THE STORY.
One Sunday afternoon, as Mary sat reading in the porch, Jack and Charlie
came and sat down by her on the old sofa; and soon Charlie put his little
curly head between her face and the book, and said coaxingly, "Please
tell us a story, sister Mary."
The little upturned face was well kissed before sister Mary said, "Well,
Jack, call Nannie and Belle, and we'll have a story."
Jack ran off in high glee, for sister Mary's stories were always
welcomed by the children.
Nannie and Belle came as fast as their feet would bring them, and were
soon sitting in readiness on the porch steps.
"Now, sister Mary," said Nannie, "a _good_ story, please."
"What do you mean by a good one, Nannie?"
"One that will teach us to be good," said Nannie in a low voice.
"Oh, nonsense!" said Jack; "that wasn't what I meant. I want a pretty
story."
"So do I," said Belle.
"And so do I," chimed in Charlie.
"Well," said sister Mary, "can't I tell you a good story, and a pretty
one too?"
"I suppose so," said Jack, kicking the foot-stool.
"Well, she can't tell us anything, Jack," said Belle, "if you don't keep
your feet still."
"I think you are rather hard on Jack; but never mind. Now," said sister
Mary, "we'll have our story:--
* * * * *
"It was a poor little room the sun was looking into, just as it was
setting. There was no carpet on the floor, and no curtains to the
window. The old grate was cracked and rusty, and contained a few red
coals among the embers. By the fire, in a curious old chair, roughly
made, yet looking comfortable, sat a little girl rocking herself backwards
and forwards. It was a very pale face that the sun shone upon, and a very
thin, pale hand it was that the little girl was holding up, shading her
eyes. Every little while the girl dropped her hand, and looked towards
the window with a bright smile,--and no wonder! for there stood the
prettiest of rose-bushes, with bright green leaves, and one dark crimson
bud just opening. She sat watching it, till the last rays of the sun died
away, and it began to grow dark. Then the look of sadness came back to
her face, and drawing her old shawl closer round her, she sat leaning
her head on her hand. By-and-by there was a sound of footsteps, and the
door opened, and a man entered with a slow and heavy step. She turned
round with a quick smile,--'O father! what has made you so late?'
"He said nothing; but, stooping down, lifted her in his arms, and sat
down by the fire. Though he lifted her very gently, an expression of
pain passed over her face, and you could see that the poor limbs hung
shrunken and helpless. He was a rough-looking man, with a rough, heavy
voice; but when he spoke to her, his tones were very gentle, and as he
held her in his lap he stroked her hair softly and kissed her again and
again.
"'How have you been to-day, Lizzie?'
"'Pretty well, father. When neighbour Green came in to see to the
fire, she brought me some nice warm broth for my dinner. Wasn't it kind,
father--and wasn't it odd too? I had been thinking all the morning how
much I should like some broth, and then just to think I had some for
my dinner. And then the best of all is that dear little rose-bush. You
can't see it now, it's so dark; it's got one dear little bud, and it
won't eat anything but water, so I can keep it. Mrs. Smith brought it to
me, and she brought a nice basketful of things besides; and you'll get
some of them for your supper--won't you, father?'
"He put her back carefully in her chair, then put on a few more coals,
and brought out from a basket in a corner their supper. After they had
eaten, he took her again in his arms and sat down with her.
"'Was the day very long, Lizzie?'
"'Yes,' she said; 'the days are all long without mother.'
"He started as she said it; then said, 'I'm very glad she isn't here.'
"'Glad! father?'
"'Yes, glad; for'--he said almost in a whisper--'they never hunger
there. I wish we were there too.'
"He laid his head on her shoulder, while the words came fast: 'No
work--I have hunted, hunted everywhere. I have been ready to give up,
and then I would think of you, Lizzie, and I kept on; but there's no
work to be had. O Lizzie, Lizzie, I could bear it if it weren't for
you!'
"She said nothing, but kept stroking his hair with her little hand,
while her face looked very sad.
"'I will try once more, to-morrow, though I know there's no use.'
"'Perhaps you can find something, father. Don't despair. God will take
care of us. Shall I say mother's psalm, father?'
"He only nodded his head, and she began: _'I will bless the Lord at all
times. His praise shall continually be in my mouth.'_
"'Does it say, "at all times," Lizzie?'
"'Yes, father, "_at all times_;" that means when we are in trouble too,
doesn't it?'
"'It must mean so; but it isn't so easy to praise him when we can't see
any light, as when everything is bright.'
"'It isn't so easy to _praise_, father; but then we can _pray_.'
"'We can pray, Lizzie; but what if God doesn't hear us?'
"'But he does hear us, father. That's just what the verse that mother
liked best said: _"I sought the Lord, and he heard me, and delivered me
out of all my troubles."_ And this verse too: _"Many are the
afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth them out of them
all."_ That is a sweet verse, father.'
"'Say them all, Lizzie.'
"'I don't remember them all. I will say all I can: _"The angel of the
Lord encampeth round about them that fear him and delivereth them."_
_"Oh, fear the Lord, ye his saints: for there is no want to them that
fear him."'_
"'Do you think that's always true, Lizzie?'
"'I don't know,' she said, with a puzzled look; 'we want something now.
You want work, and I want to be well and strong to help you; but maybe
it doesn't mean we shall have everything we want, but all that is best
for us. That's what mother used to say, and that's what the next verse
says too: _"The young lions do lack and suffer hunger, but they that
seek the Lord shall not want any good thing."_ And perhaps it isn't here
that we shall not want. You said "there was no hunger there," didn't
you, father?'
"'Yes, Lizzie.'
"'And then there is that other verse, father: _"Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for
thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."'_
"Her voice trembled as she said it, and she paused, for they were her
mother's dying words.
"'We will fear no evil, father. We won't stop trusting; will we,
father?'
"'No, Lizzie; I sometimes fear I should if it weren't for you. What
should I do without you?' and his arms grasped her closer, as if even
the thought were painful.
"'O father, you would be glad that God had taken me where I couldn't
suffer any more, and where I should be straight and pretty like other
children.'
"'You are pretty now, Lizzie. I never see any face that looks so
beautiful to me.'
"'But it isn't like other children's, father. When Mrs. Smith came in
to-day, she had a pretty little girl with her, with such bright golden
hair, and such rosy cheeks, and so tall and straight, she must look like
the angels, I think. And when I looked at her, it was so hard to keep
the tears from coming. I had to keep thinking of what mother told me
when I read about the pool where the sick people washed and were made
well; and I said I wished there was such a pool now. Mother said the
river of death was such a pool, and that after I had crossed it, I
should be like the angels in heaven. But she said, father, she should
still know me; so, father, you will keep on trusting and praising too,
won't you, if God takes me there?'
"He made no answer, but held her closely to him, till the few coals in
the grate grew white, and the room grew cold.
"'It's too cold for you here, Lizzie, and we can't have any more coals
to-night. Shall I put you in bed now?'
"'Let me sing mother's hymn first, father.'
"He raised her a little, and in a sweet, low voice she began singing:--
"'Breast the wave, Christian, when it is strongest;
Watch for day, Christian, when night is longest;
Onward and onward still be thine endeavour,
The rest that remaineth endureth for ever.
"'Fight the fight, Christian--Jesus is o'er thee;
Run the race, Christian--heaven is before thee;
He who hath promised faltereth never;
Oh, trust in the love that endureth for ever.
"'Lift the eye, Christian, just as it closeth;
Raise the heart, Christian, ere it reposeth;
Nothing thy soul from the Saviour can sever,
Soon shalt thou mount upward to praise him for ever.'"
Sister Mary paused after she had sung the hymn. There were tears in the
children's eyes, and for a moment they were silent.
"Is that all?" they said at last.
"No," said sister Mary, "there's some more; but I'm afraid you are
tired."
"Oh no; tell us the rest!"
"Very well," said sister Mary, "but we'll have to make haste; it's
growing late:--
"The setting sun was shining again into the poor little room, and the
little girl sat again, wrapped up in her old shawl, before the fire,
rocking to and fro. The little girl's face had a very bright smile on
it; but it wasn't the rose-bush with its little bud, now almost opened,
that caused it, for she didn't look that way at all. She had a little
bit of paper in her hand that she held very tightly, while her eyes kept
watching the door. The sunlight faded, and the room grew dark, but the
little face still wore the bright smile.
"As the door opened, she cried out eagerly,--
"'O father, here's something for you! There was a gentleman here to see
you to-day, and he left his name; here it is on this card; and he said
if you would come to see him, he had some work for you.'
"The man sat down in his chair, and laid his head in his hands.
"'O Lizzie,' he said, 'it's more than I deserve; I was just ready to
give up trusting. I have sought all day, and I couldn't bear to come
home.'
"'God did hear us; didn't he, father? I'm so glad we didn't stop
trusting. Hadn't you better go now, father, and see about it?'
"'Yes,' he said, 'I'll go now,' stooping down to read the card by the
light of the fire.
"He went out, and the shadows settled down over the room; but the little
girl sat still, and you could just hear her humming to herself,--
"'Breast the wave, Christian, when it is strongest.'
"Presently she heard her father's step. It was quicker and lighter than
it had been for many a day."
"'I've got it, Lizzie. It's a place as a porter in a warehouse; and good
wages too. And see here,' he said, as he lighted a candle he had brought
with him, 'we'll have a light to-night, and a nice supper too.'
"'O father!' said Lizzie, as she looked on with bright eyes as her
father took out the parcels; 'how did you get all those things?'
"'The gentleman paid me something in advance. He said he knew people
that had been out of work so long needed something.'
"It was a pleasant evening; the candlelight seemed so bright to Lizzie's
eyes, that hadn't seen any for so long a time, and her father was so
cheerful. Yes, it was a pleasant evening; and they closed by reading the
103rd Psalm:--
_"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy
name._
_"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.'"_
* * * * *
Sister Mary took up her book and went into the house, while the children
gathered together on the steps to watch the sun that was now setting.
"Lizzie was a wonderfully good little girl, wasn't she," said Jack; "but
then she was sick. I never knew any good people that weren't either sick
or ugly."
"Why, Jack, there's sister Mary, and papa and mamma, and Miss Taylor,
and--"
"Oh, I mean children. All the children I read about are good, and get
ill, and die. I rather think Lizzie would have died if sister Mary had
gone on with her story."
"It _is_ so in books," said Belle; "they always die."
"People would not want to write about them if they lived," said Nannie.
"Why not?" said Jack; "I wish some one would write about me."
"If they wrote about you," said Belle, "they could call their work, 'A
warning to bad boys,' or, 'An ugly boy that wasn't good.'"
While they were talking so, Nannie was thinking very intently.
"What are you thinking about, Nannie?" said Belle.
"I was thinking about what Jack said--that all the good people were
either sick or ugly; I don't believe it's true. But if it is true, I
was thinking that perhaps it's like what Abraham told the rich man:
'Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things,
and likewise Lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted, and thou art
tormented.' So I thought that the ones that were sick and ugly here, but
loved Jesus, had received all their evil things, and would be well and
beautiful there."
"Maybe so," said Jack, more thoughtfully than before. Then stooping down
and kissing Nannie, he said, "I know one good girl that isn't sick."
The sun was just setting, leaving about half its great face to light the
world.
In Jack's heart the sun was just rising.
Nannie's words kept sounding in his ears,--"Perhaps, perhaps they
have received in this life their good things;" and those other words,
"Therefore he is comforted, and thou art tormented."