THE KING'S STAMP.
MR. BURTON, the lady, and child were all at church and in the same pew
on Sunday morning. The pretty little one stood on the seat beside
Mr. Burton and gazed soberly down at the large prayer book, whilst the
psalms were being chanted, in imitation of the older people, though
she could not read a letter. Sometimes she would nestle more closely
to him, and turn to look up at his kind face, as if she were happy
to feel his arm encircling her.
The sight of that trustful morsel of a child, clinging in a way to the
gentleman who had for several years lived such a lonely life, brought
tears to many eyes.
No secret was made about these newcomers. They were the wife and child
of Mr. James Burton, whom he had kept hidden away in a poor home at a
distance, under the pretence that he should lose his income if his
brother were made acquainted with his marriage.
Bit by bit it came out that Mr. James's life had been a miserable
sham. He had long ago spent his own handsome fortune in riotous living
and gambling, and was terribly in debt, when he threw himself on his
brother's mercy and asked for help. In the hope of inducing him to
give up his evil ways, Mr. Burton had furnished the Nest for him, and
allowed him a sufficient income to keep him in comfort, but on
condition that he never touched a card, or gambled in any way for the
future.
Mr. James was ready to promise anything, and professed to be very
penitent, and willing to settle down quietly at Halesford. He did
spend most of his time there, and was so smiling, pleasant-spoken,
and free in giving trifling sums, that some people, Duff for one,
were quite deceived by him.
All the while he was spending his ready money in the old way, going on
credit for everything, though not at Halesford, but for luxuries not
to be had in the little town, and he had even given a bill of sale on
the furniture which was none of his, but had been put into the Nest,
for his use only, by Mr. Burton.
The dear kind gentleman whom Duff and a few like him were fond of
calling "close fisted" had been living quietly and on less than became
his position, that he might pay off his brother's debts.
"For the sake of the old name, those who have trusted my brother shall
be paid at any cost of denial to myself," said Mr. Burton; and he kept
his word. Only he drew a line at gambling debts, and Mr. James found
that nothing could move him from his determination not to pay one
penny of what his brother called his "debts of honour."
"They are the most dishonourable debts any person can have," he said;
"for if men win when they gamble, they most likely help to ruin their
neighbours, and if they lose, to ruin themselves. In your case, James,
having nothing of your own to lose, and having promised that you would
never run the risk of incurring such debts again, they are doubly
dishonourable, and I will not break my word, though you have broken
yours."
So it seemed Mr. James managed to raise money on the furniture which
was not his, and went right away out of the country. His poor wife was
in sore straits, as he neither wrote nor sent her money, so at last
she sent a letter to Mr. Burton. Then everything came out, and
Mrs. James discovered that she had been deserted by a worthless,
selfish husband, but had found a true friend and brother
in Mr. Burton, who provided such a home for her as she had never
had in her life before since she was quite a child.
Mr. Burton could have got the furniture of the Nest back again,
at very little cost, for he had taken care to have proof that it was
his own property. But he found that the person who had advanced the
money upon it had been deceived and, believed that Mr. James had a
right to dispose of it. The sum advanced was not very large; for Mr.
James had been too anxious to get hold of it, and too much afraid of
being found out, to make very good terms, so Mr. Burton gave the
lender his own back again, and had the furniture replaced in the Nest.
It turned out that Mrs. James was the orphan daughter of an old friend
of the family, and was earning her bread as governess, in a home where
she was loved and respected, when Mr. James met with her again. He had
known her as a child, and his pleasant ways and pretence of affection
induced the young lady to become his wife.
Very likely, he did love her after his fashion, for there are a great
many people who deceive themselves on such matters.
They call that "love" which induces them to win a good girl's heart
and take her from a happy home where she is useful, and contented,
when they have nothing half so good to give her—not even as true
a heart in exchange. There often seems to be a very narrow step
between what people call "love" and downright selfishness. Sometimes,
indeed, there is no step at all, as in Mr. James's case, though most
likely his poor young wife, much as she has suffered, does not blame
him as he deserves.
It is a beautiful and blessed thing to think of, that the better and
more unselfish a good woman is, the more unwilling she is to think
evil of others, and especially of the man she calls husband, and who
is the father of her children. No doubt Mrs. James Burton, who is a
sweet Christian gentlewoman, if ever there was one, blames bad
companions for having drawn her husband aside from the right way.
She will hope and pray and teach her little one to lisp out a petition
to "Our Father" for that other father who has given her so little of a
parent's love, though it pleased him to see how pretty she was, and,
during his rare visits, to make her a toy and a plaything. Well, who
knows but some day the prayers will have an answer, and Mrs. James
will see her husband a true penitent, and little Mabel have a father
of whom she will not be ashamed?
We have to go on praying, trusting, hoping, waiting, and leave results
and times to God.
Though Halesford people had to find out Mr. James's character by
degrees, they knew before Christmas Day came who had been their friend
in need. All who still required help were invited to go to the schools
on Christmas Eve, but early in the morning, where they were met by Mr.
Phillips, the rector, and Mr. Henderson, the minister of the chapel.
It was only needful to look at these two friends' faces to know that
there was some pleasure in store, and so it proved. Neatly laid out
on benches were rows of joints of excellent beef and piles of
groceries—plums for to-morrow's pudding not being forgotten. The size
of joint or parcel was determined by the number of mouths to be filled
in each home. And there was a little sum of money in addition,
to provide such odds and ends as fuel, vegetables, and matters that
could not well be purchased for the people by the kind friend who had
resolved that there should be plenty in every Halesford cottage
on Christmas Day.
Whilst the things were being distributed one man cried out, "We should
like to know who we have to thank for all these things? We do know
that God has stirred his heart, whoever he may be; but we want you
to tell us his name, though I fancy some of us have not been far wrong
in a guess we have made."
Mr. Phillips smiled, and answered that if the people would wait a few
minutes they would perhaps see him, for he was no stranger
to Halesford.
Just then Mr. Burton's face appeared in the doorway, looking the
picture of happiness, and the sight was greeted with such a shout
of welcome that, if Mr. Phillips and Mr. Henderson had not fairly
taken possession of him, he would have been ready to run away again.
The master of Halesford Hall was as modest as he was kind—and that is
saying a great deal. The mere act of good-doing, and the knowledge
that others were made happier and less anxious by what he was able
to do for them, abundantly rewarded Mr. Burton.
There was a large congregation in the old church on Christmas Day
morning, for at Halesford there was a custom which has not died out
in many country places yet. Christian folk put aside for the time all
religious differences, and met under the one roof to worship, and to
take up with heart and voice the angels' song, "Glory to God in the
highest, and on earth peace, goodwill towards men."
Duff was there, and so were little Mrs. Brown and her husband, the old
mother who was spending Christmas with them, having undertaken to see
to the cookery, assisted by the eldest girl.
Duff was feeling not a little ashamed of himself, and he even owned
to Mrs. Brown that he had been mistaken in his judgment of Mr. Burton
and his brother.
"You see," he said, "it is not always easy to tell the difference
between real gold and plated articles; and sometimes the imitations
are so fair on the outside that people are deceived by looks, and take
them for solid metal. It is so with human beings too, and I am afraid
we are only too ready to judge people by outsides as well as plate.
I'm free to own that I gave Mr. James credit for the good that was not
in him, and where the good actually was I could not see it. I do feel
as if coals of fire had been heaped on my head when I think that I
have had the order for all the flour and bread that has been given
away."
There was not much merit in owning that he had been mistaken now that
the truth was made plain to everybody. Still, even this acknowledgment
was the first step in the right direction from Mr. Duff. He got an
answer from Mrs. Brown which gave him food for thought, and, it is to
be hoped, assisted him to form a more correct judgment in future.
"It is easy enough to tell real silver from plated, if you look at the
marks," she said. "The silver always has the King's stamp on it, and I
take it that the life of the true disciple of Jesus has his King's
stamp on it too. The man who has taken his sins to Jesus and found
peace through His precious cleansing blood, and who is under the
influence of God's Holy Spirit, cannot help showing the marks and
signs in his daily life. It is a pity that we are not as anxious to
look for them, and as ready to discern them, as we might be. Any way,
seeing it is so easy to make mistakes in judging our neighbours,
it would be well for us to remember what Jesus said, 'Judge not that
ye be not judged.'"
"I was wrong about Mr. Burton," replied Duff. "Even in the matter
of old Ann Willis, I said hard things about him. I know now that he
wished to be her real friend; and, whilst I blamed him for not putting
temptation in her way, he was actually trying to persuade her to give
up the bad habit that was her ruin, to leave the miserable hut she
called 'home' and accept a comfortable one where she would be properly
cared for. I've got a lesson," added the baker, "and now my eyes are
opened, maybe I shall keep my mouth shut oftener than I have done.
To think I should have called Mr. Burton 'close fisted!' I feel as if
I could not forgive myself. Well, may God bless him, say I, to-day.
And may the poor lady at the Nest and the pretty little one be the
means of brightening the Hall for its master, till he brings a
mistress to the big house itself. Here's 'a happy Christmas to them
and to everybody,'" to which farewell words Mrs. Brown, now arrived
at her own door, responded by a hearty "Amen."
WHAT CAME OF A TALK.
CHAPTER I.
THE BEST KIND OF HELP.
MR. POWELL'S grasp was on the door handle, when his wife laid a
detaining hand on his arm.
"Be sure and call at Ann Crompton's on your way to the office, dear,"
she said. "She may know 'of a suitable person to take Elizabeth's
place, and whoever she recommends is certain to be trustworthy."
Mr. Powell promised, and went his way, feeling less bright than usual.
The breakfast hour was generally one of the pleasantest of the day.
His wife, of barely a year's standing, attended to his wants with a
smiling face, and the food had a better relish, because seasoned by
cheery conversation.
This morning there had been no such seasoning. Mrs. Powell's face was
clouded over, and she did nothing but grumble and tell tales of her
housekeeping troubles.
"Nobody is so worried as I am," she said. "Elizabeth suits to
perfection, and may be trusted with untold gold. Mamma parted with her
that she might come to me, knowing what such a servant would be to a
young housekeeper. I have never given her a cross word, and now, after
five years' service in the family, she has determined to leave, and at
the worst possible time for me. Elizabeth says her mother cannot do
without her, and she must go. Just as if a month or two could matter,
when she has been ailing for years. I cannot leave Sarah in charge,
she is too giddy; so everything will be upset. Your sisters must not
count on our going to the seaside when they do; and most likely by the
time I get suited with a servant in Elizabeth's place, the fine
weather will be over, and our summer holiday lost. It is horribly
selfish of Elizabeth."
Mr. Powell was sorry to see the clouds on his wife's pretty face, and
to hear such a change in the tone of her voice. Besides, he could not
agree with her. He would not, however, tell her so, or say that
Elizabeth could hardly be called selfish for leaving an excellent
place, where she had good wages and no anxiety, to go and nurse an
ailing mother and take care of her father and the younger children
in a cottage home.
He resolved to wait until the first feeling of annoyance was past,
before attempting to reason with his wife, and in the meanwhile to
send Ann Crompton to consult with her about a successor to Elizabeth.
"Old Ann," as everybody called her, was a cheerful body, much inclined
to look at the best side of things and to help her neighbours to do
likewise. She lived in a single room, in which was nothing that could
well be spared, for the floor was bare, there were no hangings to the
bed, only two wood-bottomed chairs, on one of which was placed a
cushion, a tiny table, and a very small supply of hardware and
crockery.
It might have been a palace, by the way Ann prized it and extolled
its conveniences.
Somebody remarked that the bedstead was a poor one. Ann pointed out
that it was better than it looked, having a sacking bottom, which was
preferable to laths, being more elastic.
"The floor is bare, and must be cold to your feet," said another.
"I have a stool to put them on," said Ann, "and having nothing on it
makes the floor easy to clean."
"You've only two chairs."
"There's always one for a visitor, and if two friends should come in
at the same time, which doesn't often happen, there's the side of the
bed for me to sit on."
"You have not two cups and saucers alike," said another neighbour.
"The tea tastes no worse for that, so long as the crockery is clean,"
replied Ann.
"You have not many pots and pans to scour," remarked a caller, who
might have spent more time on her own with advantage to herself and
them.
"I have enough for all the cooking that has to be done here,"
she answered. Then fearing that the words might sound like grumbling,
she added: "And, thank God, I have never been without something.
My bread has been given me, my water has been sure. And if my bits
of things do not take me long to clean, I have all the more time
to spend on the work that earns the bread."
Did somebody say, "How lonely it must be for you, living all by
yourself!" Ann would answer, "There are folks within sound if not
within sight. I have only to knock at the wall and somebody comes
directly. My neighbours know that I never trouble them without a
needs-be, and they're real kind. At nights, if I wake with my
rheumatics and what not, I think to myself, 'I'm getting old and I
cannot expect to be free from the infirmities that belong to age.
But they will not be for long. There will be no aches nor pains,
nor tired bones, nor sleepless nights in heaven. Nothing to cry for,
except it be for gladness, and "God shall wipe away all tears."'"
"I cannot be lonely, for I remember that Jesus said, 'Lo I am with you
alway,' and I feel sure those words were said to comfort an old
disciple like me, as well as those others that saw Him in the flesh
and heard His voice."
Old Ann was independent in her way. She knitted coarse stockings and
did rough mending, and run odd lengths of print together for
coverlets! She earned but little, and she suited her wants to her
means, taking from others only what she could by no amount of industry
earn for herself. Yet in time of sickness Ann never lacked a nurse,
for her kindly loving nature had won her many friends, and children
were ready to run for her and the elders to wait upon her, when the
need arose for such neighbourly ministry.
Mrs. Powell's mother had often employed the old woman, and more than
once Ann had recommended servants, who had turned out well, so it was
not surprising that the young wife thought she might help her in this
present difficulty.
Perhaps Mr. Powell thought she might do more good than in the matter
of a servant, and he very willingly sent old Ann to have a talk with
his wife.
"My husband has told you why I wished to see you, Ann, I suppose,"
said Mrs. Powell, when the old woman was shown into the
breakfast-room.
"Not a word, ma'am. He said you would tell me," replied Ann, and then
waited patiently for the story.
It ran rapidly from Mrs. Powell's lips, and the listener never
interrupted her until she finished with the question, "Don't you think
it is very selfish of Elizabeth?"
"Well, I can't say yes, ma'am," was the honest answer. "The girl has
all to lose in the way of money, home, rest and comfort by leaving
your service. But she will gain in another way. Her conscience will
say she has done right in going to her sick mother, for God puts
'Honour the father and mother' next to the commandments that teach us
our special duty to Himself."
"I thought you would like to help me, Ann; but you seem to think I am
wrong, and you take Elizabeth's' side," said Mrs. Powell, rather
sharply.
"I will help you if I can, ma'am. Nothing would please me better,
though I cannot at this minute think of the right girl for you. And I
can feel for you about going to the seaside, for I have just been
disappointed of my own summer outing."
Mrs. Powell was interested at once, and reminded of her own want of
consideration for Ann. She had missed the old woman for three weeks
past, yet had never sent to ask after her until her own perplexity
made her wish to see her. Since Ann's arrival she had been too full of
her own concerns to inquire the reason why she had seen nothing of her
for so long. She felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks as she said,
"Have you been ill?"
"I'll tell you all about it, ma'am," replied Ann. "I belong to a
Mothers' Class, and once a year we have a day's trip to the seaside.
We reckon on it very much, for to most of us it is the only chance we
have of feeling the sea breeze and seeing the waves come rolling in.
We mostly have wonderful weather, and that day serves us to talk about
till summer comes round again.
"This year I had my ticket and was as full of my coming holiday as a
child thinking of a school feast. Would you believe it? The very night
before, I slipped and sprained my ankle. My foot swelled up as big as
two, and I couldn't put it on the ground. Then lumbago came on, and I
couldn't turn myself in bed. I lay as helpless as a baby.
"It was a disappointment. I can't deny that, and I had very little
money and not much in the way of victuals; no claim on anybody, and I
was unable to wait on myself. Yes, I had a claim on God's promises,
because I believed in Jesus, and I knew for His sake He would not fail
to keep them. So I just put Him in mind of a few, and asked Him to
help me, for He knew I couldn't help myself. I couldn't call my
neighbour, for she was gone out washing very early. I was not quite
sure that anybody would miss me till night, because the rest of the
class members would go on by train, whether I was there or no. Some of
them would be asking after me when they came back, but that would not
be till half-past nine at night, because there was a two-hours'
railway ride to be done before they arrived at the station, and then
they would have to walk home."
"What did you do?" asked Mrs. Powell, for the moment forgetting her
own worries in sympathy for her poor friend.
"Just nothing, ma'am, as I said before, and for the best of reasons.
I couldn't turn over, or point a foot to the ground. I waited, feeling
sure there would be something done for me, though I did not know what.
I said to myself that if I could only see one or two folks and ways by
whom help would come, the Lord could see plenty that I knew nothing
about. I had not so much pain while I lay quite still. It was only
when I moved that it was real bad, and you see I had nothing the
matter with me in other ways, and I began to be hungry. For a good
while I had to grin and abide by the hunger, as I had been forced
to bear the pain, but at about twelve o'clock I heard some one
knocking at the door.
"It was of no use to call out 'Come in,' because the door was locked,
but I shouted, 'Please listen; I am fast in bed and cannot get up to
let you in.' A voice, I knew whose it was, said back again, 'I am
listening. Tell me how I can help you.' It was one of the ladies that
conducted the class. She was not very strong, so did not go by the
train, though she saw it start, and she had heard some of the
neighbours wondering what had become of old Ann Crompton, for most
of them knew how I had looked forward to my summer outing.
"The lady could not come my way at once after seeing the merry party
off, for she had some shopping to do, and so she took my little place
on her road home. I told her that if she would slide the window back
she would find the door key on the sill, inside. I always put it
there, so that if it happened I was ill my neighbour could find it and
let herself in. I had no fear of robbers, and that's one of the
advantages of being poor. Folks that have nothing worth stealing need
not be afraid of thieves. The lady opened the window, for it slides
easy. I take care of that, for it's no use giving needless trouble,
and then she unlocked the door and found how I was fixed.
"With her own hands she lit the fire and got my breakfast ready.
She gave me water and things to wash with, for I could manage that,
and then she sent somebody else to tidy up and see to me until my next
neighbour came home. Well, to cut a long story short, it is just
wonderful to think how everything was managed for me. That lady had
never called at my place before, and yet she was sent just when I was
in the greatest need of help. When she could stay no longer, she took
care that somebody else came. Before she left, she said to me, You
know, Ann, that when any of our members are prevented from joining in
the trip because of illness, we try to add to their comfort at home.
So I will leave the price of your ticket with you. The money will not
be lost, for we only pay for those who actually go.' She took the
ticket and gave me half-a-crown at once, so there was I provided for
and feeling quite rich directly. Now, wasn't that wonderful, ma'am?
And yet it hardly seems right to call it so, because we ought to be
looking for God's help in our time of need, if we really believe
in Him."
Mrs. Powell's face showed the interest she felt in Ann's story.
Its expression was entirely changed. The fretful, irritable look and
manner were gone, and in place of them were words of sympathy, and the
remark, "I wish you had sent to me, Ann. I would have come to see you
and given you further help."
"I'm sure you would, ma'am; but the real truth is that all I wanted
came without my asking anybody but my Father in heaven. The members
of the class were very kind. First one, then another, would drop in
and tidy up for me, and not a neighbour had a bit of anything nice
for dinner but a portion would be sent for me. The lady that keeps the
corner shop actually sent a wing of fowl and a slice of bacon one day.
Another brought a drop of broth; then came some nice floury potatoes,
and a sup of milk, and after that a morsel of cow-heel."
"What! all in one day?" asked Mrs. Powell, looking very much amused.
"Bless you, no, ma'am. One at once, and that was the wonderful part.
These kind neighbours said nothing to each other, but day by day, just
as I was getting to the end of my store, came something fresh from
another hand. So I never wanted, and I never felt anxious. It would
have been a shame if I had. I ought to tell you that, being able to
use my hands, I kept on with my knitting and mending as well as I
could, and was able to earn a trifle every day. By degrees I got to
sit up, with my foot on the stool, but that was not very comfortable,
because I got stiff; so a lady, the one that called first, lent me a
proper rest,' and that was very nice. Now I can go about again, and I
feel as if I couldn't be thankful enough to God for all His goodness,
and to the friends He sent me for theirs. When I look back I think
I was a bit like the widow that Elijah went to. She had only enough
for one cake at the time they met, yet the barrel of meal did not
waste through all the season of famine, and she and her son, and the
visitor sent from God, never wanted bread. So I, though I never knew
what hand would bring the next, finished the food that came on one
day, and slept without fear that I should be left to hunger for more
before a supply was sent. Now, ma'am, I have told you this long tale,
and I'm afraid it has been very selfish of me taking up so much of
your time when you have matters of your own to think of. But, if you
believe me, it was the thought of all these mercies that filled my
mind, so that it seemed as if I must tell you how good God has been
to me, and how faithfully He keeps His word to the poorest old body
that puts her trust in Him. I could not tell about Him and my kind
neighbours without bringing in myself."
"I am very glad you have told me all this," said Mrs. Powell.
"You have done me good. Now I shall ask you just to think over this
matter of mine, and see if you can find a servant for me before
Elizabeth's month is up. If I should have to give up my summer's
outing, I hope I may brave the disappointment as bravely as you have
done. You must stay and have a bit of dinner downstairs. Elizabeth you
know already, and I should like Sarah to know you."
Ann thanked Mrs. Powell for her invitation, and, having dined with the
servants, went home to think how she could help the lady out of her
present difficulty.
CHAPTER II.
LEARNING WISE LESSONS.
"WHAT a dear old woman that is," exclaimed Mrs. Powell's younger
servant, Sarah, when Ann Crompton had left the house. "It is nice
to hear her talk. She makes one want to be good. If my mother had been
more of her sort I should have been a better girl to-day."
"I thought you had a good mother," said Elizabeth.
"Well, she was good, in a way. She taught us to clean and scrub,
she made us keep ourselves neat and mend our clothes, and such-like,
and she scolded and slapped us into the bargain, with no light hand,
if we wanted twice telling. We had to mind what she said, I can tell
you. But she was very sharp in her words and ways. We got plenty of
threats and not many promises, plenty of vinegar and little sugar.
She took care we went to Sunday-school too, and, if we were a bit
late, she sent us to bed again and kept us there all day. It was being
driven to school and punished over it that made me determine I would
never go another day after I got away from home. I should have been
fond of it but for mother, and I liked my teacher, only I gave up
because I liked having my own way better than anything else. It seemed
nice to show mother that I was too old to be driven here and there,
whether I wanted to go or not. I wish old Ann Crompton was coming
to stop here. I believe she would make a better girl of me. She's so
kind."
Truly kindness is a wonderful power. This wilful girl, whom her
mistress could not trust, though she was cleanly, clever, and
keen-witted, well able to do her work, and yet ready to evade orders
just because, after a long course of driving, she found it pleasant
to rebel—this girl felt that she could place herself like wax in the
hands of the old, loving-hearted Christian, to be moulded into
something better. She had not been used to think that she needed
changing, but it was the seeing Ann Crompton as she was that first put
into her mind the notion that her own ways might be improved.
And Mrs. Powell had not heard Ann's story in vain. The first to feel
the effects of it on her mistress's mind was Elizabeth.
The girl had been a faithful servant. She was most unwilling to cause
her mistress any trouble, but what could she do when the father wrote
and begged that she would come to the suffering mother and neglected
home?
Elizabeth half hoped that by telling Mrs. Powell why she felt bound
to leave her service, the lady would be moved to dispense with the
usual notice, and bid her go at once to those who had the first claim
upon her. But no; instead of this, Mrs. Powell was annoyed at her
wanting to go at all, and spoke little to Elizabeth, who now found it
hard to please her.
The mistress was cold and curt; the maid sorrowful at heart, and full
of anxious thoughts about her parents. Her looks showed that, for the
first time, she found her work a burden, because of the heavy heart
she carried as she went about it.
Whilst Ann Crompton was in the kitchen, she managed to speak some
encouraging words to poor Elizabeth, and even to turn Sarah's saucy
ways and ready jokes to some account.
"Bless you, child," she said, with a benevolent look at the girl's
laughing face; "it's a good thing to enjoy a laugh now and then.
I'm glad I haven't forgotten how to laugh yet, though I'm an old
woman. Still 'Merry and wise' is a good motto. Folks sometimes laugh
at wrong things. Mind, my dear, never you laugh if anybody tries to
turn God's Word into a joke: put that sort of thing down, and have no
friendship with those that do it. And don't you laugh at any joke that
makes you feel 'shamed of having listened to it, and sends the hot
colour into your cheeks, and forces you to turn away your head.
We have to mind what sort of jokes we enjoy."
The warning words were said so pleasantly that they went home
to Sarah's heart. Instead of "flying up," as she was wont to do at a
sharp word from her mother, or the milder fault-finding of Mrs.
Powell, the girl nodded her head assentingly, thanked Ann for her
advice, and said, "I'll try to remember your rule. I have often felt
vexed at myself for laughing at speeches that were not so very nice,
when one came to look into them. I'm only a giddy thing, not like
Elizabeth here, but I can bear to be spoken to when folks speak in the
right way as you do."
The effect of Ann's story on Mrs. Powell was this: whilst the old
woman was letting her humble light shine in the kitchen, the mistress
of the house was on her knees seeking light and guidance from God.
She was feeling very much ashamed of herself. She had been calling her
faithful servant "selfish," when the girl was giving up her own
worldly interests at the call of filial duty. She had been fancying
herself a very ill-used person, with more than her share of worries,
just because there was a chance that her trip to the seaside might be
deferred. She had made the morning meal uncomfortable to her good
husband by her frowning face, her fretful words, her magnifying of a
little molehill of trouble into a mountain. She had sent him away
to meet his business cares, and the work belonging thereto, with the
added weight of all her household difficulties as an extra burden.
Until she heard Ann's story she never thought of taking her domestic
worries amongst the "all things" to the Throne of Grace. Never thought
of asking that one of God's servants might be sent to fill the place
that Elizabeth was about to leave.
Now, Mrs. Powell felt a longing to tell out her requests unto God, and
the first prayer she offered was that her murmurings, fretful tempers,
hasty judgments, and needless fault-finding might be forgiven. Next
she prayed for grace to put away the spirit of selfishness that had
made her consider only her own convenience, and that she might have
a tender heart and the desire to bear the burdens of those around her,
and so fulfil the law of Christ.
A little later Elizabeth was summoned by her mistress. She entered the
room in some fear, for of late, no matter how much she tried, she had
often failed to give satisfaction. But the kind look on Mrs. Powell's
face encouraged her, and she could hardly believe her ears when her
mistress said, "Elizabeth, I have been thinking about your wish to go
home. I can understand how anxious you must be about your mother.
Tell me plainly. Do you want to go to her at once?"
The girl burst into tears.
"O ma'am," she said, "you cannot think how grateful I should be if you
could set me at liberty. I have been so miserable about poor mother,
thinking that she is not getting the care and attention she needs.
If she were to die I should never—"
The girl's voice was choked by sobs, and she was unable to finish the
sentence, but Mrs. Powell guessed her meaning.
"Dry your tears, Elizabeth," she said, kindly. "You have been a
faithful servant, and I do not wish to prove a hard mistress.
You shall go home to-morrow."
"I shall be so glad!" cried the girl, her face brightening at the
prospect. "Thank you so much, ma'am, for putting yourself to
inconvenience for me. I do wish I could see some way whereby I could
go without you having any trouble or being obliged to put off your
journey; nothing but illness at home would make me think of leaving
at such a time. And if I should be free to take a place again, and you
could take me back without hurting any one else, I should be thankful
to come."
"And I should be glad to have you, Elizabeth. Now I feel it would be
wrong for me to stand in your way. Besides, I shall not be left
without any one, and I can easily obtain daily assistance. We may have
to put off our visit to the seaside, but never mind this. Go and pack
your boxes. I hope you may find your mother better than you expect
to do."
Elizabeth went quietly out of the room, but she hurried to the kitchen
in order to tell her good news.
"I shall be sorry to lose you," said Sarah. "I'm not sure whether
I shall—"
"Don't say you mean to give notice," interrupted Elizabeth. "Now
don't. This is just the time when you might show what you can do, and
be a comfort in the house. You are strong and able, and you know how
work should be done, and I have heard the mistress say that if only—"
"If only you could have had patience to hear me out, you would have
found that giving notice was one of the things farthest from my
thoughts," said Sarah, in her independent way. "I know well enough
what mistress has said. I've heard it often, and I don't want it over
again. She has astonished me to-day. I had begun to think that she was
one of those ladies who fancied servants ought to have no human
feelings, no love nor longing after those they have left behind, and
that love them, such as your poor mother. I had been saying to myself,
'If it had been the mistress's mother no train would have been quick
enough to carry her to her old home. But as it is Elizabeth's, she
must wait a month before she goes, get nothing but cross looks, and
maybe find her mother dead or given up, when she gets there.'"
"Now don't you say another word," for Elizabeth seemed on the point
of speaking. "You have interrupted me once, and I have done the same
by you, so we are straight. But taking the words out of one another's
mouths isn't good manners, for all that. Mark what I say now, and then
go and pack up your things. The mistress has astonished me, and I'm
going to astonish her. There! Mind if I don't find a way out of this
seaside business that will make all straight." Sarah gave Elizabeth
no chance of replying, but whisked out of the kitchen with a merry
laugh.
"She might do so well, if only she would always keep right side out,"
thought Elizabeth, as she went upstairs to prepare for her journey
on the morrow.
She understood Sarah better than most did, and felt hopeful about the
girl, knowing that beneath her rough and ready manner and careless
words, she hid deeper feelings, and might be influenced for good,
by the kindness of which as a child she had experienced so small
a share.
When Mr. Powell returned home he was agreeably surprised to notice
the change that had taken place in his wife's looks during his
absence.
No cloud upon the sweet bright face uplifted to his with a welcoming
kiss. No trace of the fretful tone which had embittered her morning
farewell.
She might know nothing of the little daily troubles which beset the
paths both of young and old housekeepers, for she made no allusion
to her own.
All through the dinner it was the same. As if to make up for the gloom
which had hung over the breakfast-table, Mrs. Powell gave her husband
a double portion of sunshine.
Instead of airing household matters, she asked questions about her
husband's doings, and listened to all he had to tell with affectionate
interest.
It was only when the meal was over, and the two were seated side
by side, that Mr. Powell said:
"By the way, did old Ann come to see you? I did not forget your
commission."
"Yes, dear, she came, and, without knowing it, taught me a lesson
which I trust I shall never forget."
Mrs. Powell then repeated the old woman's story to her husband, and
when she came to the end of it added, "I think I never saw myself
in the same light before, as I did whilst Ann was speaking. The dear
old woman's cheerful submission to what must have been a great
disappointment; her patient waiting for the help which she felt sure
God would send in answer to her prayer; her simple, childlike faith
in His promises, as day by day she looked with confidence for daily
bread; her contentment with the little portion of this world's goods
which He had been pleased to allot to her; the finding good in
whatever He chose to ordain for her, and her gratitude to the earthly
friends who had ministered to her wants out of their little means;—all
these things showed me how selfish, hard, and unkind I was towards
my neighbours, as well as unthankful for the abounding blessings
I enjoy. I had been cross and fretful because Elizabeth wanted to go
to her sick mother, and had accused her of being selfish, when all the
while I deserved the blame and she the praise. She preferred duty to
ease and comfort without anxiety. Instead of cheering and encouraging
her, I made the poor girl's task harder by my cold looks and
fault-finding. Yet Elizabeth really cares for me, and is now grieving
at the thought of causing me inconvenience.
"I grumbled because our seaside trip might be put off, and settled
in my own mind that if it were we should have no fine weather later
on. Thus I met sorrow half way.
"Ann Crompton bore the loss of her one day's trip—think, Edward,
the only day's outing in all the year—without a murmur. Yet the
morning which should have seen her on her way to the seaside, found
her lying alone, helpless and in great pain, with an almost empty
purse and cupboard, and with no claim of relationship on any human
being near her. Yet in that little bare room she sunned herself in the
light of God's presence and faithfulness, and waited for what
He should send.
"I, who have so much, murmured and fretted and sent my dear kind
husband away with the memory of my complaining words and clouded brow.
She lay repeating to herself words of hope and encouragement, and
willing to welcome with a smile the first friend who should enter
for her relief.
"What do you think of these two pictures, Edward? Do you wonder that I
feel ashamed of myself when I contrast my conduct with poor Ann
Crompton's?"
"My darling," replied Mr. Powell, "I think I am a very happy husband,
for I have a dear wife, who, though she does make mistakes, is not
ashamed to learn wise lessons from a very humble teacher. Not ashamed
either to own where she has done wrong, but thankful she may carry all
her cares to One who careth for her, and will give her pardon, peace,
strength, and guidance according to her need. And I think, too, that
though I gave the message from you which brought old Ann to talk
with you, surely God's Holy Spirit enabled her to speak and you to
receive a message which has been as good seed, and has already brought
forth good fruit."
Mr. Powell's loving arm had drawn his wife's head to his breast, and
he bent and kissed her tenderly. After a little pause he asked what
she had done about Elizabeth, and heard, with true pleasure, that the
girl was to leave on the following morning.
"Then have you heard of some one to take her place?" asked Mr. Powell.
"Not yet, Edward. If I do not, or whether or no, I must follow Ann's
example—pray for the right person and trust. Sarah is capable enough
to fill a temporary gap, and I can get help in the daytime. Perhaps I
may manage Sarah better if I try."
Mrs. Powell did not know what effect her kindness to Elizabeth had
already produced on the more headstrong younger girl, and was a little
surprised to notice with what energy she worked on the following
morning.
She gave her an encouraging smile, and said, "I think you are trying
to do double work, Sarah. I like to see this, because Elizabeth has
many little matters to do before she goes, and I should not like her
to be harassed and hurried."
"She has been very pleasant to live with, ma'am," replied Sarah, "and
I can do anything for those that are kind to me."
Mrs. Powell smiled at the girl's earnestness, and did not forget
her words. They were brought home to her mind still more by what
Elizabeth said when she came to bid her mistress good-bye.
"If you will excuse me, ma'am, I should like to speak a word for
Sarah. I do believe she wants to do right, and has made up her mind
to keep her best side out, and deserve to be trusted. But she is a
girl that has been too much driven and too seldom led, and she cannot
do with driving. I think if you would encourage her and seem as if you
trusted her, it would go a great way towards making her deserve your
confidence."
"Thank you for the hint. I will not forget it. Now, good-bye, and I do
hope you will be able to send me better news of your mother. I shall
look for a line to tell me of your safe arrival."
Elizabeth's eyes were full of tears, but they were not all sorrowful
ones. She was sorry to leave, but truly glad of the manner of parting
with her mistress, for she said to herself, "It would have grieved me
to see her look anything but kind and friendly." So cheered by
encouraging words and pleasant looks, Sarah did wonders, and deserved
the praise which Mrs. Powell was not slow to give.
Elizabeth's place was not filled, as it was most important that a
reliable person should be left as joint-housekeeper with Sarah, and
the right one had not been found. In three days the Powells ought
to go to the seaside, or all their plans would need to be changed.
"You have been such a good trustworthy girl since Elizabeth left that
I have no fear of leaving you, but you must have some person in the
house with you," said Mrs. Powell to Sarah.
"I could do the work well enough," replied the girl; "and if there was
just somebody in the house for company, perhaps we might have
Elizabeth back by the time you and master want to come home."
"It is the 'somebody' I wish to find, Sarah," said Mrs. Powell.
"Do you think Ann Crompton would come herself, ma'am?" asked the girl.
There was a wistful look in Sarah's face which surprised her mistress.
"Should you like to have Ann? I never thought of asking her, though I
should be glad for her to come, because I scarcely thought you and she
would get on together."
"I would rather have her than anybody else," said Sarah; and moved by
something in Mrs. Powell's manner, the girl told her how she had been
impressed by the words and ways of the cheerful old Christian, during
the short time she spent in the kitchen.
"I have always thought since that day I should be better for hearing
and seeing her, so if it will suit you, ma'am, please let her come."
Sarah little knew that the influence which had been felt by her in the
kitchen had produced still greater effect upon her mistress in the
parlour.
Ann, however, did come to be Sarah's companion for a month, and with
the best results to all concerned. The change did her good, for Mrs.
Powell's house being outside the town, the air in its neighbourhood
was very different from that which Ann breathed in the little court
where she usually passed her days. A month spent within hearing of the
song of birds and the sight of fields, trees and flowers! Why, it
seemed like heaven to old Ann Crompton.
"I lost a day's outing, and God has given me a whole month instead,"
she said, as, hour by hour, she thanked Him for His goodness to her.
She and the girl, so unlike her to begin with, became fast friends.
Sarah learned her need of a Saviour by God's blessing on this old
disciple's teaching, and having found Him in Jesus Christ, she is
striving to follow the example of His most holy life. She has to fight
many a battle with her headstrong temper and wilful habits, but she is
cheered and encouraged by the friend who, though weak in body,
is "strong in the Lord and in the power of His might."
And Sarah's hopes about Elizabeth have been fulfilled. The mother has
been raised from her sick bed, and is once more able to attend to her
family, and Mrs. Powell receives more devoted service than ever from
the girl whom she joyfully welcomed back again, when, filial duty
done, she could return to her place with a quiet conscience.
IT IS MOTHER'S WAY.
"IF you please, ma'am, you did not tell me how I was to set the table,
so I did it mother's way."
The speaker was Mrs. Glover's new servant, a tidy-looking little maid,
whose youth would have led any mistress to suppose that she had nearly
everything to learn. But as Mrs. Glover glanced at the neatly-arranged
breakfast-table she had a pleasant surprise. The most experienced
waiting damsel could not have laid it more to her satisfaction.
She was going to praise the new servant in warm terms, but she paused
before uttering the words which first came to mind, and only said,
"It will do very nicely, Mary. Now bring in the kettle. Your master
will be down directly."
Mrs. Glover, though a wife of not quite a year's standing, had already
changed her one servant three times. She was beginning to talk as
older mistresses do, about their domestics being the "plague of one's
life," "necessary evils," and so on, and wishing she could do without
altogether.
Ellen Dixon, the new girl, had entered on her duties the night before,
and Mrs. Glover's was her first place. The lady had told her that she
should be down early enough to show her how to lay the table for the
eight o'clock breakfast. But she was not, and so the little maid had
done her best, and her mistress was fain to own that the best was very
neat indeed. She glanced round the room and thought how orderly it
looked, and was going to say so. She paused, and instead of uttering
further encouraging words, she bethought herself of past experiences,
and of "new brooms," and only wished the present state of things might
last.
Much to her surprise, things went on better as the little maid became
more used to her place, and instead of having to teach, Mrs. Glover
found herself a learner.
"Please, ma'am, where shall I find the dust-covers?" was Ellen's
question when she was going to clean the grate in the best
sitting-room.
"What do you mean, Ellen?"
Ellen blushed as if she had done wrong. "We had some old sheets like
at home to put over our parlour things when the floor was swept and
the grate raked. Mother said the things got more spoiled with brushing
dust off than with using; so she patched some pieces of old stuff
together to throw over them. They kept the dust off nicely. But we are
forced to take care of our things. It was just mother's way."
"And a very good way, Ellen. We will have dust-sheets too," said Mrs.
Glover, and the covers were soon ready.
Again the mistress noticed the care with which the fire was laid so as
to last, and Ellen's economy in the matter of cinders. The girl looked
pleased when her mistress said, "Ellen, you are the first servant
I have had who took any trouble about making a fire to suit the
weather. Often I have come down when it was bitterly cold, and there
was scarcely a spark to be seen. Then, when the morning was warm,
I have found a fire large enough to cook a family's dinner; and I
always before found cinders thrown on the dust-heap; I am glad you
have learned to take care of them."
"We had to be careful at home," said Ellen. "Mother used to make the
coals last as long as she could, and she taught us to see if it was
warm or cold before we made fire up. We learned to do it her way."
"That girl never has to go hunting about the house for things,"
said Mr. Glover, as he noticed the new girl's movements with much
satisfaction. "Ask for what you may, if Ellen has had the handling
of it, she never needs to seek it or keep any one waiting."
Mrs. Glover thought she might now safely say words of encouragement
to Ellen, so she repeated her husband's commendation.
The girl's face brightened as she answered, "I am so glad master is
pleased, and so will mother be when I tell her. She always told me
if I put a thing in its place when I had done with it, I should find
it there when it was wanted; that nothing wasted so much time as
seeking for what ought not to have been lost."
"I am sure you must have a good mother, Ellen."
"Oh, dear yes, ma'am! But she was never good to us by letting us have
all our own way, but by learning us her way. She said she could not
give us any money, but she must try and make us servants that would be
worth keeping. We didn't always like mother's way best," added Ellen,
frankly, "because if we did not do our work according to her showing,
we had to do it over again. But we learned in time, and it seems as if
I couldn't get out of mother's way now."
"I would not try if I were you, Ellen," said. Mrs. Glover, with a
kindly smile. "You are a fortunate girl in having had such a teacher
in your mother."
Quarter-day came, and the little maid received her first wages.
She looked at the two golden sovereigns with all the delight natural
to one who has honestly earned what has been cheerfully paid.
"Let me see," she said, thinking aloud in her mistress's hearing.
"One must go to mother. She did not want me to send her any of my
wages, but I know she ought to have this and more, because it cost her
a good bit to fit me out when I was coming."
"Can you spare so much, Ellen?" asked Mrs. Glover.
"Oh yes, ma'am. My things are not a bit worse; mother taught me
to mend a hole when it is little. She says nothing grows faster than
holes. Then there will be ten shillings to go in the savings bank,"
she continued, as if her calculations had not been interrupted.
"Why, Ellen, have you begun to save already?"
"Mother begun for us when we were very little," replied Ellen.
"Not with much, but then it was a start. She could not lay by more
than a copper or two at a time, but it got us in the way of taking
care of pence. I always promised her that I would save something
whenever I got my wages, and I would never buy a penn'orth unless I
had a penny to pay for it with. 'Do that and you'll be rich,' mother
said. 'Spend less than you earn, and pay for what you get, and you'll
keep out of money troubles.'"
"Anything else in the business way?" asked Mrs. Glover, who was
equally amused and interested in Ellen's doings, and who, to say the
truth, was learning some important lessons from what the girl told
about "mother's way."
Ellen blushed and hesitated, then said slowly, "Mother told me never
to forget what I owed to God, and I promised that, besides saving
a bit, I would always give a bit out of my wages, whether they were
little or much."
Mrs. Glover did not ask what part was to be thus devoted, but she was
well assured that it would be in fair proportion to the girl's means.
She said a few encouraging words to her, promised to write and let
Ellen's mother know how well her daughter practised the lessons
she had taught her, and then she asked, "Is there anything you have
to say to me? Are you quite satisfied in your place?"
There was plainly something that Ellen wished to say, for her cheeks
turned first red, then white, and her eyes filled with tears. At last
it came out—
"Oh, please, ma'am, at home father used to read a chapter and pray
before we went to bed at nights. Mother did in the morning, because he
had to go to work so soon. And we learned verses and hymns, and mother
heard us say them; but now no one hears me, or talks about these
things as mother did."
The girl stopped, afraid to say more. There was no need, for the
lesson went home, and it was not the first on that particular
quarter-day.
Mrs. Glover had not been very particular about paying for things
as she got them. Love of pretty bonnets and dresses had induced her
to spend just a trifle more than her income, and she found herself
a little in debt. She had never considered that a portion of her means
should be devoted to God's service; and as to family prayer, with just
three or sometimes only two in the house, she had never dreamed
of such a thing.
She began to ponder the words of her little maid. Then she went to her
room, and though no human eye followed her, there was One who both saw
and heard her tearful face and the prayer for pardon and guidance.
When her husband came home Mrs. Glover told him all that was in her
heart, and how the new desires and resolutions had come there.
He clasped her lovingly to his own, kissed away her tears, forgave the
little extravagances into which she had been tempted, and said,
"We will turn over a new leaf, darling, and we will do it at once."
So Ellen was called in to listen whilst the master read from God's
Word and then prayed, pleading that they might have the blessing
promised to the two or three gathered in His name. From that night
master, mistress, and servant knelt together. Years passed on.
Children were born in the house. Mr. Glover's means increased, and
more servants were needed; but the one most trusted of all was Ellen
Dixon.
"We should like you to have charge of the children next to ourselves,"
said Mr. and Mrs. Glover. "We know you will not teach them anything
but what is right."
"They are our most precious treasures," said the mother, as she looked
on her sleeping baby, and smiled as Ellen used the old familiar words.
"I have not had much to do with children lately, but I will do my best
for the dear little things. I shall try and remember mother's way
of managing them—" with which Mrs. Glover was quite content.
Mothers! you cannot tell how much good you may do by teaching your
children wise lessons and leading them in the right way whilst they
are young and willing to be guided by you.
Take care that in after-life, when they go out into the world, or are
at the head of home of their own, they may never be able to say of any
wrong habits, "I learned it of mother, it was mother's way;" but may
your names be ever joined to happy memories of wise words, pious
training, and a good example.
NOTHING BEATS TRYING BUT DOING.
"SHE'S as good as she is pretty, and as pretty as she is good." This
was the opinion of Oakvale people respecting the minister's youngest
daughter, Amy Fleming. Very bright and lovable she must have been,
or the cottage children would not have thrown down toys, abandoned
games, and rushed in her direction as soon as the flutter of Miss
Amy's garment could be discerned in the distance.
When on a visiting expedition she was sure to be surrounded by a
motley bodyguard, each member of which was desirous that the dwelling
of his or her parents should have the honour of a first call from
their favourite.
It was sometimes rather inconvenient to be so much liked, for the
owners of dirty little faces insisted on being kissed, and small
hands, equally removed from cleanliness, stroked down Miss Amy's
dresses without the previous ceremony of washing the sticky fingers.
Amongst all her acquaintance, however, Bob Marsh was perhaps the most
devoted, and in many ways the most unfortunate. His doings and
misdoings were the cause of more talk, censure, and head-shakings
than those of all the other Oakvale boys put together.
Bob was the only son of a widowed mother, and the only brother of four
small girls, all much younger than himself. A fine, well-grown,
handsome lad, who ought to have been the comfort of his parent,
but unfortunately he was always in some scrape or other. If he took up
a stone and threw it, he was sure to break a window. If he climbed
a tree he came down at one step and hurt himself, or else tore his
garments to ribbons, and had to retire into private life—namely,
to bed—until they were mended.
But who can go through the list? Other lads seemed to do the same
thing, play the same pranks, and come off scot-free, while Bob was
always in trouble. Mother watered Bob's rags with nightly tears,
as she sat up to mend them for the morrow. Granny said lads were never
like that in her young days, and was sure he would come to a bad end.
The village gossips talked at him as he slunk home wet, out of the
ditch he had jumped into instead of over, and pitied his poor mother
for having such a son.
To tell a person, young or old, that he is on the high road to ruin,
hopelessly bad, a plague to everybody, and of no use or comfort
to anybody, is not the way to mend him. On the contrary, it is pretty
sure to give him a push in the wrong direction.
Bob had heard such remarks dinned into his ears at every turn for a
good while, but one evening an event happened which made matters worse
than ever. He was not given to crying, but his cheeks were wet with
tears, and as he entered the cottage he looked the picture of misery.
He had been turned away from his situation as pig-tender by Farmer
Oliver.
Neither mother nor granny waited to ask any questions, but took it
for granted that Bob was to blame, and scolded accordingly. They only
knew one fact: a little pig, one of his charges, had lost its life—
a thing that happens to most pigs sooner or later, only this was
sooner, and altogether at the wrong time, and in the wrong way;
so Farmer Oliver, sharing the bad opinion of the villagers generally,
had first cuffed Bob soundly, and then sent him off with a warning
not to show his face on his premises again.
The poorest and most miserable of human beings is rarely quite
friendless. Bob had one friend in Miss Amy, and, fortunately for him,
she was on her way to his mother's cottage when he entered it in
disgrace after his dismissal. If he had but known this! Had he not
been in her class at the Sunday-school, and so loth to leave it for a
higher, that he had purposely bungled over his lessons and played the
dunce so as to stay amongst the little ones and with his beloved
teacher?
Miss Amy had found him out, of course, and brought him then and there
to tears and penitence. But though he had gone to another class and
among the elder boys, he always felt that he belonged to Miss Amy, and
she was the one being who ever encouraged and comforted poor Bob.
It was like sunshine to see her enter the cottage now. First she
softened mother by telling her that Bob, though rash, thoughtless,
and consequently always in hot water, was not such a bad fellow at the
bottom. "He was in my class for four years, and no person ever knew
Bob tell a lie, say a bad word, or ill-use or tease a child younger
than himself," she said.
Then she made granny happy by presenting her with some flannel and a
packet of tea, and insisted afterwards that some day she would be
proud of her grandson Bob. "He has the making of a fine fellow in
him," she continued, "only there's a great deal of smoothing and
shaping to be done before the material can be seen to advantage."
However much mothers may scold their own lads, or grandmothers predict
evil, the former do not like others to grumble at their offspring
any more than do the latter wish their prophecies to come true.
Mrs. Marsh's forehead lost its frown as she listened to Miss Amy; and
granny for once gave the lad a more kindly look, and hoped the young
lady would turn out right in the long run. "Now come with me,"
said Miss Amy to Bob; "I must try and get Farmer Oliver to take you
on again."
"He won't, miss; it's no good," said Bob, hanging back. But he had
to go, for there was no resisting Miss Amy. She could not, however,
succeed in taking him into the farmer's presence, for Bob had such
a lively recollection of the cuffing he had received, that he ran away
and hid behind a hedge.
How Miss Amy managed to persuade the farmer—whom she met driving home
his own pigs, and very angry at having to do it—to take back Bob and
give him one more chance, would take too long to tell. But she did it,
and more, for she proved to him that on this particular occasion Bob
had really done his best for his unruly flock, only a ferocious dog
had proved too much for the young drover, and the one little pig had
been the sacrifice.
"I'm afraid, Miss Amy, I was too hasty," replied Farmer Oliver;
"but everybody gives that Bob a bad name, and when I saw the pig
worried I took it for granted it was his fault. Pigs are not the
easiest things to manage, and you know that old saying, 'Give a dog
a bad name.' I'm afraid I acted on it in turning off Bob. He may come
in the morning, and we'll say no more about it."
Miss Amy thought the farmer ought to say something more, but she shook
hands with him, thanked him heartily, and ran off to tell Bob the good
news.
"I can't do any good. Everybody says so—mother, and granny, and the
neighbours. They don't listen to me, and when I tell the truth they
don't believe me. There's only you, Miss Amy, that does not think I am
bad on purpose. They all say I am good for nothing. I can't do right,"
sobbed the lad.
"Not of yourself, Bob—I know that well enough. No more can I. But you
can pray, Bob, and you can try. You surely have not forgotten all your
old Sunday-school lessons. Don't you remember that the Saviour
who says, 'ask,' promises that we shall have? The best people in the
world will tell you that they get their strength and comfort through
going to Jesus. They always say, 'I can't,' until He shows them how to
do right, and then they are like St. Paul, full of joy, and cry,
'I can do all things through Christ.' So can you, Bob, and you must
begin from this very minute."
And Bob did begin. His dear old yet young teacher, cheered him on,
prayed with him, talked with him, and to other people about him, until
at last the village folk began to discover that there was good in Bob
Marsh after all.
He has lost his bad name now, but he always says that he turned the
right corner, and started on the new and happier road, on the night
that Miss Amy persuaded him to say, "I'll try," instead of "I can't."
WILLIAM RIDER AND SON, PRINTERS, LONDON.