selfish heart so
wickedly envies her; we may not be friends, but at least we can be fair
rivals."
A step was heard in the room, and without looking round to ascertain
whose it might be, Mona snatched up her gloves and disappeared.
Minnie, for it was she, stood staring in a dazed sort of way at the
place where Mona had been, not a moment before, in such an attitude of
dejection as no one had ever believed her capable of yielding to, and
thoroughly mystified by her last words which had reached her ears. All
at once she noticed the paper on the table, and recognised it at once
as her Latin translation.
"So that was it," she soliloquised. "Poor girl, she isn't happy, I am
afraid. I wish we could be friends. Mab and I would soon manage to get
her into a more cheerful frame of mind. If she would only join the
Mission, she was the unintentional means of forming, she would find a
great deal more satisfaction in her life. However, she need not be
afraid of this," and she touched the pages of her work lovingly. "I
don't think I will send it after all."
The meeting, so strangely convened, was held as agreed, and was
numerously attended by those young ladies who lived within a convenient
distance. Many who did not, sent letters expressing regret for the same,
and sympathy for their object, some also sending subscriptions, and
offering any other kind of aid it might be in their power to bestow.
This was all very encouraging, and the girls in a flutter of delighted
excitement formed themselves into a society which was to be known to
future generations as the "Hollowmell Mission." There was a great deal
of laughing, and talking, and fun, many of them looking on it as a new,
and accordingly, agreeable source of amusement, but there was also a
great deal of simple, unaffected earnestness which kept the work alive
when these butterfly supporters, who hailed it as a new excitement,
wearied of it and one by one dropped off.
The company was divided into committees who presided over the different
branches of the work, and were, moreover, charged with the conduct of
the Saturday evening entertainments, over which each committee presided
in rotation, thus relieving Mabel and Minnie of a great deal of labour,
and leaving them free to apply themselves to the extension of the work.
Prizes of various descriptions were offered, the competition lists being
open to all. At first these were entirely in connection with work which
could be shown out-doors, as the girls did not consider themselves
warranted to go any further at present. The competition for the
best-kept garden has already been mentioned. Another was shortly
announced for the best-cleaned and tidiest windows. Many of the gates
and little wooden railings which separated the different plots of ground
were in very bad repair, the paint being in many cases completely rubbed
off, and the wood-work broken. At Minnie's request these places were
mended, and Mr. Kimberly himself, who began to be quite interested in
the work, supplied a certain quantity of paint to every house, while the
young ladies offered a prize for its most successful use.
Although there were children in almost every house in the hollow, there
were two or three where there were not any, and some also where the
children were too young for work of this kind. These were consequently
alloted to any who should volunteer their services for the purpose. Some
one proposed that this competition should be open to boys alone, but
Minnie stood up bravely for the girls, declaring that they could do this
kind of work as well as the boys, and should not be shut out from it, as
the boys had not been shut out from the window-cleaning.
This was considered only fair, and it was also thrown open to all who
cared to compete.
But though the young reformers did not think it right to go further than
the outsides of the cottages in their endeavours after improvement,
their influence began to assert itself within also. They were so young
themselves that they considered it would be an arrogant and presumptuous
proceeding on their part to attempt anything that would look like
dictation, or interference, and might materially injure their work in
directions wherein it had been successful heretofore. They contented
themselves therefore with working among the young people, relying on the
natural development of that work, and were encouraged to find, that such
reliance was by no means misplaced, for, besides the improvements
effected by the youthful competitors in the outward appearance of the
cottages, a further improvement was observable in the comparative
absence of drunken men and untidy women.
The entertainments on Saturday afternoons had also somewhat changed in
their nature by this time. The social element was still preserved, but
instead of the riotous fun and hilarity of the opening meeting, a
quieter mode now prevailed. After tea, there was usually a game, then
all sat down, and the girls drew forth their sewing with which they
proceeded while the boys sat quietly in their places, all listening
eagerly to some entertaining book read by one of the young ladies till
about half-an-hour before the usual hour for dispersion which was given
up to general conversation, and the singing of a few hymns.
One night, during this half-hour, one of the young ladies, Agnes Summers
by name, the same Agnes who had defended Minnie on a former occasion,
began to wonder if there was nothing the boys could do while the reading
was going on.
Nobody could suggest anything at first, but at length one boy
volunteered the information that he could knit; other two professed the
same accomplishment, and, encouraged by this example, several voices
expressed their willingness to learn.
"The very thing!" exclaimed Mabel, "we might have thought of that
sooner."
"O, but," objected Minnie, "wouldn't it be too ridiculous to see boys
sitting knitting."
"Not at all," asserted Mabel. "I once knew a family of Germans, rich
people too, who had all their knitting done by the young men, and anyhow
it won't matter if it is ridiculous, it's useful, and nobody will laugh
when they remember that. I thought at first it would have been rather
ridiculous to see the girls painting the gates and palings, but it
turned out quite the opposite. It is wonderful how earnestness
beautifies the most commonplace things, and reconciles us to the most
incongruous."
"Well, I see you are right, and I suppose I must give in," answered
Minnie, "We can give it a trial at any rate, though it will justify its
existence, in my eyes, I am afraid, only by its success, as papa said
our undertaking had in his,--oh, that's a dreadfully narrow way to look
at it, no, I'll give the plan my unqualified support."
"That's more like you," said Mabel, smiling at her impulsive
afterthought, "it isn't your way to be half-hearted in anything. Now,
I'll tell you what I propose should be done about this. We must supply
ourselves with a quantity of worsted, and a sufficient number of
knitting-needles, and set all the boys at once to knit stockings and
socks for their own winter wear. I propose that they shall, every pair
as it is finished, be put into a box with the maker's name attached to
it, and be kept there for distribution in the cold weather."
This motion meeting with general approval, was forthwith adopted, and
the conversation for that evening ended. The boys, as a rule, were
greatly delighted with the proposed change, for they did not find it by
any means an easy matter to sit quite still, doing nothing, even while
listening to the most interesting story, and thus it promised to be a
comfortable, as well as a useful arrangement all round.
That night as Mabel was locking the door preparatory to going home, she
noticed a little boy who usually attended the Saturday evening meeting,
but who had that night been absent, waiting outside the gate. As soon as
he saw her come out, he ran up the path, and eagerly caught by her
dress, begging her to come to his mother.
She inquired what the matter was, but he could do nothing but sob and
cry to her to make haste. She hesitated for a moment. She was already
later than usual and the night was rather stormy, but the little
creature's distress moved her to go with him.
He led her into one of the cottages where, in the kitchen, lay a woman
evidently in the last stage of consumption. The house was in a terrible
state of disorder, having, apparently, never been touched since its
mistress lay down, which Mabel learned was about three weeks ago.
Her husband was away at the pit, she said, and the little boy who had
brought Mabel was her eldest child. An infant of about four months old
slept beside her, and two other children of about two and three years of
age respectively sprawled on the floor, screaming with all the strength
of their united lungs.
After speaking for a few minutes to the poor woman, Mabel decided that
she could do nothing until the noise was stopped, and after many
unsuccessful efforts, at last had the satisfaction of seeing the two
drop off to sleep, thoroughly exhausted with crying. She then turned her
attention to the sick woman, whom she found to be in a very weak state
indeed. She told Mabel that the doctor had visited her that morning, and
had thought it his duty to tell her that she had only a very few days
more to live.
Mabel hardly knew what to do, or what to say, but at last suggested,
that perhaps she would like to see Mr. Chadwell or the missionary, as
she gathered from her conversation that she was in great spiritual
distress.
"Oh, no," sighed the poor creature, "I daren't have any of them here.
The missionary was here once, and it was the words he spoke that first
set me thinking. He left me a book too, that was full of good things,
but my husband burned it when he came home, and the priest said if he
ever came here again my eyes would never look on the blessed Virgin."
She was stopped by a hollow cough that completely racked her wasted
frame, and then went on in a faint voice:
"I couldn't rest, though, and the priest did not give me any comfort.
Then I heard Willie there tell what the kind young ladies said about
going to Heaven directly we die, and never a word of purgatory, and I
thought maybe one of you could tell me something to ease my heart."
"What can I do?" Asked Mabel of herself--"What can I say? My heart seems
frozen, and my lips powerless to tell her what she is dying to hear. How
can I tell her what I have never experienced? How can I comfort her with
words that have never comforted me?"
She laid her head down on the torn coverlet, and prayed for strength and
wisdom--but no strength--no wisdom seemed to come--the Heavens seemed as
brass above her--she felt nothing but a dreary blank.
And yet the woman was dying, she must do something.
For a brief moment--like a flash--she pictured herself in the dying
woman's place, and felt the horror of being there without hope. With a
convulsive shudder she rose and sitting down by the bedside, she took
the woman's thin wasted hand in hers, and asked her if indeed she had no
hope.
"Hope!" she repeated. "I read in that book--he called it the word of
God--that the wages of sin is death. The priest said it was only
purgatory, but I know more than he thinks I do--and I know what death
that means--No, I have no hope. I know what a sinner I have been, and I
know what the wages of sin are."
"But," said Mabel, gently, "we are all sinners. We cannot--even the best
of us--hope for anything but the wages of sin, except through the death
of Christ, who died to save sinners--even the chief."
"O, you know nothing of sin," said the woman in an agonised voice. "Here
it has not been so bad, but if you had seen the place we came from you
might know something of it." And the remembrance seemed to completely
overcome her, for she lay moaning and crying in a perfect agony of
despair.
Mabel talked and argued, but felt she was not making any impression.
Finally she rose and said, speaking in a hurried whisper, "I spoke to
you of hope--of hope that I myself know not. I am in as great darkness
as you, and therefore I cannot give you the help you need."
The woman stared at the girl in a strange, uncomprehending sort of way,
but she was by this time too weak to make any comment.
"But," continued Mabel, "I know of one who has _felt_ the power of
salvation, may I bring her to you?"
She nodded assent, and Mabel hastened away.
It was now nearly ten o'clock, but she felt that the patient would not
see the light of day, and that every consideration must give way before
the desperate nature of this case. She almost felt inclined to fetch Mr.
Chadwell, instead of disturbing Minnie at this unseasonable hour, but
feared it might have a fatal effect on the dying woman.
She quietly tapped at the back door, fearing to alarm the family by
ringing, and asked to speak to Minnie privately. Minnie took her into
her own room, where she related the circumstance in a few hurried words.
As soon as she had taken in the meaning of Mabel's words she ran off
without uttering a word, to beg her father's permission to undertake
this errand of mercy. He was very reluctant, naturally, but at last
yielded, on condition that she could get one of her brothers to
accompany her.
They were all in the parlour, from which apartment the sounds of their
laughter and merriment proceeded, as Minnie opened the door rather
hesitatingly, and asked Charlie to come out and speak to her a moment.
"Why can't you come in here and speak to me?" He asked, "I feel so
comfortable, I don't care about moving."
"Oh, do come quickly!" entreated Minnie. "You don't know what may be the
consequence of a minute's delay."
Charlie rose, a good deal surprised, and the others enquired rather
anxiously if there was anything wrong, she looked so terribly in
earnest.
She hastily assured them that it was nothing wrong at home, and drawing
Charlie into the hall, told him what she wished to do, and begged him to
accompany her, forgetting in her eagerness the dread of his ridicule,
which at any other time would have overpowered her.
"Nonsense," he said when he had heard her out, "I really thought you had
more common sense, Minnie, than to bother your head with things of that
description. Are there not enough fanatics _paid_ for doing these
things? The girl must be a fool, and has no business to be out at this
hour alone. Her people must be crazy too, to allow it."
"Oh, Charlie!" exclaimed Minnie, wringing her hands in her distress.
"_Do_, please come. You can't think how much it may mean. Think if _you_
were dying, and had no one to say a kind word!--Think if it was _me_!
And this woman's soul is as immortal and as precious as yours or mine."
He looked at her a moment, as if he had fallen into a dream, and then
without a word, took down his coat, and bidding her wrap well up,
prepared to accompany her.
She flew upstairs again, and hastily threw a large shawl round her,
insisting at the same time on Mabel enveloping herself in another of
similar magnitude, and in about three minutes, the two girls were down
in the hall, where they found Charlie awaiting them.
They set off at once, walking rapidly, towards Hollowmell, and only
stopping for a few minutes, while Charlie left a message at Dr. Merton's
directing him to follow them there.
They found the poor woman in a state of utter prostration, but she
revived a little upon the administration of some cordial, which Charlie
had had the forethought to slip into his pocket before coming out. She
seemed to be worn out by mental, rather than by physical suffering, but
Charlie would allow no word to be spoken to her, until the arrival of
Dr. Merton, which took place in a very short time after they reached the
cottage.
He gave it as his opinion, that she could not live many hours at most,
and that if anything could be done to ease her suffering, which was
altogether the effect of mental distress, most certainly it should be
done.
He could do no good, so he took his departure, having other cases to see
to, and Charlie withdrew to the fire at the other end of the apartment,
leaving Mabel and Minnie to administer whatever remedy it might be in
their power to offer.
Minnie immediately approached the dying woman, and finding her conscious
bent over her, whispering softly in her ear. "God so loved the world,
that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in Him
might not perish, but have everlasting life."
She started up at the words, but her strength was not sufficient,
murmuring to herself, "Not for me, oh, not for me."
"Yes, for you," said Minnie with a quiet confidence in her tone that
carried with it a visible influence. "For every one who believes. Jesus
came to call, not the righteous, but sinners to repentance. He is
calling you now. Won't you answer?"
"I can't, I can't. How can I who have never spoken his name except to
profane it!"
"But God will forgive all that for His Son's sake. Don't you know that
Jesus died that God might be able to forgive us all our sins?"
"I know nothing but that I am a sinner, and the wages of sin is death,"
she moaned in a voice that was momentarily getting weaker.
"But the gift of God is eternal life," added Minnie turning to the
place in her Testament which she had brought. "See, those are the words
that follow, you can read them for yourself."
She took the book and spelt out the words by the light of the candle
which Minnie held up for her.
"You see," continued she, "the one is what you have earned what you must
get if you persist in standing on your own merits--the other is a gift.
We get wages as we deserve them, but a gift has nothing to do with
deserving. God gives us eternal life, not because we are worthy, but
because Christ, our Saviour, has asked it for us--has earned it for us.
It is _His_ wages--the price of _His_ work. All we have got to do is to
take it and trust Him for the rest."
There was nothing wonderful in the words Minnie used, they were at times
a little disconnected, but they came straight from her heart with such
evident conviction of their truth that they struck her hearers with a
force that astonished them.
"Trust Him for the rest," repeated the dying woman. "Trust Him for the
rest. Yes I will. You trust Him, I see that, and why should not I? I
don't understand it quite yet, but He has said it, and I _will_ believe
it."
After that she lay still for a long time, neither moving nor speaking,
and scarcely seeming to breathe.
"Mabel," whispered Minnie, "I think we may leave her now. She seems at
peace. I'll run in to Molly Gray's, and ask her to stay here with her
during the night. Molly lives all alone since her father died, so it
won't disturb any one."
"No need," said a voice behind her in a gruff whisper that startled her,
"I'll stay with her myself."
She turned round and found herself face to face with the woman's
husband, who had returned from the pit, and entering without their
knowledge, had been a silent spectator of the scene.
"Pat!" cried the dying woman joyfully, as she heard his voice, "Oh, Pat,
I am so glad you've come back in time to see me die in peace. You see I
_can_ die in peace, and you need not mind the money you promised to save
for masses. I won't need any, for I am going straight to my Saviour.
He's waiting for me in Heaven, and He's here beside me now, and He'll be
with me all the way. Oh, miss, pray for my husband and my children that
they may come to know such joy as this!"
Minnie knelt down beside the bed, and involuntarily they all followed
her example--the great, strong Irishman kneeling at the head beside his
wife, her thin, white hands clasped in his rough brown ones. For some
minutes the silence remained unbroken, and then Minnie's clear, sweet
voice rose in earnest, supplicating tones for this family so soon to be
bereaved.
Her prayer was short and simple, but it went straight to the hearts of
her few listeners, touching and softening them with its heart-felt
pathos, so that when they rose there were tears on every cheek, and even
that of Charlie was not dry.
Directly after the visitors prepared to depart, Minnie promising to come
down as early as possible the next morning. As they passed out, after a
few more parting words with the newly-born Christian, whom they were not
likely to see again alive, Patrick Malone laid his hand on Minnie's arm
to stay her, saying, "Won't you leave that with her?" pointing to the
Testament.
"Gladly," replied Minnie, as she put it into his hand, then hurriedly
taking it again she found and turned down the page at the fourteenth
chapter of St. John, and directed him to read that to her.
"I will," he said, "and I'll give you the book to-morrow when--" but his
emotion choked him and he could not proceed.
"Never mind," said Minnie, "Keep it for my sake and hers."
He thanked and blessed her again and again, and declared he would never
part with it till the last day of his life, though the priest burned him
for it, and then Minnie ran out to find Charlie and Mabel waiting for
her in the rain.
They did not speak at all, till they reached the Kimberly's home, when
Charlie said he would see Mabel home, and explain the cause of her
absence to her friends, and Minnie bade her friend good-night with a
very tired but happy face. Charlie came up the steps to open the door to
her with his latch-key, and as she went in he stopped suddenly and
kissed her on the forehead and then was gone.
[Illustration]
Minnie did not sleep till she heard him come in softly and go into his
room, and even after that she lay for hours thinking of all she had seen
that night and rejoicing with the angels over the sinner who had
during its early watches returned to her Saviour's arms.
Mabel, too, lay long awake that night, but her thoughts were very
different from Minnie's. She was pondering over the spectacle of a soul
entering into that peace from which she felt herself by some mysterious
means shut out.