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Lucy Raymond;
OR,
THE CHILDREN'S WATCHWORD.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
'KATIE JOHNSTONE'S CROSS.'
TORONTO:
JAMES CAMPBELL AND SON.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. MISS PRESTON'S LAST SUNDAY,
II. LUCY'S HOME,
III. MORE HOME SCENES,
IV. NELLY'S SUNDAY EVENING,
V. STRAWBERRYING,
VI. A MISSION,
VII. TEMPTATIONS,
VIII. PARTINGS,
IX. INTRODUCTIONS,
X. NEW EXPERIENCES,
XI. A START IN LIFE,
XII. AMBITION,
XIII. A FRIENDSHIP,
XIV. AN UNEXPECTED RECOGNITION,
XV. THE FLOWER FADETH,
XVI. DARKNESS AND LIGHT,
XVII. HOME AGAIN,
XVIII. A FAREWELL CHAPTER,
LUCY RAYMOND.
I.
_Miss Preston's Last Sunday_.
"Tell me the old, old story
Of unseen things above--
Of Jesus and His glory,
Of Jesus and His love."
The light of a lovely Sabbath afternoon in June lay on the rich green
woodlands, still bright with the vivid green of early summer, and
sparkled on the broad river, tossed by the breeze into a thousand
ripples, that swept past the village of Ashleigh. It would have been
oppressively warm, but for the breeze which was swaying the long
branches of the pine-trees around the little church, which from its
elevation on the higher ground looked down upon the straggling
clusters of white houses nestling in their orchards and gardens that
sloped away below. The same breeze, pleasantly laden with the mingled
fragrance of the pines and of the newly-cut hay, fanned the faces of
the children, who in pretty little groups--the flickering shadows of
the pines falling on their light, fluttering summer dresses--were
approaching the church, the grave demeanour of a few of the elder ones
showing that their thoughts were already occupied by the pleasant
exercises of the Sunday school.
Along a quiet, shady path, also leading to the church, a lady was
slowly and thoughtfully walking, on whose countenance a slight shade
of sadness, apparently, contended with happier thoughts. It was Mary
Preston's last Sunday in her old home, previous to exchanging it for
the new one to which she had been looking forward so long; and full as
her heart was of thankfulness to God for the blessings He had
bestowed, she could not take farewell of the Sunday school in which
she had taught for several years, without some regret and many
misgivings. Where, indeed, is the earnest teacher, however faithful,
who can lay down the self-imposed task without some such feelings? Has
the _heart_ been in the work? Have thought and earnestness entered
into the weekly instruction? Has a Christian example given force to
the precepts inculcated? Above all, has there been earnest,
persevering prayer to the Lord of the harvest, in dependence on whom
alone the joyful reaping time can be expected?
Such were some of the questions which had been passing through Miss
Preston's mind; and the smile with which she greeted her class as she
took her place was a little shadowed by her self-condemning
reflections--reflections which her fellow-teachers would have thought
quite uncalled for in one who had been the most zealous and
conscientious worker in that Sunday school. But Mary Preston little
thought of comparing herself with others. She knew that to whom "much
is given, of him shall be much required;" and judging herself by this
standard, she felt how little she had rendered to the Lord for His
benefits to her. As her wistful glance strayed during the opening hymn
to the faces of her scholars, she could not help wondering what
influence the remembrance of what she had tried to teach them would
exert on their future lives.
As her class had been much diminished by recent changes, and in view
of her approaching departure the blanks had not been filled up, it
consisted on this Sunday of only three girls, of ages varying from
twelve to fourteen, but differing much in appearance, and still more
widely in character and in the circumstances of their lives.
Close to Miss Preston, and watching every look of the teacher she
loved and grieved at losing, sat Lucy Raymond, the minister's
motherless daughter, a slight, delicate-looking girl, with dark hair
and bright grey eyes, full of energy and thought, but possessing a
good deal of self-will and love of approbation,--dangerous elements of
character unless modified and restrained by divine grace.
Next to her sat fair, plump, rosy-cheeked, curly-haired Bessie Ford,
from the Mill Bank Farm--an amiable, kind-hearted little damsel, and a
favourite with all her companions, but careless and thoughtless, with
a want of steadiness and moral principle which made her teacher long
to see the taking root of the good seed, whose development might
supply what was lacking.
Very different from both seemed the third member of the class--a
forlorn-looking child, who sat shyly apart from the others, shrinking
from proximity with their neat, tasteful summer attire, as if she felt
the contrast between her own dress and appearance and that of her
school-fellows. Poor Nelly Connor's dingy straw hat and tattered
cotton dress, as well as her pale, meagre face, with its bright hazel
eyes gleaming from under the tangled brown hair, showed evident signs
of poverty and neglect. She was a stranger there, having only recently
come to Ashleigh, and had been found wandering about, a Sunday or two
before, by Miss Preston, who had coaxed her into the Sunday school,
and had kept her in her own class until she should become a little
more familiar with scenes so strange and new. Curiosity and wonder
seemed at first to absorb all her faculties, and her senses seemed so
evidently engrossed with the novelty of what she saw around her, that
her teacher could scarcely hope she took in any of the instruction
which in the most simple words she tried to impress on her wandering
mind. And so very ignorant was she of the most elementary truths of
Christianity, that Miss Preston scarcely dared to ask her the simplest
question, for fear of drawing towards her the wondering gaze of her
more favoured classmates, who, accustomed from infancy to hear of a
Saviour's love and sacrifice for sin, could scarcely comprehend how
any child,
"Born in Christian lands,
And not a heathen or a Jew,"
could have grown up to nearly their own age, ignorant of things which
were familiar to them as household words.
Lucy and Bessie, in their happy ignorance and inexperience, little
dreamed how many thousands in Christian cities full of stately
churches, whose lofty spires seem to proclaim afar the Christianity of
the inhabitants, grow up even to manhood and womanhood with as little
knowledge of the glorious redemption provided to rescue them from
their sin and degradation as if they were sunk in the thickest
darkness of heathenism. Strange that congregations of professed
followers of Christ, whose consciences will not let them refuse to
contribute some small portion of their substance to convey the glad
tidings of the gospel to distant lands, will yet, as they seek their
comfortable churches, pass calmly by whole districts where so many of
their fellow-countrymen are perishing for lack of that very gospel,
without making one personal effort to save them! Will they not have to
give an account for these things?
Nelly Connor's life had for the last two or three years been spent in
one of the lowest districts of the city in which her father had fixed
his abode after his emigration from the "old sod" to the New World.
The horrors of that emigration she could still remember--the
overcrowded steerage, where foul air bred the dreaded "ship-fever,"
and where the moans of the sick and dying weighed down the hearts of
those whom the disease had spared. Her two little sisters had died
during that dreadful voyage; and her mother, heart-broken and worn out
with fatigue and watching, only lived to reach land and die in the
nearest hospital. An elder brother, who was to have accompanied them,
had by some accident lost his passage; and though he had, they
supposed, followed them in the next ship that sailed, they never
discovered any further trace of him. So, when Nelly's father had
followed his wife to the grave in the poor coffin he had with
difficulty provided for her, he and his daughter were all that
remained of the family which had set out from their dear Irish home,
hoping, in the strange land they sought, to lay the foundation of
happier fortunes.
They led an uncomfortable, unsettled life for a year or two after
that, exchanging one miserable lodging for another--rarely for the
better. The father obtained an uncertain employment as a deck hand on
a steamboat during the summer, subsisting as best he could on odd jobs
during the winter, and too often drowning his sorrows and cares in the
tempting but fatal cup. Poor Nelly, left without any care or teaching,
soon forgot all she had ever learned; and running wild with the
neglected children around her, became, as might have been expected, a
little street Arab, full of shrewd, quick observation, and utter
aversion to restraint of any kind.
Suddenly, to Nelly's consternation, her father brought home a second
wife, a comrade's widow, with two or three young children. In the new
household Nelly was at once expected to take the place of nurse and
general drudge, a part for which her habits of unrestrained freedom
and idleness had thoroughly disqualified her; and the results were
what might have been expected. There was a good deal of heedlessness
and neglect on Nelly's part, and nearly constant scolding on that of
her new mother. And as the latter was neither patient nor judicious,
and was, moreover, unreasonable in what she demanded from the child,
there was many a conflict ending in sharp blows, the physical pain of
which was nothing in comparison with the sense of injury and
oppression left on the child's mind. But she had no redress; for her
father being so much away from his home, had no opportunity of
opposing, as he would probably have done, his wife's severe method of
"managing" his motherless child.
Things were in this condition when Mrs. Connor, who had formerly
belonged to Ashleigh, made up her mind to remove thither, in the
expectation both of living more cheaply, and of being able, among her
old acquaintances, to find more work to eke out her uncertain means of
living. Her husband was now working on a steamboat which passed up and
down the river on which Ashleigh was situated, so that he could not
see his family as often as before. They were now settled in a small,
rather dilapidated tenement, with a potato patch and pig-sty; and Mrs.
Connor, who was an energetic woman, had already succeeded in making
her family almost independent of the earnings which Michael Connor too
often spent in the public-house. This being the case, she had no
scruples in providing for her own children, without much consideration
for Nelly; so that the poor child was a forlorn-looking object when
Miss Preston had found her hovering wistfully about, attracted by the
sight of the children streaming towards the church, and had induced
her to come, for the first time in her life, into a Sunday school.
And now, with these three girls before her, differing so much in
circumstances and culture, it was no wonder that Miss Preston should
feel it a matter for earnest consideration what parting words she
should say, which, even if unappreciated at the time, might
afterwards come back to their minds, associated with the remembrance
of a teacher they had loved, to help them in the conflict between good
and evil which must have its place in their future lives. But she felt
she could not possibly do better, in bidding farewell to her young
pupils, than to direct them to Him who would never leave nor forsake
them,--who was nearer, wiser, tenderer, than any earthly friend,--who,
if they would trust themselves to Him, would guide them into all
truth, and in His own way of peace.
She had brought them each, as a little parting remembrancer, a pretty
gift-card, bearing on one side the illuminated motto, "LOOKING UNTO
JESUS," a text the blessed influence of which she herself had long
experimentally known. And in words so simple as for the most part to
reach even little Nelly's comprehension, she spoke earnestly of the
loving Saviour to whom they were to "look,"--of that wonderful life
which, opening in the lowly manger of Bethlehem, and growing quietly
to maturity in the green valleys of Nazareth, reached its full
development in those unparalleled three years of "going about doing
good," healing, teaching, warning, rebuking, comforting; not
disdaining to stop and bless the little children, and at last dying to
atone for our sins.
She explained to them, that although withdrawn from our earthly sight,
He was as really near to them now as He had been to those Jewish
children eighteen hundred years ago; that their lowest whisper could
reach Him; that if they would but ask Him, He would be their truest
Friend, ever at their side to help them to do right and resist
temptation, to comfort them in sorrow and sweeten their joy. Her
earnest tone and manner, even more than her words, impressed the
children, and fixed even Nelly Connor's bright hazel eyes in a
wondering gaze. It was very new and strange to her to hear about the
mysterious, invisible Friend who was so loving and kind; the idea of a
_friend_ of any kind being novel to the lonely, motherless child, more
accustomed to harsh, unsparing reproof than to any other language.
Miss Preston, glad to see at least that her interest was excited, was
fain to leave the germs of truth to take root and develope in her
mind, under the silent influence of the divine Husbandman.
"Now, my dear children," she said in conclusion, "whenever you are
tempted to be careless or unfaithful in duty, to think that _it
doesn't matter because no one will know_, remember that your _Saviour
knows_,--that whatever the duty before you may be, you have to do it
'as to the Lord, and not unto men.' Whenever you are tempted to get
tired of trying to do right and resist temptation, or when you may
feel sad for your sinfulness and unworthiness, think of the text I am
leaving you, 'LOOKING UNTO JESUS.' And if you really and earnestly
_look_ to Him, you will always find help, and strength, and guidance,
and comfort."
On the reverse side of the illuminated card she had brought for her
class was printed, in clear, distinct characters, the hymn,
"I lay my sins on Jesus,
The spotless Lamb of God;
He bears them all, and frees us
From the accursed load.
"I lay my wants on Jesus,
All fulness dwells in Him;
He heals all my diseases,
He doth my soul redeem."
As Nelly could not read, Miss Preston made her say these verses
several times after her; and as she had a quick ear and a facility for
learning by heart, she could soon repeat them. That she could not
understand them at present, her teacher knew; but she thought it
something gained that the words at least should linger in her memory
till their meaning should dawn upon her heart. Then, telling Nelly she
must take care of her pretty card, and try to learn to read it for
herself, she bade her class an affectionate farewell, trusting that
the Friend of whom she had been teaching them would care for them when
_she_ could not.
"I'll learn the hymn, miss, and try to learn to read it, if anybody
'll teach me," said Nelly, her bright brown eyes sparkling through
tears, for her warm Irish heart had been touched by the kind words and
tones of her teacher, whom she expected never to see again.
Bessy Ford's sunshiny face also looked unusually sorrowful, and Lucy
Raymond's trembling lip bespoke a deeper emotion, with difficulty
repressed.
"I shall see _you_ again, Lucy," Miss Preston said, with a smile, as
she affectionately detained her a moment, for Lucy had been invited to
be present at her teacher's marriage, at which her father was to
officiate. Lucy and Bessie walked away together, the former with her
first experience of a "_last time_" weighing on her mind and spirits;
and Nelly Connor slowly stole away among the trees toward the spot she
called her "home."
Bessie's momentary sadness quickly vanished as she engaged in a brisk
conversation with another girl about her own age, who was eager to
gossip about Miss Preston's approaching marriage, where she was going,
and what she was to wear. Lucy drew off from her companion as soon as
Nancy Parker joined them, partly from a real desire of thinking
quietly of her teacher's parting words, partly in proud disdain of
Bessie's frivolity. "How _can_ she go on so," she thought, "after what
Miss Preston has been saying?" But she forgot that disdain is as far
removed from the spirit of the loving and pitying Saviour as even the
frivolity she despised.
"Come, Lucy, don't be so stiff," said Nancy as they approached the
shady gate of the white house where Mr. Raymond lived; "can't you tell
us something about the wedding? You're going, aren't you?"
Nancy's pert, familiar tones grated upon Lucy's ear with unusual
harshness, and she replied, rather haughtily, that she knew scarcely
anything about it.
"Oh, no doubt you think yourself very grand," Nancy rejoined, "but I
can find out all about it from my aunt, and no thanks to you. Come on,
Bessie." Bessie, somewhat ashamed of her companion, and instinctively
conscious of Lucy's disapproval, stopped at the gate to exchange a
good-bye with her friend, who for the moment was not very cordial.
Thus Miss Preston and her class had separated, and future days alone
could reveal what had become of the seed she had tried to sow.
II.
_Lucy's Home._
"Is the heart a living power?
Self-entwined, its strength sinks low;
It can only live in loving,
And by serving, love will grow."
As Lucy passed in under the acacias which shaded the gate, she was met
by a pretty, graceful-looking girl about her own age, who, with her
golden hair floating on her shoulders and her hat swinging listlessly
in her hand, was wandering through the shrubbery.
"Why, Lucy," she exclaimed, "what a time you have been away! I've
tried everything I could think of to pass the time; looked over all
your books, and couldn't find a nice one I hadn't read; teased Alick
and Fred till they went off for peace, and pussy till she scratched my
arm. Just look there!"
But Lucy's mind had been too much absorbed to descend at once to the
level of her cousin's trifling tone; and having been vexed previously
at her refusal to accompany her to Sunday school, she now regretted
exceedingly that Stella had not been present to hear Miss Preston's
earnest words.
"Oh, Stella," she said eagerly, "I do _so_ wish you had been with me!
If you had only heard what Miss Preston said to us, it would have done
you good all your life."
"Well, you know I don't worship Miss Preston," replied Stella, always
ready to tease, "she looks so demure. And as for dressing, why, Ada
and Sophy wouldn't be seen out in the morning in that common-looking
muslin she wore to church."
"Oh, Stella, how can you go on so?" exclaimed Lucy impatiently. "If
you only had something better to think of, you wouldn't talk as if you
thought dress the one thing needful."
"That's a quotation from one of Uncle Raymond's sermons, isn't it?"
rejoined Stella aggravatingly.
Lucy drew her arm away from her cousin's and walked off alone to the
house, obliged to hear Stella's closing remark: "Well, I'm glad _I_
didn't go to Sunday school if it makes people come home cross and
sulky!" And then, unconscious of the sting her words had implanted,
Stella turned to meet little Harry, who was bounding home in his
highest spirits.
Lucy slowly found her way to her own room, her especial sanctuary,
where she had a good deal of pleasure in keeping her various
possessions neatly arranged. At present it was shared by her young
visitor, whose careless, disorderly ways were a considerable drawback
to the pleasure so long anticipated of having a companion of her own
age. Just now her eye fell at once on her ransacked bookcase all in
confusion, with the books scattered about the room. It was a trifle,
but trifles are magnified when the temper is already discomposed; and
throwing down her gloves and Bible, she hastily proceeded to rearrange
them, feeling rather unamiably towards her cousin.
But as she turned back from the completed task, her card with its
motto met her eye, like a gentle reproof to her ruffled
spirit--"LOOKING UNTO JESUS." Had she not forgotten that already? She
had come home enthusiastic--full of an ideal life she was to live, an
example and influence for good to all around her. But, mingled in her
aspirations, there was an unconscious desire for pre-eminence and an
insidious self-complacency--"little foxes" that will spoil the best
grapes. She had to learn that God will not be served with unhallowed
fire; that the heart must be freed from pride and self-seeking before
it can be fit for the service of the sanctuary. Already she knew she
had been impatient and unconciliatory, contemptuous to poor
ill-trained Nancy, whose home influences were very unfavourable; and
now, by her hastiness towards her cousin, whom she had been so anxious
to influence for good, she had probably disgusted her with the things
in which she most wanted to interest her.
She did not turn away, however, from the lights conscience brought to
her. Nurtured in a happy Christian home, under the watchful eye of the
loving father whose care had to a great extent supplied the want of
the mother she could scarcely remember, she could not have specified
the time when she first began to look upon Christ as her Saviour, and
to feel herself bound to live unto _Him_, and not to herself. But her
teacher's words had given her a new impulse--a more definite
realization of the strength by which the Christian life was to be
lived--
"The mind to blend with outward life,
While keeping at Thy side."
Humbled by her failure, she honestly confessed it, and asked for more
of the strength which every earnest seeker shall receive.
With a much lighter heart and clearer brow, Lucy went to rejoin
Stella, whom she found amusing herself with Harry and his rabbits,
having forgotten all about Lucy's hastiness. Lucy seated herself on
the grass beside them, joining readily in the admiration with which
Stella, no less than Harry, was caressing the soft, white, downy
creature with pink eyes, which was her brother's latest acquisition.
"I want him to call it Blanche--such a pretty name, isn't it, Lucy?"
said Stella.
"I won't," declared the perverse Harry, "because I don't like it;" and
so saying, he rushed off to join "the boys," as he called them.
"What have you got there?" asked Stella, holding out her hand for
Lucy's card, which she had brought down. "Yes, it's pretty, but Sophy
does much prettier ones; you should see some lovely ones she has
done!"
"Has she?" asked Lucy with interest,--thinking Stella's sister must
care more for the Bible than she herself did, if she painted
illuminated texts. "I was going to tell you this was what Miss Preston
was speaking to us about."
"I don't see that she could say much about that, it's so short. I
don't see what it means; Jesus is in heaven now, and we can't see
Him."
"Oh, but," exclaimed Lucy eagerly, overcoming her shy reluctance to
speak, "He is _always near_, though we can't see Him, and is ready to
help us when we do right, and grieved and displeased when we do wrong.
I forget that myself, Stella," she added with an effort, "or I
shouldn't have been so cross when I came home."
Stella had already forgotten all about that, and felt a little
uncomfortable at her cousin's entering on subjects which she had been
accustomed to consider were to be confined to the pulpit, or at any
rate were above her comprehension. She believed, of course, in a
general way, that Christ had died for sinners, as she had often heard
in church, and that in some vague way _she_ was to be saved and taken
to heaven, when she should be obliged to leave this world; but it had
never occurred to her that the salvation of which she had been told
was to influence her life now, or awaken any love from _her_ in
response to the great love which had been shown toward her. Not daring
to reply, she glanced listlessly over the hymn on the card, but took
up none of its meaning. She had never been conscious of any heavy
burden of sin to be "laid on Jesus." Petted and praised at home for
her beauty and lively winning ways, her faults overlooked and her good
qualities exaggerated, she had no idea of the evil that lay
undeveloped in her nature, shutting out from her heart the love of the
meek and lowly Jesus. She could scarcely feel her need of strength for
a warfare on which she had never entered; and Lucy's words, spoken
out of the realizing experience she had already had, were to her
incomprehensible.
She was a good deal relieved when the tea-bell rang, and Lucy's two
brothers, Fred and Harry, with her tall cousin Alick Steele, joined
them as they obeyed the summons to the cool, pleasant dining-room,
where Alick's mother, Mr. Raymond's sister, who had superintended his
family since Mrs. Raymond's death, was already seated at the
tea-table. Her quiet, gentle face, in the plain widow's cap, greeted
them with a smile, brightening with a mother's pride and pleasure as
she glanced towards her son Alick, just now spending a brief holiday
at Ashleigh on the completion of his medical studies. He was a
handsome high-spirited youth, affectionate, candid, and full of
energy, though as yet his mother grieved at his carelessness as to the
"better part" which she longed to see him choose. He had always spent
his vacations at Ashleigh, and was such a favourite that his visits
were looked forward to as the pleasantest events of the year.
"Girls," said Alick, "I saw such quantities of strawberries this
afternoon."
"Where?" interrupted Harry eagerly.
"Was anybody speaking to you?" asked his cousin, laughing. "But I'll
tell you if you won't go and eat them all up. Over on the edge of the
woods by Mill Bank Farm. I could soon have filled a basket if I had
had one, and if mother wouldn't have said it was Sabbath-breaking!"
"Alick, my boy," said his mother gravely, "you mustn't talk so
thoughtlessly. What would your uncle say?"
"He'd say it was a pity so good a mother hadn't a better son. But
never mind, mother dear, you'll see I'll come all right yet. As for
these strawberries, Lucy, I vote we have a strawberry picnic, and give
Stella a taste of real country life. They'll give us cream at the
farm, and the Fords would join us."
Stella looked a little of the surprise she felt at the idea of the
farmer's children being added to the party, but she did not venture to
say anything, as Alick was by no means sparing in bringing his powers
of raillery to bear on what he called her "town airs and graces."
"Well, you needn't make all the arrangements to-night," interposed
Mrs. Steele; "you know your uncle doesn't like Sunday planning of
amusements."
And just then Mr. Raymond entered the room, his grave, quiet face,
solemnized by the thoughts with which he had been engrossed,
exercising an unconsciously subduing influence over the lively
juniors. Mr. Raymond never frowned upon innocent joyousness, and even
the boisterous little Harry was never afraid of his father; yet there
was about him a certain realization of the great truths he preached,
which checked any approach to levity in his presence, and impressed
even the most thoughtless; although, not tracing it to its real
source, they generally set it down simply to his "being a clergyman."
His children looked up to him with devoted affection and deep
reverence; even Stella could not help feeling that her uncle must be a
_very_ good man; and to Alick, who under all his nonsense had a strong
appreciation of practical religion, he was the embodiment of Christian
excellence.
"Well, Stella," said her uncle, turning kindly to his niece, "I hope
you had a pleasant afternoon. I suppose our little Sunday school looks
very small after the great city ones."
"We never go to Sunday school at home, uncle," said Stella, with one
of her winning smiles; "there are so many _common_ children."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Alick, seizing the opportunity of putting down
Stella's airs. "Why don't you get up a select one, then, attended only
by young ladies of the best families?"
Stella coloured at the sarcastic tone, but Mr. Raymond only said
kindly, "Did you ever think, my dear child, how many of these poor
common children, as you call them, you will have to meet in heaven?"
It was certainly a new idea to Stella, and made her feel rather
uncomfortable; indeed she never cared much to think about heaven, of
which her ideas were the vaguest possible.
As they went to evening service, Alick did not omit to rally Stella on
her want of candour in leaving her uncle under the impression that she
had been at Sunday school that afternoon.
"Why, Alick!" she exclaimed in surprise, "I didn't say I had been at
Sunday school. If Uncle Raymond supposed so, it wasn't my fault."
"Only, you answered him as if his supposition was correct. I have
always understood that intentionally confirming a false impression was
at least the next thing to telling a story."
"Well, I'm sure Stella didn't think of that," interposed Lucy
good-naturedly, noticing the rising colour of vexation on Stella's
countenance.
"How tiresome they all are here!" thought Stella; "always finding out
harm in things. I'm sure it wasn't my business to tell Uncle William I
hadn't been at Sunday school. Sophy and Ada often tell the housemaid
to say they are not at home when they are, and don't think it any
harm. What would Alick say to that?"
By one of those coincidences which sometimes happen--sent, we may be
sure, in God's providence--Mr. Raymond took for his text that evening
the words, "Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith."
The coincidence startled Lucy, and made her listen with more than
ordinary attention to her father's sermon, though, to do her justice,
she was not usually either sleepy or inattentive. Mr. Raymond began by
alluding to the "race set before us," which the apostle had spoken of
in the previous verse,--the race which all who will follow Christ must
know, but only in the strength He will supply. The young and strong
might think themselves sufficient for it, but the stern experience of
life would soon teach them that it must be often run with a heavy
heart and weary feet; that "even the youths shall faint and be weary,
and the young men utterly fall;" and that it is only they who wait on
the Lord, "looking unto Jesus," who shall "mount up on wings as
eagles," who shall "run and not be weary, and shall walk and not
faint."
Then he spoke of the Helper ever near--the "dear Jesus ever at our
side," in looking to whom in faith and prayer, not trying to walk in
our own strength, we may get
"the daily strength,
To none who ask denied,"--
the strength to overcome temptation and conquer sloth, and do whatever
work He gives us to do. Something, too, he said of what that work is:
First, the faithful discharge of daily duty, whatever its nature; then
the more voluntary work for Christ and our fellow-men with which the
corners of the busiest life may be filled up--the weak and weary to be
helped, the mourner to be sympathized with, the erring brother or
sister to be sought out and brought back, the cup of cold water to be
given for Christ's sake, which should not lose its reward.
He ended by speaking of the grounds on which Jesus is the "author and
finisher of our faith," the great salvation won by Him for us on the
cross,--a salvation to be entered upon now, so that during this life
we may begin that glorious eternal life which is to go on for ever.
Then he besought his hearers, by the greatness of that love which had
prompted the infinite sacrifice, by the endurance of that mysterious
depth of suffering which the Son of God bore for men, that He might
"save them to the uttermost that come unto God by Him," to come at
once to have their sins washed away in the Redeemer's blood, which
alone could "purge their consciences from dead works to serve the
living God."
Many and many a time during Lucy's after-life did the words of that
sermon come back to her mind, associated with her father's earnest,
solemn tones, with the peaceful beauty of that summer Sabbath
evening--with the old church, its high seats and pulpit and
time-stained walls, and the old familiar faces whom all her life she
had been wont to see, Sunday after Sunday, in the same familiar seats.
And what of the others? Bessie Ford, too, had noticed the coincidence,
and had listened to the sermon as attentively as a somewhat volatile
mind would allow her, and had gathered from it more than she could
have put into conscious thought, though it was destined to bring forth
fruit.
And far back, in a dusky corner of the little gallery, gleamed the
bright brown eyes of little Nelly, who had ventured back to the
church, and, hearing the familiar sound of the text, listened intently
and picked up some things which, though only half understood, yet
awakened the chords which had been already touched to a trembling
response.
Even little Harry in some measure abstained from indulging in his
ordinary train of meditation during church-time, consisting chiefly of
planning fishing excursions and games for the holidays. How many older
and wiser heads are prone to the same kind of reverie, and could not
have given a better account of "papa's sermon" than he was usually
able to do! Fred, the quiet student, listened with kindling eye and
deep enthusiasm to his father's earnest exposition of the divine truth
which had already penetrated his own mind and heart; and Alick heard
it with a reverent admiration for the beautiful gospel which could
prompt such noble sentiments, and with a vague determination that
"some time" he would think about it in earnest.
Stella alone, of all the young group, carried away nothing of the
precious truth which had been sounding in her ears. She had gone to
church merely as a matter of form, without any expectation of
receiving a blessing there; and during the service her wandering eyes
had been employed in taking a mental inventory of the various odd and
old-fashioned costumes that she saw around her, to serve for her
sister's amusement when she should return home. It is thus that the
evil one often takes away the good seed before it has sunk into our
hearts. Stella would have been surprised had it been suggested to her
that the words of the last hymn, which rose sweetly through the church
in the soft summer twilight, could possibly apply to her that evening:
"If some poor wandering child of thine
Have spurned to-day the voice divine,
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin;
Let him no more lie down in sin!"
III.
_More Home Scenes._
"Tell me the story often.
For I forgot so soon;
The early dew of morning
Has passed away at noon."
When Bessie Ford parted from Lucy at the gate, she had still a long
walk before reaching home. Mill Bank Farm was a good mile and a half
from the village if you went by the road, but Bessie shortened it very
considerably by striking across the fields a little way beyond the
village. There were one or two fences to climb, but Bessie did not
mind that any more than she minded the placid cows browsing in the
pasture through which her way led. The breezy meadows, white with
ox-eye daisies, and in some places yellow with buttercups, with the
blue river flowing rapidly past on one side, afforded a pleasant walk
at any time, and the rest of the way was still prettier. Just within
the boundary of Mill Bank Farm the ground ascended slightly, and then
descended into a narrow glen or ravine, with steep, rocky sides
luxuriantly draped with velvet moss and waving ferns, while along the
bottom of it a little stream flowed quietly enough towards the river,
though a little higher up it came foaming and dashing down the rocks
and turned a small saw-mill on the farm. The sides of the ravine were
shady with hemlocks, spreading their long, waving boughs over the
rocks, with whose dark, solemn foliage maples and birches contrasted
their fresh vivid green. In spring, what a place it was for wild
flowers!--as Lucy Raymond and her brothers well knew, having often
brought home thence great bunches of dielytras and convallarias and
orchises; and at any time some bright blossoms were generally to be
found gleaming through the shade.
Bessie, however, did not linger now to look for them, but picking her
way across the stepping-stones which lay in the bed of the stream, she
quickly climbed the opposite bank by a natural pathway which wound up
among the rocks--easily found by her accustomed feet--and passing
through the piece of woodland that lay on the other side, came out on
the sunny expanse of meadows and corn-fields, in the midst of which
stood the neat white farmhouse, with its little array of farm
buildings, and the fine old butternut tree, under the shade of which
Mrs. Ford sat milking her sleek, gentle cows, little Jenny and Jack
sitting on the ground beside her. The instant that they espied their
sister coming through the fields, they dashed off at the top of their
speed to see who should reach her first, and were soon trotting along
by her side, confiding to her their afternoon's adventures, and how
Jack had found nine eggs in an unsuspected nest in the barn, but had
broken three in carrying them in.
"But me wouldn't have," insisted Jack sturdily, "if Jenny hadn't
knocked up against me."
"Oh, Jack! Now you know I only touched you the least little bit,"
retorted the aggrieved Jenny.
"Well, don't jump up and down so, or I will let go your hand," said
Bessie. "You almost pull my arm off! I wish you could see how quietly
little Mary Thomson sits in Sunday school, and she is no bigger than
you."
"Why can't I go to Sunday school, then?" demanded Jenny; "I'd be quiet
too."
"And me too!" vociferated Jack; the circumstance that they were not
considered old enough yet to go to Sunday school giving it a wonderful
charm in their eyes. Then, as they set off again on another race
toward their mother, it occurred to Bessie for the first time that
these little ones were quite old enough to learn the things that other
little children learned at Sunday school, and that although they were
not strong enough for the long walk, and her mother's time and
thoughts were always so fully engrossed with the round of domestic
duties, _she_ might easily find time to teach her little brother and
sister as much as they could understand about the Saviour, who had
died that they might be made good, and who when on earth had blessed
little children. Something Miss Preston had said about home
duties--about helping to teach and guide the little brothers and
sisters--now recurred to her mind, and conscience told her that these
duties she had hitherto failed of performing. She had never herself
really taken Christ for her own Saviour and Guide, although she often
felt a vague wish that she were "good," and the desire of pleasing
Christ entered but little, if at all, into the motives and actions of
her daily life. But she generally _knew_ what was right, and
occasionally, while the impulse from some good influence was still
fresh, would try to _do_ it.
"I know Miss Preston would say I ought to teach Jenny and Jack some
verses and hymns on Sunday," she thought. "I'll begin to-night, when
mother and the boys are gone to church;" for a certain shyness about
seeming "good" made her wish to begin her teaching without witnesses.
"Here, Bessie," said Mrs. Ford as Bessie approached, "do run and get
the tea ready--there's a good girl. I shan't be through yet for half
an hour, for I've the calves to see to; and your father and the boys
'll be in from watering the horses, and if we don't get tea soon
they'll be late for church."
Bessie went in to change her dress, with her usually good-humoured
face contracted into a dissatisfied expression. She was tired; it
would have been nice to sit down and read her Sunday-school book till
tea-time. But of course nothing could be said; so she hurriedly pulled
off her walking things, grumbling a little in her own mind at the
difference between her own lot and that of Lucy Raymond, who, she felt
sure, had none of these tiresome things to do. She had never
thought--what, indeed, older people often lose sight of--that God so
arranges the work of all His children who will do what He gives them
to do, that while some may seem to have more leisure than others, all
have their appointed work, of the kind best suited to discipline, and
fit them for the higher sphere of nobler work, in which will probably
be found much of the blessedness of eternity.
Before Bessie went down to her unwelcome task, she recollected that
she must put her pretty card safe out of the children's way; so with a
strong pin she fastened it up securely on the wall, on which it formed
a tasteful decoration. As she did so, the motto brought back to her
memory what Miss Preston had said about "looking unto Jesus" in every
time of temptation, great or small, as well when inclined to be
discontented or impatient, as in greater emergencies. The evil
principle in her nature rose against her doing so now, but the other
power was stronger; and perhaps for the first time in her life, though
she regularly "said her prayers," Bessie really asked Jesus to help
her to be more like Himself. Then with a new, strange happiness in her
heart, that was at once the result of her self-conquest and the answer
to her prayer, she ran down cheerfully to do her work, singing in a
low tone the first verse of her hymn:
"I long to be like Jesus,
Meek, loving, lowly, mild;
I long to be like Jesus,
The Father's holy child."
Jenny and Jack came running in to help her--small assistants, whom it
required a good deal of patience to manage, neither allowing them to
hurt themselves or anything else, nor driving them into a fit of
screaming by despotically thwarting their good intentions; and
Bessie's patience was not always equal to the ordeal. But on this
occasion Mrs. Ford was left to pursue her dairy avocations in peace,
without being called by Jack's screams to settle some fierce dispute
between him and his sister, whose interference was not always very
judiciously applied.
The tea was soon ready,--not, however, before Mr. Ford and his two
eldest boys had come in, accompanied by Bessie's younger brother Sam,
next in age to herself, who ought to have been at Sunday school, but
had managed to escape going, as he often did. His mother being on
Sundays, as on other days, "cumbered with much serving," and his
sister generally remaining with some of her friends in the village
during the interval between the morning service and Sunday school, it
was comparatively easy for Master Sam to play truant, as indeed he
sometimes did from the day school, where his chances of punishment
were much greater, Mr. Ford being far more alive to the advantages of
a "good education" than to the need of the knowledge which "maketh
wise unto salvation." So that, when Bessie began her usual "Why, Sam,
you weren't at Sunday school!" Sam had some plausible excuse all
ready, the ingenuity of which would amuse his father so much as to
lead him to overlook the offence.
"Well, Bessie," her mother exclaimed when they were all seated, "I
really believe you haven't forgotten anything, for _once_. I should
not wonder if you were to turn out a decent housekeeper yet."
For it was Mrs. Ford's great complaint of Bessie, that she was so
"heedless" and "needed so much minding," though she would always add,
modifying her censure, "But then you can't put an old head on young
shoulders, and the child has a real good _heart_." And being a
thoroughly active and diligent housekeeper, she generally found it
less trouble to supply Bessie's shortcomings herself, so that
Bessie's home education was likely to suffer by her mother's very
proficiency, unless she should come to see that to do all things well
was a duty she owed "unto the Lord, and not unto men."
"So, Bessie, you're going to lose your teacher?" said her father. "I
hear she's to be married on Thursday."
"Yes, father, she bade us all good-bye to-day; and she gave us such
pretty cards, mother, with a text and a hymn;" and on the impulse of
the moment she ran up for hers, and brought it down for inspection. It
was handed round the table, eliciting various admiring comments, and
exciting Jack's desire to get it into his own hands, which being
thwarted, he was with difficulty consoled by an extra supply of bread
and butter.
"And, mother," asked Bessie, somewhat doubtfully, "may I go to-morrow
and get the things to work a book-mark for Miss Preston? I'd like to
do it for a new Bible the teachers are going to give her."
"I don't care," said Mrs. Ford, "if you'll only not neglect everything
else while you're doing it. I don't believe in girls fiddling away
their time with such things, and not knowing how to make good cheese
and butter. But I wouldn't hinder you from making a present to Miss
Preston, for she has been a good teacher to you."
Bessie looked delighted, but the expression quickly changed when her
mother said, as they rose from table, "Bessie, I guess I'll not go to
church to-night. I've had so much to do that I feel tired out; and if
I did go, I'm sure I'd just go to sleep. Besides, I don't like the way
the dun cow is looking; so you'd better get ready and go with father
and the boys."
Now Bessie had expected to remain at home that evening, as she usually
did. She had planned to teach the children for a while, according to
her new resolution, and then, when they had gone to bed, to sit down
to read her Sunday-school book, which seemed unusually inviting.
Bessie's Sunday reading was generally confined to her Sunday-school
book, for she had not yet learned to love to read the Bible, and
regarded it rather as a lesson-book than as the spiritual food which
those who know it truly find "sweeter than honey" to their taste. So
it was not a very pleasant prospect to have to hurry off to church
again, and she felt very much inclined to make the most of the slight
fatigue she felt, and say she was too tired to go, in which case her
mother would have willingly assented to her remaining. But conscience
told her she was able to go, and ought to go; and remembering her
motto and her prayer, she cheerfully prepared to accompany her father
and brothers to church, and she had reason to be grateful for her
choice. The words of the sermon deepened and expanded the impressions
of the afternoon, and left an abiding influence on the current of her
life.
When Mrs. Ford had got through her evening duties, and the little ones
were hushed in sound slumber, she sat down near the open window to
rest, her eye falling, as she did so, on Bessie's card. The motto upon
it carried her thoughts away to the time when, as a newly-married
wife, she had listened to a sermon on that very text,--a time when,
rejoicing in the happiness of her new life, she had felt her heart
beat with gratitude to Him who had so freely given her all things, and
with a sincere desire to live to His glory. How had the desire been
carried out? A very busy life hers had been, and still was. The
innumerable cares and duties of her family and farm and dairy had
filled it with never-ceasing active occupations, as was natural and
right; but was it right that these occupations should have so crowded
out the very principle that would have given a holy harmony to her
life, and been a fountain of strength to meet the cares and worries
that will fret the stream of the most prosperous course? Sacred words,
learned in her childhood, recurred to her mind: "And the cares of this
world, and the deceitfulness of riches, and the lusts of other things,
entering in, choke the word, and it becometh unfruitful." Had not that
been her own experience? Where were the fruits that might have been
expected from "the word" in her?--the Christian influence and training
which might have made her household what a Christian household ought
to be?