SUNDAY IN THE GARRET.
"SUNDAY mornin' to-day," said Job Kippis, as they sat down to
breakfast, after Ailie's second night in her new home.
"Shops all shut, ain't they?" said Ailie, that being her chief
association with the Day of Rest. "I don't like Sunday, gran'father."
"Don't ye, deary?"
"No, 'cause lots o' men don't go to work, an' fight an' frighten me."
"And ye've never been to Church, likely?"
Ailie made a gesture of dissent.
"Them big houses with steeples, ain't they?" she asked.
"Houses for to worship God in," said Job reverently.
"I don't know nothin' about it," said Ailie. "Nobody don't here."
"I've a deal to teach you, haven't I?" said Job. "Don't you know
nothin' about God, Ailie?"
"Up in the sky, ain't He?" asked Ailie.
"Up in the sky, an' down upon earth too. He's just everywhere. There
ain't a place nor a spot where God don't be."
"Down among the houses?" asked Ailie.
"Sure enough, down among 'em all."
"And where there's grass, an' trees, an' flowers?"
"Yes, among 'em all, and God made 'em too."
"He didn't make the houses," said Ailie. "Father was a mason, and he
built some of 'em—leastways he helped."
"What was they built of, deary?"
"Stones an' bricks," said Ailie.
"And how did he get the bricks?"
"Why, they was all made, gran'father, 'cause once father took me ever
so long a walk, and there was all the rows and piles o' bricks, an' men
a-making of them as fast as they could."
"An' who made the stones, deary, an' who made the clay the bricks was
made of?"
Ailie looked at him without speaking.
"Yes, 'twas God did all that," said Job. "He made the earth, an' the
stars, and the sun, an' moon, and the trees, an' grass, and the birds,
an' beasts, and men, an' women, an' children, an' old Job Kippis, an'
little Ailie. He made everything, an' He's everywhere."
"How did He make 'em?" asked Ailie.
"Why He made them out o' nothing," said Job. "That's just what men
can't do. Give me a bit of red cloth an' I'll make a coat; but tell me
to make it out of nothing, and ye might as well tell me to fly like a
bird. But God can, ye see, Ailie. He says, 'Let there be light,' an'
light comes; an' He says, 'Let things be made,' an' they're made."
Ailie looked wonderingly at Job, and then recurred to his former remark—
"He ain't everywhere. He ain't here."
"He's in this room this very minute," said Job solemnly.
"He ain't though," said Ailie, half frightened.
"He's here all the time," repeated Job. "He's a-listenin' to every word
we speak, an' more than that, He knows every bit of what old Job an'
little Ailie are thinking."
"I wasn't thinkin' any harm," said Ailie. "Will He be angry?"
"Such a deal to tell her," murmured Job. "Dear, dear, how will I ever
make her understand? Sure, deary, God is only angry with sin, and with
nothing else at all."
"What's that?" inquired Ailie.
"Just whatever's wrong," said Job. "Tellin' lies, an' stealin', and
quarrellin', and not lovin' Him, and all such things."
"I wasn't thinkin' any harm," repeated Ailie. "I only wanted to know
what He was like. Will He be angry with that, gran'father?"
"Not a bit, deary. Sure He likes you to want to know about Him. I'll
tell you one thing He's like—He's just a kind gentle Father, who loves
little children, an' wants 'em all to be happy."
"But if we was to see Him," explained Ailie softly, "what'd He be like?"
"'No man hath seen Him at any time,'" said Job, half unconsciously
quoting from the Bible. "He's too glorious for that, Ailie. We'd have
to lie down an' die that minute, if we could see God. We couldn't bear
the sight."
"I don't know what 'glorious' means," said Ailie.
"Ain't the sun glorious when it shines so bright, an' dazzles your eyes
if you try to look?"
Ailie's "yes" was emphatic.
"That's what it is; but the glory o' the sun is nothin' by His glory,
deary—'twould look as dark as a piece o' black cloth in the sunlight."
"I'd like to see it," said Ailie.
"Nobody's seen Him—God, the Father, I mean," said Job reverently; "but
He sent His Son into the world, and men saw Him, an' He was the Image
of God."
Ailie did not understand—it was not likely she should.
Job thought he would stop there for a while, and let her think over
what he had said, but all at once she asked:
"Gran'father, do you think father was remembered?"
"Don't ye remember him, eh, deary?"
"'Tain't that I mean. He wanted to be remembered."
"And sure you wouldn't go to forget him, Ailie?"
"'Tain't that," repeated Ailie. "'Twas a story Mrs. Forsyth told him,
of a thief as wanted to be remembered; an' father, he wanted it too,
an' he asked—"
"Asked who?" inquired Job, anxious to draw her out.
"And he made me ask too, he did."
"Ask who, deary?"
"Why,—I don't exactly know. Somebody as was nailed up, he said."
"And so He was," said Job. "Nailed up on a Cross, for you an' me,
Ailie. Why, He's the very same Good Shepherd I was tellin' ye of
yesterday."
"Is he?" said Ailie.
"An' the same I call the Master. That's one o' His Names. He's the Son
of God, who came down from heaven to die for the world. Didn't your
father know nought 'o that?"
"Maybe he knowed more than me," said Ailie. "What was it the thief
said?"
"He said, 'Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom.'"
"That's it," said Ailie. "Only Mrs. Forsyth had forgot the end. An' was
he remembered?"
"The thief? Didn't the Lord say to him, 'To-day shalt thou be with Me
in Paradise'? That's heaven."
"No, but I means father," said Ailie. "Maybe he wasn't remembered?"
"Nobody knocks an' doesn't get a answer," said Job. "What was it he
did, deary?"
"He wanted to be remembered," said Ailie. "An' we didn't know how
to ask, an' there was no one to tell. But father told me, an' I
said, 'Please remember father'; an' father, he asked too,—and we
thought—maybe—"
"Sure the Lord heard him, Ailie. Ain't we told, 'Look unto Him and be
ye saved?' and didn't He say, 'Come unto Me, and I will give you rest'?
There's a many came to Him, and some didn't know much about Him, nor
how to speak to Him, but I never heard as He turned one away. He always
hears an' answers."
Job rose from the table as he spoke, but he took out no work that day.
He let Ailie wash up, and then he called her to his side, and read
aloud the story of the Crucifixion, adding brief explanations as he
went along. Ailie listened for a while, and, when she grew restless,
Job broke off.
"That'll do now, I reckon," he said. "Don't ye go an' forget, little
un'. It's time to think o' Church."
"Church!" repeated Ailie, in astonishment.
"Sure enough, Church is for everybody to worship God in," said Job.
"I'd be main sorry to stay away. Will ye come with me, Ailie?"
"I ain't fit," said Ailie, looking down at her soiled and ragged frock.
"To—be—sure," said Job slowly. "Why didn't I think o' that afore
now, an' get ye all washed and patched? 'Tisn't as my own clothes is
anythin' much, but they be well mended, an' as clean as clean! Good
thing I'm a tailor, an' independent o' the woman-kind, havin' none
belongin' to me."
"I ain't clean," said Ailie.
"Seems I had best leave ye at home to-day, an get ye all in shape afore
next Sunday," said Job. "Eh, deary?"
Ailie had no objection. She rather wanted to stretch her limbs after
sitting so long. So she sought out Lettie, and indulged herself in a
wild scamper through the back-yard, while Job Kippis made his way to
the nearest City Church, with its scanty congregation and quiet Service.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]