“Leave God to order all thy ways,
And hope in him, whate’er betide;
Thou’lt find him in the evil days:
An all-sufficient strength and guide
Who trusts in God’s unchanging love,
Builds on a rock that naught can move.”
GEORGE NEWMARK’S HYMN.
About this time, and for some weeks later, Tom longed continually to
commence a more decided service for his Master. But there were several
things that came in the way: First, after his long day’s work in the
fields, his evening writing, although only for an hour, was very
wearying, and often when he reached the house at night he could not,
from fatigue, either study or talk with those who nightly gathered
there. Then, too, he felt that if he should undertake a regular
Sunday-school, it would meet with opposition from the master, Mr.
Sutherland. He had been very kind to him so far, and paid him liberally
for his evening work, but Tom had never seen the little girl since that
first night, and somehow he connected the little hymn he had taught
her and her absence together. Then his pupils had no books, and it
seemed to him that whatever other people might do, he could not teach
a Sunday-school without books. With it all he became weary and very
homesick, longing for the sight of a familiar face. His face grew more
sober and his step heavier. He strove against it and tried to feel
thankful, but it was hard indeed, and although his friends noticed it
less than he imagined, yet Tom was not happy.
One night, however, the opportunity for which he had been watching
and waiting so long came to him when he least expected it. He turned
homeward from his writing on this particular evening very weary and
heartsick. Had Martha seen him, she would have known that all was
not well with him, but he knew that he was alone, so he allowed his
despondent feelings full play.
As he lifted the latch of the door and heard the voices within, he
heaved a little sigh, wished for an hour’s quiet study with Martha, and
then resolutely stepped within the room.
There were a number gathered as usual, and they were very busily
talking about something, yet they all looked up when Tom came in.
“Ah! here he is now,” some one remarked.
“Tom,” said one of the men, whose voice he had heard as he came in,
“we’ve been talking about you. You see, we’ve come to the conclusion
that you knows a heap more’n the rest of us, and we’s been studyin’ as
to how maybe you’d be willin’ to teach us a little of nights, after you
gets through up to the great house.”
“I would very gladly teach you any time, Uncle Silas,” replied Tom,
thinking that any hold on their hearts was a gain, “but the trouble
here, just as in another plan of mine, is that we have no books.”
“But some of us has got books, honey,” said one old woman, “and we’ll
lend ’em to those as has none of their own. Now there’s eight of us
here to-night, and plenty more that wants to come. What do you say?”
What do you think he said, reader? Can you imagine how his face
brightened, or can you hear the heartiness of his consent to their
plan? This new work, sent him, as he believed, by God, was entered
upon immediately with a great deep joy and a silent thanksgiving in
his heart. He gave his first lesson that very night, listening to the
slowly-spelled words of those who were proud to say they had commenced
to learn, and to the rest showing the first letters of the alphabet. He
did not confine himself to these, however, but as he went the rounds
from one to another, he would lead the talk from some word in the book
to something he had heard or read elsewhere, putting them in a way,
while they were learning their letters, to store their minds from his
with many better things.
“Such an opportunity to work for Jesus!” his heart cried exultingly,
and so when the clock struck nine, as he told them they had learned
enough for one evening, he added that “he would like to read to them
before they went.”
They were very well content; so he opened his Bible and read to
them--with such an interest in the words himself that the listening was
pleasant--the story of the Good Samaritan; and then, closing the book,
he repeated it again in words which were better understood by them,
enforcing the lesson which is among the most beautiful taught by our
Saviour in his parables: “Go and do thou likewise.”
Then he dismissed them, saying that on the next evening they should
meet again, and that they might bring as many of their friends as chose
to come.
“My house used to be a place of frolic, honey,” Aunt Margaret said, as
they went out, “but now it is a place of education.”
And Tom, happy boy! went up-stairs and kneeled beside his bed with his
heart full of thanks. They could not be expressed, but a tear or two
told all he could not say, and Jimmy’s rather spiteful remark, that “he
supposed he felt too big for anything,” fell on his ears as lightly
as the summer’s rain upon the moist soil. Although his head throbbed
with the effort of the day, his field-work in the burning sun and the
double task of the evening, yet his waking thoughts were as sweet as
his sleep, and _that_ was most calm and peaceful.
It so happened that, a day or two after, Mr. Sutherland took him away
from his regular work in the field, and sent him into the barn to
receive the loads of hay which were being brought in from the field.
Tom was always glad of these occasional changes, because they rested
him from more fatiguing work, and often gave him a few minutes in which
to study. He brought his Bible and his arithmetic with him when he came
out this morning, and it so happened that he found leisure to give them
attention, for the field from which the hay was being brought was at a
considerable distance, and it took some time for them to come with the
loads. During one of these leisure times he had seated himself on the
step of the great door at the back of the barn, and was intent upon his
Bible, when he heard some child’s voice singing, and looking up he saw,
just coming into the barn at the other end, Lillie Sutherland, whom he
had not seen since the first evening he spent at the house. She saw
him just as he looked up, and stopped both her walk and her music, and
stood looking at him.
She was a pretty little creature to see, but Tom did not wait for that.
“Miss Lillie, can’t you come here and see me?” asked he.
She shook her head, but stood still with her eyes still fixed upon him,
and then suddenly stepped very quickly forward.
“Oh, are you the boy that writes for papa?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss Lillie,” replied Tom; “do you remember me?”
“Certainly I do. Sing ‘Jesus loves me.’”
So Tom, amused at her manner, but very well content to do as she
asked, sung the hymn through to a very attentive listener; but to his
astonishment, when he had finished she asked him the same question as
once before.
“Do you love Jesus?”
“Yes,” replied Tom--adding quietly, “do you?”
“Yes,” she returned; “I cannot help it, because he is so kind; but
mamma does not like it, nor papa, very much.”
Tom was not astonished, only grieved, but he said as calmly as before,
“That makes no difference.”
“Ought I to love Jesus just the same, and pray to him just the same, if
mamma does not like it?”
“What has Jesus done for you?” asked Tom.
“He died for me,” she replied, as if it were a needless question.
“Yes,” replied Tom, with a smile, turning over the leaves of his Bible,
“he died for you and me.”
“Well, what then?” asked the child, waiting to see what was coming
next, but getting no word.
“Why,” said Tom, looking up, “I think when anybody has died for me, I
can never do enough for them if I work all my life.”
She stood for several minutes after that, with her eyes away out in
the green fields, and then she said suddenly:
“Does God love you just as well as he does me, when you are black and I
am white?”
Tom’s lip took a sorrowful curve for an instant, and then he replied,
“Just as well;” and the words were very decided.
She gave him another good look out of her great black eyes, and then
seating herself on the step, she said:
“Read.”
So he opened his Bible and read to her the story of the crucifixion.
It needed no comment or simpler rendering, for the story, as it ever
does and ever will, made instant impress on the heart and mind of the
listener. Did you ever try to imagine what the feelings of the apostles
must have been when they wrote those four sublime gospels? What a work
of intermingled joy and pain it must have been!
“Now, Miss Lillie,” said Tom, when he had finished, “if you can read,
I want you to go home and read this over for yourself, and then think
whom you ought to love.”
“What shall I do then?” asked the child, as if she already surmised the
result of the reading.
“Remember this one verse, and if I ever see you again, I shall ask you
whether you have done as it commands: ‘If God so loved us, we ought
also to love one another.’”
She repeated it two or three times after him, and then stood quietly
until the sound of voices reached her; and then, with one quick glance
in the direction from which they came, she sprang through the door,
out across the yard toward the back of the house. Up through the front
gate in the opposite direction came the great load, and Tom received
the hay, standing in the upper loft of the barn.
And so it was that, after thinking over the interview, and sorrowing
that the religion he loved was to some hedged about with so many
difficulties, when he gathered his class about him that night, and
looked around upon them, feeling that he need not be afraid to speak
for Jesus here, he felt most devoutly thankful in his heart for the
liberty which is ours when Christ has made us free.
The interest manifested by his pupils was wonderful. Old gray-headed
men bent over their spelling-books and tried hard to decipher the
words, looking up into the youthful face that watched them as to one
above themselves, because to him had been granted a privilege which was
not theirs. As the days advanced this did not lessen in the least; if
anything, it seemed to increase. It was a beautiful thing to see, and
to any one who felt an interest in the welfare of these neglected souls
a peep into this tiny school-room was worth going far to see. Tom often
wished Miss Mason could be there. He tried to say as little in his home
letters about his own connection with it as he well could, but he knew
not what a happy sense of duty done they contained in those days. His
teacher used to read them over, and say it was sweet refreshment in
her weary work--this boy’s good service for his Lord, and the utter
simplicity and yet full gladness with which he wrote of it.
It was joy, yet the letters home were the best part of it. There were
hours abroad and at home when the work was all done--house, field, and
school tasks all completed--when the pressure on Tom’s mind seemed more
than he could bear. That which lay heaviest was the care he felt over
these souls who for five or six hours every week were committed to his
care. Teach them he did, well and faithfully, but it was the work for
Jesus which he was in constant fear that he should neglect. He grew so
morbid over it that whenever he heard a man in the field swear or speak
wrongly, he always questioned whether if he, Tom, had done his duty
this would have happened. His success was far beyond his knowledge. He
was so constantly in the habit of dropping a word for Jesus, because
“out of the abundance of his heart his mouth spake,” that the people
learned to expect that when they came to him in odd minutes for
assistance in their tasks, there would be a word of holy cheer given
them before they went away. They learned to have a strange reverence
for this boy. It was some little time before Tom discovered that Mr.
Sutherland knew of all this, but the master had heard the boy’s name in
so many directions that at length he became interested to know how far
his popularity extended. A few inquiries gave him all he wanted--enough
to astonish him at any rate--and then Tom heard of it.
One day at noon Tom stood in the field, leaning against the branch of
a tree, resting himself and softly singing, when up came one of his
evening scholars with an appeal for help.
“I knowed you knowed,” he said, apologetically, “so I brought it to
find out.”
Tom took it with a little weary sigh, which he did not allow to reach
his lips, and gave the required help. As he handed back the book he
asked, with a smile,
“How are you getting on now, Uncle Gilbert?”
“Only toler’ble, Tom,” he returned; “old feller’s aches and pains right
smart bad sometimes.”
“The Lord Jesus will take the pain away, because you will not feel it
when you are bearing it for him. Have you asked him, uncle?”
“I reckon, Tom, the Lord thinks old Gil no ’count.”
“You are as useful as I am, Uncle Gilbert, and I once asked God for
patience, and he gave me enough to last me through a long illness. Look
to him, uncle.”
So Uncle Gilbert went away, and after a few minutes’ very grave
thought, Tom turned around to take up his hoe and found his master at
his elbow. His hand was at his cap in an instant.
“You do your teaching at all hours of the day, Tom?” he said,
pleasantly.
“Yes, sir, they are anxious to learn,” replied Tom; and then, gathering
courage, he added, “I have been wanting to ask you for a long time
whether you had any objection to the school which I hold every evening
at Aunt Margaret’s.”
“No, not in the least,” replied Mr. Sutherland, “although I must say I
was surprised to find that you had undertaken it, when I knew you had
your hands full already.”
“They wanted, sir, and I knew how I used to want when I could not have.
I could not refuse.”
“I sometimes think,” said Mr. Sutherland slowly, with his eyes on his
fingers, which were chipping off pieces of bark from the tree against
which Tom leaned--“I sometimes think that we are just beginning to
understand your people.”
He got a very deep look out of the dark eyes in reply, but that was
all.
“I came over here,” he continued after a moment, “to say to you that I
think you had better leave your field-work altogether, and devote your
days to my books and your evenings to your school. You are doing too
much.”
Tom’s eyes sparkled for a moment, but then he returned gravely, “I know
it, sir, but I think with your leave I will still keep on. Martha--my
sister--writes me that work is hard to get, and they will need my
earnings.”
“Oh, I shall continue your wages just the same,” said Mr. Sutherland
hastily. “It is for my interest to do so. I shall need you longer now,
as the returns begin to come in.”
“Then, sir, I would gladly come,” replied Tom joyfully, “and thank you
very much. My work is very wearying sometimes.”
“Well, that is all then. Come up as usual to-night--I shall want you.
Good-morning.”
“Good-morning, sir,” replied Tom, and after watching his master until
he disappeared, he clasped his hands and looked upward, with every
particle of pain and weariness banished from his face. “He knoweth them
that trust in him,” he thought.
His letter to Martha that night carried joy with it.
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