"I've a little book of my own, which will be quite new to you, I

daresay," said Susan. "It is in my box; I will go for it directly. And

I wonder," she added, playfully, "whether, when I come back, I shall

find Master Tommy in bed."

As soon as the door was closed behind Susan, Tom scrambled back

into his crib in just as much haste as he had left it, and pulled

the bed-clothes almost over his rough little head, "to give Susan a

surprise," as he said. Tom was, perhaps, a little tired and weak, for

though the attack of scarlatina had been but slight, the fever had not

quite left him.

Susan had a soft pleasant voice, and as she read one after another

of "Anecdotes of Christian Graces," choosing such as would be most

likely to interest her young charges, Jessy drew near and sat close

beside her, resting her doll upon Susan's knee, while Tom lay quietly

listening till his eyelids grew heavy and drooped, and long breathing

soon told that the little boy had fallen asleep.

Susan was very young, and she felt that hers was an anxious and

responsible charge, left as the two children were entirely under

her care during the absence of their parents. The burden upon the

nursery-maid was all the more heavy as the training of the young

Fairleys had been in some points neglected, and in others mismanaged;

they did not submit, they would not obey, nor had they learned to look

up with fear and love to a Father in heaven.

Jessy, indeed, before she went to rest, knelt down before a chest of

drawers, put her little hands together, and gabbled over something

which was meant for a prayer, her wandering eyes and careless tone

showing that she gave not a thought to the solemn act of addressing the

High and Holy One whose Name she was taking in vain every time that it

passed her lips.

Susan saw all this, and it grieved her, but she felt that she must have

patience and ask for grace, that she might be a humble means of leading

to God the precious souls of these two children. Very different from

Jessy's careless "saying prayers" was the young servant girl's earnest

pleading when she knelt down by her sleeping charges that night. She

entreated forgiveness for all her past sins, as one who knows how

hateful in the sight of God is all sin; she asked for the grace of the

Holy Spirit to make her heart pure, and to guide all her thoughts,

words, and actions. Susan also prayed, and prayed heartily for her

young charges—asking God to enable her to do her duty towards them,

both in caring for their health and comfort, and in watching over their

souls.

"Bless me, and make me a blessing to others," had been Susan's earnest

prayer since she had first learned to feel that she was not her own,

but "bought with a price," * that she and all her powers should be

devoted to her Lord. It was a great comfort to the young nursery-maid

to be able to go straight to God for the guidance and help that she

needed, looking unto Him in all her troubles and cares, and doing her

work as unto Him.

* 1 Cor. vi. 20.

There was no human being to watch whether Susan faithfully did her

duty towards her absent mistress; there was no one to find fault if—as

too many girls would have done—she cared first for her own comfort and

ease. But Susan had not read in vain the Word of the Lord: "Servants,

be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with

fear and trembling, in singleness of heart; not with eye-service, as

men-pleasers, but as the servants of Christ, doing the will of God from

the heart." *

* Eph. vi. 5, 6.

Three times during the night did the anxious young maid rise to see

if her charges were resting quietly. She gently replaced the coverlet

which Tom had tossed off in his sleep. The night-light placed on the

saucer was burning very feebly indeed; it was flickering, dying; in a

few moments more it would go out, and leave the nursery in darkness.

Susan took another from the box, lit it, and stood for a little space

watching the tiny spark.

"I am a poor weak girl," thought Susan. "I can do very little, indeed,

to show my love for my Lord, but there was one command which He gave

to all His servants, and so to me amongst the rest: 'Let your light

so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify

your Father which is in heaven.' † I cannot serve God as clergymen and

missionaries do, learned and holy men who shine as great lights in

the world; but may not even I be as this tiny night-light, shut up in

a quiet nursery, where no one cares to look at it, yet throwing its

feeble light around, useful according to its power, shining as well

as it can, though it seems little more than a spark? Even I, in my

humble way, may spend and be spent for my Lord, and help to cheer and

enlighten others, though they be but two little children."

† Matt. v. 16.

The thought was a sweet one to Susan, and she fell asleep with the

prayer on her lips, "Oh, bless me, and make me a blessing!"

CHAPTER III.

A Dinner-Party.

TOM FAIRLEY arose in the morning perfectly free from fever, and the

doctor, when he came in the forenoon, said that the boy would soon

be as well as ever, and that in one or two days, should the weather

continue warm, he and his little sister might take a turn in the garden.

"A turn in the garden indeed," muttered Tom, as soon as the doctor had

left the room, "it's not there that I'm going, to trot up and down the

stupid gravel walks, or make daisy-chains like a baby. Susan, you shall

take us to the toy-shop in the town, and there we will spend all our

money, and buy lots of pretty things, and sweeties besides, and make

ourselves jolly."

The boy finished his sentence by spinning his crown-piece on the table,

amusing himself by watching the round half-transparent silver globe

which it seemed to form, till the motion given by his fingers became

less rapid, and gradually the globe rattled down into its natural form,

and lay as a piece of money on the table.

Susan waited till the noise of the spinning was over, and then quietly

observed, "I am afraid, Master Tom, that a long time must pass before

it will be right for you and your sister to shop in the town."

"Why, mamma often takes us there," said the boy.

"Remember that for weeks, if not months, there will be a risk of your

giving the fever to any one whom you meet. You carry infection with

you."

"Oh, hang the infection!" exclaimed Tom, angrily. "I don't mean to be

shut up like a wild beast in a cage." And the boy looked so fierce as

he said this that he seemed to have enough of the wild beast about him

to render the cage a somewhat desirable thing.

"No one will guess that we have had any fever at all," observed Jessy,

who, while better tempered than her brother, was less straightforward

and open. "See—there are no marks left; and if you are not so cross as

to tell, no one will know that anything has been the matter with Tom or

with me."

"Oh, Miss Jessy, your own conscience would know it; your own conscience

would whisper, 'Is it right, for my own selfish pleasure, to run the

risk of carrying sickness, and perhaps even death, into some happy

home? If I should hear of some poor child catching the fever and dying,

could I ever feel happy again?'"

Jessy stared at Susan in surprise. The idea of being guided by the

secret voice of conscience in her heart was new to the child, who had

hitherto cared only to follow self-will.

Tom broke out abruptly with the question, "As you make such a mighty

fuss about infection, Susan, are you not afraid of catching the fever

yourself? I wonder that you don't run away in a fright, like mamma with

the baby."

"It was your mamma's duty to go; it is my duty to stay," replied the

young nursery-maid, with a smile. "I am not in the least afraid, for I

trust in God who careth for me."

"Do you mean that because you trust in God, He will keep you from

catching the fever?" asked Jessy.

"I did not mean that," replied Susan. "God sometimes lets His people

have troubles, and sickness is often one of them; but He helps and

cheers His servants in distress, and brings them out of it at last.

God teaches them sweet lessons of patience and hope and faith, so that

every tried Christian will be able to say, sooner or later, 'It is good

for me that I have been afflicted.' * If we trust in God, King David's

beautiful words may be ours, 'I will fear no evil, for Thou art with

me;' † for the Lord will either keep trials away, or He will, by His

power and love, turn the trials themselves into blessings."

* Psalm cxix. 71. † Psalm xxiii. 4.

The Fairleys would have cared nothing for teaching on the subject of

religion from one whose conduct did not show its power over herself;

but Susan lived as she tried to teach the children to live, and

therefore her words had some influence. Tom and Jessy could see that

she who feared God had no other fear, and that while caring for others,

she could, with happy trust, leave the care of herself unto Him. This

was the children's first lesson of faith in a watchful Providence.

Susan had a good deal to try her temper during the rest of that day.

The Fairleys, like most children when recovering from illness, were

very impatient and cross; they would not bear contradiction, they

quarrelled, they broke their toys, they tore their books, they grumbled

against the doctor who kept them in-doors when they chose to go out.

Susan came in for a large share of their rudeness; but she was quiet

and patient, never returned a cross word, and did all that she could to

give pleasure to those who seemed resolved not to be pleased.

Dinner in some degree restored the Fairleys to good humour. After being

kept for some days on low diet, the children were very hungry, and

keenly enjoyed their meal.

As Tom was finishing a leg of chicken after having eaten a wing, he

abruptly stopped, struck the handle of his knife and fork upon the

table, and exclaimed, as a thought suddenly arose in his mind, "I

hope all this nonsense about infection has not made mamma put off my

birthday party!"

He looked Susan full in the face as he spoke, and her silence was

answer sufficient.

Knife and fork were flung to the other end of the table, Tom started to

his feet in a violent fury, and Jessy burst into tears.

It was some time before Susan could gain a hearing. The birthday party

had been looked forward to with delight; the Fairleys were very little

accustomed to disappointment, and knew not how to bear it. Gradually,

however, the storm lulled a little, and Susan was able to suggest a

few thoughts of comfort. The children should have a birthday feast

after all, she would ask Mason the cook for a little flour, eggs,

and strawberry jam, she would show Tom and Jessy how to make pastry

themselves, and that would be far better fun than having it up from the

kitchen, or from a confectioner's shop.

Jessy dried her eyes, listened and smiled; the child was accustomed

to the pleasure of eating pastry, but the pleasure of helping to make

it was something entirely new. Tom's passion subsided into sulky

ill-humour, as he sat balancing his crown-piece on his thumb, then

throwing it up and catching it again.

"What's the use of having a feast with no guests to eat it?" muttered

the boy. "And what's the use of having money when one is not able to

spend it?"

"Well, Master Tom," said Susan, gaily, "if you can't tell what to do

with your money, I know a famous way in which you could spend it; and

if you want guests, I know how you can get as many as you please to

invite."

"You do—do you?" cried the boy, with eager surprise.

"It happens," said Susan, "that my dear mother's birthday falls on the

same day as yours, and I have been intending, for some time past, to

give a feast to four children in honour of the day."

"You—a nursery-maid!" exclaimed Tom Fairley. "And pray, does mamma know

what you are after?"

"Oh! No," replied Susan, smiling, "no one knows but myself; but

perhaps, if you are very good, I may let you into my secret?"

"But you've no business to invite any one into our house," cried Tom,

in an insolent tone. "It would be a pretty joke indeed if you could

have friends here, when we are not allowed to have one."

"My guests will not eat their dinner here," replied Susan. "I shall

send it for them in so clever a way that all the four dinners could be

easily packed up in my thimble."

"Your thimble! Oh! What do you mean—what can you mean?" cried both the

Fairleys in a breath.

And Jessy added, with a merry little laugh, "I don't think that such a

feast as yours would feed a hungry mouse."

"Ah! Missie, you are quite mistaken there," cried Susan, amused at the

children's looks of surprise. "My guests shall have right good cheer.

Would you like to know what fare will be provided?"

"Let's hear all about it," said Tom.

"What would you think of meat, potatoes, rice, and onions made up into

a nice Irish stew, and a good slice of bread into the bargain? Each of

my guests will have this."

"I say!" exclaimed the astonished Tom, dropping his money in his

surprise. "And can that—meat, onions and all—go into your thimble?"

"Not exactly the dinner itself, but the dinner price," replied Susan.

"And one good thing about my feast is this—I am quite sure that my

little guests will be pleased, not one will go grumbling away. They

will most likely not have tasted meat for a whole week before, and will

enjoy their hot Irish stew as much, perhaps more, than you, Master Tom,

did your chicken."

"I don't like riddles," cried the boy, impatiently. "Who are these

hungry guests of yours? And how can you have them to dinner? Just tell

us straight out what you mean."

Susan was pleased at the opportunity of explaining to her young

listeners the simple but beautiful arrangements of the DESTITUTE

CHILDREN'S DINNER SOCIETY, * by which a half-starved boy or girl from

the miserable dens of London is provided with an excellent meal for

threepence, bringing a single penny in addition. She spoke of the poor

little ragged wanderers who have never in their lives known what it is

to have a comfortable home, nor perhaps—till this charity was begun—a

really satisfying meal.

* See "Ragged School Magazine" for February 1868.

Susan had been in London with an uncle who kept a cook-shop. She told

how it made her heart ache to see pale, thin, barefooted children

hovering round the place to smell the savoury scent which to them

must have been so tantalising, and to gaze through the windows at the

tempting food which they might not taste. Susan did not say how often

she had stinted herself in her meals that she might give to those who

needed.

"I was thankful," said Susan, "to find that God had put it into the

hearts of the wise and good to feed these poor hungry lambs, and in a

way so simple and easy that even a servant girl can help a little in

the work."

"How will you do it, how will you send your dinners," asked Jessy,

"when you live so far-away from London?"

"Twelve postage stamps can be bought for one shilling; I will put

twelve stamps into a letter, and direct it to Mr. Gent, 1 Exeter Hall,

Strand, London. I will merely write inside, 'For children's dinners,

from a cheerful giver.' And then, when my letter is dropped into the

post-box, I know that it is all the same as if I had sent off four

invitations to dinner. I am sure that four pairs of eyes will look

brighter, and four young hearts will be merrier, and I shall enjoy my

own meals a great deal more when I think of my poor little guests."

"Why, I could have a dinner-party of twenty for my five shillings!"

exclaimed Tom, who had picked up his silver crown-piece. "Mamma never

asks more than a dozen at a time, and I am sure that the feasting them

costs her a lot of money, for I've heard her talking to papa about the

dreadful long bills."

"I think that I'll get you to change my big piece of money into five

shillings, Susan," said Jessy, "and take one of them for stamps, and

send my stamps with yours, and then there will be eight hungry children

feasted, and two 'cheerful givers,' you know."

The eyes of Susan glistened. It was not so much that she was glad that

the hungry should be fed, but that she rejoiced at having been the

means of giving to her young charge this first lesson in Christian

love. It was for this, and for this alone, that Susan had mentioned to

any one her own intended deed of kindness. She felt that she could in

no way teach so well as by her own example; the children might be quick

to imitate, though they would be slow to obey.

"You'll not have any of my money for your dirty, ragged beggar-boys,"

said Tom, laughing, as he chucked up his crown-piece again. "I'll not

spend it on mutton, potatoes, and onions, or pack up twenty hot dinners

in a letter. I know what I'll do, since this stupid infection won't let

me go to the town. I'll ask Giles to go shopping for me; he shall buy

me a top, a whip, some string, and all sorts of things that I fancy."

Jessy came up smiling to the nursery-maid, and slipped her crown-piece

into Susan's hand. "I can't cut this into five bits, you know, but you

will get Giles to change it, and buy the twelve stamps for the dinners."

Susan took the money with a thoughtful air.

"Are you not pleased?" asked Jessy.

"I was just thinking," observed Susan, "that it would never do to pack

up infection in the paper."

"Could you do that?" cried Tom in surprise. "I never heard of anything

like this horrid infection!"

"I know of one thing that is like it," said Susan, gravely, "the

infection of a sinful example. Evil spreads from one soul to another,

as fever from person to person. Oh! How grievous it would be by one's

works or one's words to give something far worse than any sickness to

those whom we love."

"I suppose," observed Tom, "that bad men are shut up in prison that

they mayn't infect other people with their wicked example."

"There are many who do harm in that way, whom no one would think of

shutting up," replied Susan. "The selfish, the idle, the worldly, the

proud, may be spreading the infection of their faults around them, and

yet their company may be thought very good, and not dangerous in the

least. No one would willingly take a fever, but how many willingly take

bad advice, and follow an evil example."

"But what is to be done about the dinners?" interrupted Jessy. "It

would never do to pack up scarlet fever with potatoes and mutton."

Susan considered for a moment or two. "Giles seems very good-natured,"

she observed. "Perhaps he would kindly take the trouble of not only

buying the stamps, but putting them up in the letter!"

"That will do famously," cried Jessy.

Susan then removed the cloth from the table, and carried away the

plates and dishes. The heart of the young maid warmed towards her

little charge.

"I doubt that my dear young lady ever before thought of helping the

needy," reflected Susan, "and now she does so simply from kindness of

heart; she knows nothing yet of mercy to the poor, shown as a proof of

grateful love to the Lord. But it is well to make a beginning," said

Susan to herself, as she carried the tray downstairs. "The time may

come when Jessy will delight in doing good, with the means and power to

do much, such as I never will have.

"Ah! The tiniest spark that glimmers in a night-light may kindle a

very large fire, or a beacon that will be seen for many miles round!

Who knows but that, by God's blessing, a poor nursery-maid's simple

teaching may be the means of drawing children's hearts to the Lord; and

that these children, in future days, may be burning and shining lights,

so as both by their words and works to glorify their Father in Heaven!"

CHAPTER IV.

Battle in the Nursery.

SUSAN felt shy of speaking to Giles about writing a letter for her,

and sending the stamps. She would far rather not have told her little

secret to the man-servant, who, she feared, would laugh at her plan.

But Giles, on the contrary, was pleased as well as amused at the idea

of sending dinners to Exeter Hall.

"I don't mind putting up a third dozen stamps of my own," said the

butler, as he pulled out his brown leather purse to give change for

Jessy's crown-piece. "I like this notion of giving dinners, and I've

often an odd shilling to spare that I never should miss. I was one

of twelve children myself, and know what a struggle it costs even a

man in good work to fill so many hungry mouths; I can't think how

the orphans get fed at all. I'm going to the town to-morrow, so I'll

get an envelope ready in the morning, and I'll mention the matter to

cook—dinners are just in her line; I should not wonder if she, too,

pulled out her shilling."

There are thousands of households in our land where kind hearts and

generous hands would be ready to aid in such works of love, if so

simple a way of doing good were suggested. In the servants' hall as

well as in the drawing-room "cheerful givers" would be found. Well

would it be, if in every rich man's kitchen, where the fire roars up

the chimney, and the joint turns round on the spit, and the place is

filled with the scent of steaming soups and savoury dishes, a little

collecting-box were kept for "Destitute Children's Dinner Society,"

into which those who never themselves know want might sometimes drop in

a penny unseen, to help friendless little ones, faint and pining with

hunger.

Susan was delighted at her unexpected success. "How good does come out

of evil!" thought she. "But for this fear of conveying infection by

writing the letter myself while nursing my little patients, I should

never have dreamed of mentioning the matter to Giles. I should quietly

have dropped my letter into the post-box, and my fellow-servants would

have known nothing about it. My poor little shilling is likely to grow

into four, and this is not the best part of the business: three persons

may begin from to-day to take a pleasure in feeding the poor, and who

can tell how many meals to the hungry, and what rich blessings to those

who care for them, may spring from so tiny a seed as my mentioning that

good society to little Miss Jessy to-day?"

Susan was returning upstairs with a very light heart, when the sounds

which reached her ear from the nursery made her quicken her steps to a

run. There were screams either of passion or of pain, and when Susan

opened the door she saw Tom, scarlet with rage, holding Jessy's doll

by the feet, and banging its head against the fender, while the little

girl was vainly struggling to rescue her toy from his hands.

In another minute, Mrs. Fairley's pretty gift would have been battered

to pieces, had not Susan darted forwards, wrenched it away from the

hold of the boy, and put the doll on the top of the cupboard, beyond

the reach of the furious child.

Tom's passion was instantly turned upon her who had dared thus to

interfere between him and his sister. He flew like a wild cat on Susan,

struck her with violence, and then actually bit her on the arm, then

flung himself on the carpet, kicking and roaring with passionate fury.

Thus cruelly attacked by a cowardly bully, Susan felt at first anger

as well as pain. Had her master been in the house, she would have

complained to him, and Master Tom might for once have met with the

punishment which he so richly deserved.

But poor Susan had no one to appeal to, and she had been given no

authority to inflict chastisement herself. She must bear and forbear,

and by patience endeavour to overcome evil by good.

"Oh! The bad, bad boy—how he has hurt you!" cried Jessy, indignantly,

as Susan drew up her sleeve, and showed the marks left by his cruel

teeth on her arm. "I wish I could beat him—I do!"

"When Master Tommy thinks quietly over his conduct, I am sure that he

will be sorry that he has hurt his poor nurse," observed Susan, in a

tone of gentle reproof.

This was all which she trusted herself to say on the subject.

She occupied herself in quieting and comforting Jessy. The hair of the

doll, rudely torn from its head, was picked up by Susan, smoothed, and

replaced; a few stitches repaired the doll's dress, which had been rent

in the struggle. Jessy was soon made happy again, and then listened

with interest to the account given by Susan of her conversation with

John. The young nursery-maid forgot her pain when seeing the pleasure

caused by the news that sixteen guests instead of eight were likely to

be invited to share the hot Irish stew.

Susan, for the rest of the day, took no outward notice of Tom, except

by attending to all his wants. It would not be wise or right to treat

him as if nothing had happened, until he should ask forgiveness; this

would be to make him think lightly of his sin.

Susan's silence towards him was more distressing to the boy than would

have been the passionate chiding or even slap which he would have had

from Betsy, had he treated her half as ill as he had treated Susan.

Tom tried indeed to show that he did not care for being in disgrace,

and for the first half-hour made as much noise as he could, spinning

his crown-piece, drumming with his feet, and singing snatches of rude

songs to make-believe that he was happy. But Tom could not keep up this

show for long; Susan's patience tired out his passion. The boy became

silent, sulky, and sad; Susan could not help thinking that Tom was

ashamed of himself, though too proud to own that he was so.

In the meantime, the young maid made Jessy as happy as possible,

playing with or reading to her in a soft low tone, to which Tom could

listen if he would, as he sat with his back turned towards her, pulling

an old basket to pieces, and scattering the bits on the floor.

When the children's bedtime drew near, Susan, remembering the careless

way in which Jessy had said the Lord's Prayer, thought that she could

not better employ a few minutes than in giving her charge a short and

simple explanation of the holy words, which had so often passed her

lips without her mind having an idea of their meaning. Susan took Jessy

upon her knee, and explained as well as she could how great and holy

is the Being who permits us to call Him "Father," and how the bright,

happy angels do His will in the glorious Heaven above. It was sweet to

Susan thus to feed her Lord's little lamb.

When Susan came to the fourth petition in the Lord's Prayer, Jessy

looked pleasantly into her face and observed, "God always gives me

daily bread, and meat, and nice things besides; won't God be pleased

that I am going to give some to the poor little hungry children?"

Susan kissed the child, and replied, "The Lord is always pleased when

we try to do His will, by being kind to His poor."

When the fifth petition in the prayer was explained, again Jessy looked

full into the eyes of her nurse. "Can you forgive Tom out and out?"

asked the child.

"I can—I do," replied Susan.

"I can't, and I don't," cried Jessy.

"Oh, dear Missie, we must pray for the spirit of forgiveness, for

without it we dare not hope to be forgiven by God. The Lord has taught

us mercy and love to those who have wronged us; not only by His words,

but by His blessed example."

And then to her quiet, attentive hearer Susan told that touching story

of prayer even for murderers, which, while it is a lofty theme for

angels, falls sweetly on the ear of a child.

Susan did not speak long, for she feared to weary Jessy. The servant

did not know what force her own gentleness and kindness gave to her

words. Jessy felt that Susan, who thought and talked about holy things,

was a very different person in her conduct and ways from what Betsy

had been—she who never cared for religion. Even a child could draw

the conclusion that what made Susan good must be good—that what made

Susan happy would be likely to make herself happy; and a wish arose in

Jessy's heart that she might grow more like Susan. The tiny night-light

was already casting its radiance around.

After Jessy had laid her little head on her pillow, Susan put Master

Tommy to bed. The little boy still seemed sulky, neither attempted to

say his prayers, nor bade good-night to his nurse. He carried his money

with him to his bed, and thrust it under his pillow.

"Master Tom," said Susan, gently, as she bent over the child, "I could

not bear to go to sleep till I had asked forgiveness of God, and of any

one whom I might have treated unkindly."

Tom made no reply, but pulled his coverlet over his head, and turned

his face to the wall.

The boy was struggling against the better feelings which were rising up

in his heart. The teaching and example of Susan had made quite as deep

an impression upon Tow as upon his sister, but pride and temper were

strong within him. Tom fell asleep muttering to himself that he was not

sorry, he did not care! As for begging pardon—that was a thing which he

had never done in his life, except when he had been in immediate fear

of a flogging from his father.

CHAPTER V.

Silver Turned into Gold.

TOM's sleep was, however, troubled, and did not last very long. He

awoke feeling restless and thirsty. He wished to call for some milk

and water, but the room was so still that he fancied that Susan must

be asleep, and if she were at all like Betsy, there would be no use

in trying to awaken her. The candle had been put out, only the tiny

night-light was gleaming, casting long black shadows from curtains and

bed-posts upon the nursery wall. Nothing was heard but the ticking

of the clock, and to the nervous ear of the boy it seemed to tick

strangely loud.

Conscience was awake in Tom's heart, and in the stillness of night, its

voice was louder than usual. The child softly drew back the curtain

of his crib, and looked towards the corner where he supposed that the

young nurse was lying asleep.

He saw Susan kneeling before a chair, her head bowed down on her

clasped hands; in the quiet hour, when she believed that her charges

were slumbering, she was pouring out her heart to her God.

The boy watched, but did not dare to disturb her. Even he, young as

he was, could feel that real prayer made that room a more holy place.

Susan was speaking to One who could hear, to One who was near; the

answer to the young servant's prayers was already seen in her life.

When Susan arose from her knees, Tom softly called her by her name. In

a moment, the nursery-maid was by the side of her charge.

"Did you want anything that I can give you?" she gently inquired.

"Were you praying for me?" asked Tom, in a low and earnest tone.

"Yes; I should not be easy about the children under my care, unless I

often prayed for them," the nursery-maid replied. "I am afraid that you

went to sleep without asking a blessing for yourself, and so there was

all the more need that I should ask it for you."

To Susan's great surprise, the child's arms were suddenly thrown

round her neck, and in the voice of one struggling against a sob, he

exclaimed, "Oh! Susan, I'm sorry—so sorry that I hurt you so much!" His

rough little head was on her shoulder, and her dress was wet with his

tears.

Gently and tenderly Susan forgave, and tried to soothe the boy. She

did not, however, as in mistaken kindness some might have done, tell

him that his fault was nothing, that he need not trouble himself about

it. But she assured him how freely and gladly she forgave it, and told

him to seek forgiveness from God, and ask from Him that grace by which

alone he could conquer his temper in future.

Susan then brought milk and water to relieve the feverish thirst of her

charge, beat up his pillow, and made him as comfortable as it was in

her power to make him.

Tom was in a nervous excited state, and wished Susan to stay by his

bedside.

"I feel so hot and restless," he despairingly said, "I never shall get

to sleep."

"Shall we pray the Lord to give you sweet sleep?" asked Susan.

Tom looked at her in surprise. "Can we pray about things like that?" he

inquired.

"Oh! Yes, we can bring all our little troubles and trials to our Lord,"

replied the young maid. "It is He who giveth rest both to the soul and

the poor weary body."

Perhaps the first time that Tom Fairley had ever asked anything from

God with a desire and hope of having what he asked for, was when he

prayed on that night for sleep. When he had done so, he thrust his

little hand under his pillow, pulled forth his silver crown-piece, and

tried to force it into the hand of his nurse.

"This is for you—you shall have it for your own, it's to make up—"

cried the boy.

"No, Master Tommy, no indeed—I thank you all the same," said Susan,

drawing back her hand with decision.

"Take it for the hungry children, then," persisted Tom.

"Not now, dear, certainly not now; you are tired and sleepy, you have

had no time to think over the matter," said Susan, who would have

deemed it wrong to take advantage of the excited state of the child,

even to help a charitable cause. "Turn round and go to sleep now, dear

boy; perhaps you may think in the morning of some quite different way

in which you would like to spend your money."

Tom was too sleepy to reply; his mind was growing calm and his eyelids

heavy. The touch of Susan's soft hand was lulling him to rest, with

the sound of her soothing voice as she repeated a simple but beautiful

verse—

"This night I lay me down to sleep,

I give my soul to Christ to keep;

Wake I soon, or wake I never,

I give my soul to Christ for ever."

The young nurse did not quit Tom's side till he had sunk into deep,

sweet slumber.

Susan had expected that Tom would change his mind in the morning

regarding the way of spending his crown; but she had done the boy

injustice. The heart of Tom Fairley was like rich and generous soil

which had been covered with a thick growth of weeds: there was much

that was noble in him, but it had never till then been drawn forth.

Tom was heartily sorry for having struck and bitten the gentle girl who

had so carefully and tenderly watched over his comfort. He was resolved

to make what amends he could, and as Susan would accept none of his

money for herself, he insisted that every penny of it should go in

the way which he knew would please her most. Tom refused to taste his

breakfast till Susan should have carried his crown-piece to Giles to

increase the number of invitations to be sent to destitute children.

"Well, to be sure, I never knew money grow like your shilling!"

exclaimed Giles, when Susan, with pleasure beaming in her eyes, brought

him the crown-piece to add to the little collection.

"Master Tommy gives it, and with all his heart. May he never know, dear

child, what it is to want a meal!" cried Susan.

Giles smiled good-humouredly as he turned the crown-piece round and

round. "Four shillings and five make nine," he muttered, "that's an odd

number, and would buy an awkward lot of stamps to send in a letter.

I'll do the handsome thing myself—and follow this new fashion set in

the nursery; 'tis but one shilling more to give—I'll turn all the

silver into one little bit of gold, and send it safely in a registered

letter to Exeter Hall. We'll have a grand dinner-party amongst us, and

invite forty young folk at once."

It was keen delight to Susan to feel that her little offering of one

piece of silver had been—as it were—changed into gold; that where she

had meant to give food to four, she had been the means of spreading the

table for forty!

But far more important than the extension of this little work of

charity in the dwelling of Mrs. Fairley, was the good which Susan's

influence was silently working around her in the hearts of those who

could watch the "tiny night-light" of her example. The little Fairleys

were learning lessons of piety and love which were likely to make them,

when they should grow up, holy and happy Christians, influencing in

their turn, perhaps, hundreds of their fellow creatures.

Let no servant of God, in however lowly a state, think that "one

talent" may safely be buried, or the feeblest light safely be hidden.

Especially let those who live amongst children remember how great the

power of their own influence may be for evil or good. Those who have

showered blessings on thousands may have received in the nursery their

first impressions of religion. A servant girl of whom the world never

has heard, may be found on that day when all secrets are known, to have

helped to form the character of a Wilberforce or a Howard.

To some Christians whose lives have been very obscure, may yet be

fulfilled that glorious promise, "they that be wise shall shine as the

brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness

as the stars for ever and ever." *

* Daniel xii. 3.

A THANKFUL GUEST

OR,

A CHRISTIAN IN COMMUNION.

CHAPTER I.

Back Again.

"THAT's he—that's he—hurrah! Look, wife, look! He's a-sitting on the

box of the coach that we may see him the better! Hurrah!" And with a

cheer which came from the heart, Michael Garth lifted the straw hat

from his wrinkled brow and grey hair, as a carriage drove rapidly along

the country road, by the side of which stood his neat little cottage.

"Bless him! Bless him!" faltered old Martha, grasping eagerly her

husband's arm with her trembling fingers, and straining her dim eyes

to see the vicar's sailor son returning after ten years' absence from

England.

"He sees us—he minds us!" said Michael.

"He's a-lifting up his cap—cheer, Mat, cheer—are ye dumb, lad!" cried

Martha to her grandson, a red-haired lad of sixteen, who had come

running from the plough to see the officer drive past.

Mat cheered, and his grandfather cheered; hearty and strong sounded the

old man's voice—if an old man he could be called who had none of the

weakness or infirmity of age.

And Lieutenant Harry Maude nodded and smiled, and shouted out as he

passed a kindly greeting to the good old couple whom he had known from

his childhood.

"He's not changed—not a bit changed!" cried Michael, as the carriage

rolled away down the dusty hill. "A trifle older, may be, and a trifle

browner, and he hadn't them fine whiskers afore; but there's just

the same smile, the same merry look, as when I lifted him, over the

five-bar-gate when he was a little chap no higher than my knee."

"How happy the vicar and all the ladies will be," said Martha, wiping

her eyes with her apron, for the pleasure of seeing the young master

come back had made them fill with joyful tears.

"Ay, to have him at home again, and after such dangers," cried Michael.

"Warn't there a shipwreck?" asked Mat.

"A shipwreck—a dreadful one," answered the old labourer. "Didn't ye see

the account of it in the 'Times' the vicar lent me, and which went the

round of the village till the paper a'most dropped to pieces, 'cause

every one wanted a reading. I forgot—my memory's not what it was—ye

were on the job at the farm down in Surrey. Master Harry there, he did

wonders, brought off a lot of poor souls, I can't mind me how many, but

I knows as he got thanks and praises without end. And the Queen—bless

her!—sent him some medal—I take it she was proud of him, she was!"

"We are all proud of Master Harry!" cried Martha. "If I was the Queen,

I'd make him a duke. I hopes now he's got such a deal of honour he'll

not be above thinking of poor folk like me."

"He'll not forget us, not he!" said old Michael, rubbing his chin.

"Master Harry won't never forget us. We'll have him at the cottage

to-morrow, I'll be bound."

"Nay, nay, old man, we mustn't look for that," said Martha. "Mind ye

what a many years he's been from his family, and what lots they'll have

to say to each other, and what a many friends will be coming to see the

lieutenant. We mustn't expect him to-morrow, nor the day after, for

that's when the Squire's daughter is to be married, and Master Harry

will be at the wedding, on course."

"He'll be bridesman, I s'pose," observed Michael.

"And more looked at and thought of a deal than the bridegroom himself,

save by Miss Lily the bride," said old Martha, as she turned and

re-entered her cottage.

Though the good woman had expressed her belief that a visit from

Lieutenant Maude was not to be expected for two days longer at least,

there can be no doubt that she kept her cottage in as high a state

of preparation as if he might at any moment appear. There was not a

spot on her pots and pans; not a speck of dust rested on the rows of

plates (willow-pattern), that adorned the shelf on the wall, nor on her

clean washed floor. Fresh snowdrops were put into the broken-handled

crockery-teapot, which served as a jar for flowers. The glass of the

case which held the stuffed owl which Harry in his boyhood had so often

admired, was rubbed as bright as a mirror.

Martha took into daily wear that green shawl which the young sailor had

presented her with before going abroad, and which she had reserved for

high days and holidays, as she had deemed it "much too good for a poor

old body."

Even the approaching wedding of Miss Lily was a small event in the

eyes of the old labourer and his wife, compared to the return to the

vicarage of "brave Master Harry" from sea.

CHAPTER II.

Neglected Duty.

IF there was pleasure in the cottage at the officer's return, what

was the joy within the home of his parents! Perhaps there was not a

more cheerful group in all England than that which gathered round the

pastor's fireside on that cold evening in March. There were eager

questionings, pleasant replies; every eye was turned towards Harry

as he sat with his feet resting on the fender, and his mother's hand

clasped in his own. Harry had much to relate which every one wanted to

hear, and half the tale seemed untold when, at a later hour than usual,

the family retired to rest, after the evening prayer had been prayed,

and the evening hymn sung by voices which trembled with thankful joy.

Before breakfast on the following morning, as the vicar was taking his

usual early walk round his lawn, he heard a quick step behind him, and

then Harry's hand was laid on his arm.

"Ah! My boy, glad to see you! I could hardly have a word with you

yesterday, your mother and the girls seemed resolved to have you all to

themselves," said the vicar, as he wrung the hand of his son.

"It is so delightful to be at home once more!" observed Harry, while

he sauntered along the gravel path at his father's side. "Everything

looks just as when I left it, I could fancy myself, as in old times,

just returning from school. It was a pleasure to me yesterday to see

the familiar faces of good old Garth and his wife, who were standing in

front of their cottage. I suppose that the hulking lad at their side

was 'little Mat,' whom I remember at the Sunday class, when I made my

first essay at teaching. Precious hard work it was to ram anything into

his brain!"

"Mat is a good lad, though not a bright one," observed the vicar. "As

for the Garths, there is not a more honest fellow in the village than

Michael, and Martha is one of the kindest-hearted creatures that I ever

met with in my life."

"I recollect," remarked the young officer, "that there was only one

thing about the Garths which you used to regret in old days. They were

steady in attendance at church, but they were not communicants then."

"Nor are they now," said the vicar, stopping for a moment in his

walk. "It is to me a strange, an almost unaccountable thing, that

God-fearing, God-serving people such as they, who attend the Lord's

house, and prize His Word, should yet, month after month, year after

year, turn their backs upon His table."

"They brought their children to be baptised," remarked the lieutenant.

"Ay, and their grandchild too," added the vicar, resuming his walk;

"the Garths would have looked upon themselves as heathen had they

neglected the one sacrament ordained by our Lord, while, apparently

without any scruple, they constantly neglect the other. I have preached

in public, and spoken in private on the subject, but still I am grieved

to see three-fourths of my flock leave the church before the communion

service begins, and the Garths always amongst them."

"Have they ever given a reason for this?" asked Harry.

"I doubt whether they have any reason which they could put into words,"

answered his father. "Garth agrees to everything that I say, will, as

he says, 'attend some day, but not yet awhile;' his wife folds her

hands, looks down, and says nothing. I suppose that if either of them

were to be taken dangerously ill, I should be sent for in haste to

administer the communion to the sick; as if they thought that there was

some charm in the service to smooth their journey through the Valley of

the Shadow of Death, or that life-long disobedience to their Master's

command could be atoned for by one dying attempt to do His bidding

when, perhaps, the mind would scarcely have power to grasp the meaning

of the service."

"Or death may come suddenly, as I have seen it come so often to the

strong and the young," observed the naval officer. "How little we

can tell whether, when our summons comes, we shall be left one hour

for preparation! I remember when I was ashore in one of the West

India ports, I ventured to say something to a friend of mine, a young

merchant, who was showing me kind hospitality, about his practice of

doing business on Sundays. He answered me with perfect good humour,

that he was obliged to work hard, for that he had set his heart on

scraping up enough to take him home; that he would act very differently

when in old England again, there he would take his rest on Sundays, go

to church, and attend to his soul."

"'Now, I've no time,' added he.

"'My friend,' I ventured to observe, 'I often think of a proverb of

Zeller—'

"'"The Americans say that time is money, the Christian says that

time is Grace!"'

"The merchant smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and turned away. Poor

fellow! His time of grace was to be short! He was seized with yellow

fever that night, and remained unconscious of all that was passing

around him, until called to meet his God!"

A shade of sadness passed over the face of Harry Maude, as he recalled

the last moments of the poor young man who had been so busy in making

the money which he was never to spend, as to have no time to spare in

preparing for that eternity on which he so soon was to enter!

The vicar and his son walked on some paces in silence, then Harry said

in a more cheerful tone, "I think that I'll drop in at Garth's cottage

to-day; I know that the kind old folk won't be sorry to see me enter it

again."

"And you might find some opportunity, Harry, of giving a word in

season."

"I'm a little shy of doing that," replied the young officer; "I don't

feel myself fit to teach others, there's so much that I myself need to

learn."

"But you have learned two things, my son, which are the very root and

foundation of all Christian knowledge; you have learned that you are

a sinner, and that Jesus Christ is a Saviour. It is not the minister

alone who is bound to spread the glad tidings of salvation. The woman

of Samaria, as soon as she had found the Messiah, left her water-pot,

and hastened away to carry the good news to all whom she met."

"I believe that it is a cowardly feeling of shame that so often keeps

us from speaking on the subject of religion," said Harry; "at least it

is so with me."

"Certainly cowardice is the last thing of which any one but yourself

would have accused the winner of the Albert medal," observed the vicar

with a smile. "You showed, on that awful night of the shipwreck, how

ready you were to risk your life or limb to save the bodies of your

fellow creatures; you are scarcely the man to flinch back when far more

precious souls are in danger. But here come two of the girls to seek

you; our sailor is not likely to be left much to himself after ten

years of absence. Let us go and meet your sisters, my son."

CHAPTER III.

A Service of Obedience.

"I TOLD you he'd come, I told ye, mistress!" exclaimed Michael Garth,

in a tone of triumph, as he glanced in through the open cottage door at

his wife, who was darning her good man's stockings.

Up started old Martha at the words, the threaded needle dropped from

her fingers, and the stockings from her knee.

"Maybe he's only taking a turn down the road," she began, as she

hurried to the door.

But, before the sentence was finished, Harry Maude was striding up the

narrow garden path which led up to the cottage, and, the next moment,

he was heartily shaking the brown, hard hand of old Michael.

"So glad to see you both! Shall I come in?" asked Harry.

And, as Martha's smiles and curtseys gave the reply, the officer bent

his tall head, and entered through the low doorway into the cottage.

Martha, in a flurry of pleasure, dusted with her apron the arm-chair

which she had already twice dusted that morning; but Harry was too

gallant to deprive the old dame of her accustomed seat, and took

possession instead of a rush-bottomed chair. Michael stirred the

wood-fire to a blaze, such being perhaps his idea of a warm welcome,

and stood with his cap in his hand, pleasure written in every line of

his wrinkled, but still rosy face.

"How well I remember this cottage!" cried Harry. "And what pleasant

visits I used to pay here when I wanted my fishing-rod mended, or my

kite put to rights, or advice about my sick rabbits! There is my old

friend the owl with his staring glass eyes, the sampler framed on the

wall, with the flowering tree worked on each side, and the text down

the middle; the little crockery cow on the mantelpiece, the old prints

of George III., Wellington, and Nelson, the kettle on the hob, the big

log on the hearth, just as I used to see them all here ten years ago!"

"I wonders as how you han't forgotten such like things, Master Harry,"

said Mrs. Garth, with a smile of gratification, "such a power of fine

sights as you must have come across in your travels."

"I have seen a good deal," observed Maude, "for I have been in all the

four quarters of the globe since I last crossed this threshold. But

of all the fine sights which have met my eyes, there was not one that

pleased me like that of the faces of kind old friends."

"Ye'll not be leaving home in a hurry again, I take it, master," said

old Michael Garth.

"I hope only for a very short time, but I must go up to London

to-morrow."

"Go up to Lunnon!" repeated both the Garths in surprise; and Martha

added, "Why, sir, ye only came from it yesterday."

"I must return thither to-morrow for all that, but only to remain there

one night."

"It must be a mighty business to keep you tossing to and fro like a

football, a hundred and fifty miles each way, as if Lunnon weren't

farther off than yon church," said Garth. The honest labourer had never

made one such journey in the course of all his long life.

"I should ha' thought as how ye'd ha' needed a little rest," observed

Martha.

"I do need rest, for I've been much knocked about," replied the young

sailor, "and I'd fever in the Channel, and have not yet picked up

my strength. But for all that, sick or well, I'm bound for London

to-morrow."

"Maybe you've a lot of money to get there," said old Michael Garth.

"Not a farthing; not even will my travelling expenses be paid," replied

Harry.

"But sure and sartain, sir, ye can't go to-morrow, it's Miss Lily's

wedding-day!" exclaimed Martha. "Don't you wish to be at the marriage?"

"I do wish it much," said Harry Maude. "It is a disappointment to me

not to be present, but I am obliged to give up the wedding, for the

train starts for London at eleven."

"Well—to be sure!" murmured Martha Garth, lifting up her hands in

surprise.

Michael's curiosity was fairly aroused. "What, going all the way

to Lunnon, and just for one night, and the wedding given up, too,"

he muttered. "Might I be bold enough to ask, Master Harry, what is

hurrying ye hither and thither like this?"

"Simply an invitation to dinner," replied Harry, smiling at the looks

of astonishment exchanged between Garth and his wife.

"Why, sir, ye can ha' dinners and to spare here—every house open to ye

within ten miles round!" exclaimed Michael. "Sure and sartain, if I was

you, I'd not go a-travellin' three hundred miles for one dinner!"

"Perhaps if you had received such an invitation as I have," replied the

young naval officer, "you would hold a different opinion."

And, leaning back in his chair, Harry drew from his breast-pocket a

large envelope with a red seal bearing the royal arms, which enclosed

a card which he took out, and handed across the deal table to Martha

Garth.

The old lady began fumbling for her spectacles, but her husband, whose

sight was better, was at her side stooping to look over the card,

before Martha had fixed her glasses on her nose.

"Her Majesty's commands! Well—if ever!" exclaimed the labourer.

"Dearie heart! To dine with the Queen! What an honour!" cried Martha,

involuntarily half-rising from her seat.

"I don't wonder ye couldn't put aside such an invitation as that, sir,"

said Michael, "let what might come in the way!"

"My Sovereign's invitation is a command," replied the loyal young

officer. "At whatever inconvenience or cost, loss of time or of

pleasure, I am bound to obey it."

"And you'll be proud to obey it, I'll answer for that," said Michael

Garth; "you'd go to the Queen's table, if you'd to travel all the three

hundred miles a-foot, with shoes, or without 'em."

"Would you do so?" inquired Harry, turning a quick searching eye upon

the old man.

"The Queen's not like to ask such as me," replied Michael, with a short

laugh, and he looked down on his fustian jacket and hob-nailed boots.

"But if our Sovereign were to do so, if that card of invitation had

come to you in your cottage with your and your wife's names upon it,

so that there could be no room for mistake; would you have thrown it

aside, and let the day pass without so much as taking any notice of the

gracious message from your Queen?"

"No, surely," replied both of the Garths in a breath.

"Though," Martha added, "neither of us be fit at all to appear before

Her Majesty. We should feel strange enough, I take it, amongst all the

lords and ladies; we'd be no fit company for them."

"But ye see, wife," observed old Michael, "if the Queen invited poor

folk like we, she'd not expect much from us, she'd put up with our

country ways; but, if we disobeyed her, and flouted her kindness, the

Queen, mind ye, might be angered."

"And with just cause," observed Harry Maude. "Now, will you forgive

me," he continued, leaning his arms on the table, and bending forward

in the earnestness of his speaking, "will you forgive me if I remind

you that you both have received—not merely once—but very many times, a

most gracious invitation, which is also a command, from your Heavenly

Sovereign, the King of kings? He bids you appear before Him at His

table to partake of His Holy Supper; you know better than I can know,

how you have received the gracious invitation."

Both the cottagers were taken aback by this sudden turn which the

conversation had taken.

Mrs. Garth uneasily twisted about in her fingers the card which she

still retained.

Michael was silent for some moments before he replied, "Ye see, sir,

there's such a difference!"

"A difference indeed," said the naval officer; "we are a thousand times

more bound to obey a Heavenly than an earthly monarch, and the honour

and privilege of being bidden to God's table are a thousand times

greater than those of appearing at the Queen's."

"I don't gainsay that, sir, I don't gainsay it," replied Garth; "but

there be some difficulties, you see—"

Harry waited for the labourer to finish his sentence, but as he either

could not, or would not, the officer spoke again.

"I suppose that there are few duties, Michael, which we might not find

some excuse for neglecting. For instance," he held out his hand for

the card which was returned to him by Martha, "I might find plenty

of excuses for not obeying my Queen by going up to London to-morrow.

I might plead that I had just returned to my home after a very long

absence, that my family were unwilling to part with me, that I was

weary of travelling, that I was expected to attend at a wedding, and

was very anxious to do so. I might make such excuses, and others

besides, and even persuade myself that they were good ones; but in

truth not one of them, nor all of them put together, would really be

sufficient to acquit me of disloyal, undutiful neglect of my Queen.

Now, my friends, suffer me to entreat you to ask yourselves honestly,

as in the sight of the Lord, will your excuses for never attending His

Holy Supper be such as you will venture to plead when you stand at the

last great Day in the immediate presence of your King?"

"I never had it put to me afore like that," said Garth, looking fixedly

into the fire.

"There are various lights in which we may regard the Lord's Supper,"

continued Harry, "the first and most simple, perhaps, is this; it is

a feast to which His faithful subjects are specially called by the

great King, whose invitations are commands. Turn to the parable which

the Lord himself has given to us. * Observe the gracious invitation,

'Come, for all things are now ready.' Notice the excuses made by those

who should have been joyful guests, the ground bought, the oxen to

be proved, the wife that had lately been married. Were these excuses

accepted?"

* Luke xiv.

Martha looked troubled and uneasy. "I al'ays say as how we should go up

to the Table one of these days," she said, "but somehow or other, the

time seems never to come."

"I fear that you are not sufficiently in earnest on the subject,"

observed Harry. "Were a message to be brought to you from our Queen,

your mind would be fixed upon it, you would scarcely think of anything

else."

"You see, sir," said Michael Garth, "if we neglected the Queen's

invitation, we should never be likely to get a second; but there's not

a month as passes but we have an opportunity of staying to Communion,

and so, it may be wrong, I don't deny it, but one's more inclined to

put off."

"Ah! You wait for the convenient season," observed Harry, gravely,

"forgetting that present neglect may be sin, and that by future

obedience, if we be permitted to live to show it, we cannot make

up for the past. Opportunities lost are blessings thrown away, we

cannot recall them again. Let us not forget, in regard to taking the

Sacrament, that the same voice which bade us watch and pray and keep

the commandments, said also, 'This do in remembrance of Me.'* And had

we no other reason for partaking of the Holy Communion, no special

benefits to hope for, it should suffice to make us do the bidding of

our King that this is A SERVICE OF OBEDIENCE."

* Luke xxii. 19.

CHAPTER IV.

A Service of Hope.

THERE was silence in the cottage for a short space of time after Harry

had finished the last sentence.

Michael Garth continued to look fixedly into the fire, with a

thoughtful expression upon his weather-beaten face. His wife watched

him anxiously, wishing that he should be the first to reply. Presently

Garth turned from the fire, slowly seated himself beside it, and

resting his hands on his knees, began—

"All you've said, sir, is true; but I don't feel us how I'm fit yet to

take the Lord's Supper. I've been a hard-working man, I've no learning,

and I don't think I'm good enough yet; that's the long and short of the

matter."

"And there be such terrible words about taking the Communion

unworthily," said Martha, timidly.

"Those terrible words were written to the Corinthians, who were

actually guilty of intemperance when they met together for their

love-feasts," replied Harry Maude. "It is impossible, as our services

are conducted, that we could offend as they did."

"But sure, sir, we can take the Lord's Supper unworthily," observed

Garth.

"Yes, assuredly, if we dare to approach the Table when living in

wilful sin," said the officer. "If we keep the leaven of malice and

wickedness in our hearts, we are unfit to partake of the feast. If

we are acquiring money by fraud or theft, we are unfit to partake of

the feast. If we are denying the Lord who bought us, we are unfit to

partake of the feast."

"God forbid that we should do any of these things, sir!" exclaimed

honest Garth. "I'm no better than others, I know, but I'd never touch a

penny as was not my own, and I don't bear malice, I hope, towards any

living creature."

"No, I'm sure he don't!" cried the goodwife.

"Depend upon it, my friends," said Harry, "there is nothing which

unfits a believer for appearing at the Table of his Lord, but that

which would unfit him for Heaven—self-righteousness and wilful sin. If

a man be really unprepared to partake of the bread and the wine, he has

cause to fear every hour of the day—he has cause to fear when he lies

down at night, lest death should suddenly overtake him—because he is

unprepared to die."

"But though we mayn't be living in wilful sin, yet we're far from being

what we should be," said Michael Garth, thoughtfully shaking his head.

"And so were those whom our Lord Himself chose to appear at the very

first Communion service that ever was held upon earth," cried Harry.

"Why, sir, they were the holy Apostles who took the bread and wine from

our Lord's own hands," said Michael.

"And what were those Apostles but weak, erring men, whose spirit was

willing, but whose flesh was weak?" asked young Maude. "Did not our

Lord, when He called them around Him, know that some of them had just

been disputing which should be the greatest? Did He not know that, in

the course of a few hours, all would forsake Him and flee? Did He not

know that one, the foremost amongst them, would deny Him with curses

and oaths? The Lord knew all this, and yet He invited His Apostles to

share His Holy supper. Would He have praised for humility, or rebuked

for disobedience, any one of them who should have refused to come,

saying, 'Lord, I feel that I am not worthy?'"

"There was no fear that they should refuse," murmured Martha, "they

would not have dared to keep away when the Lord bade them come."

"But it seems that disciples in the present day dare to do that

which Apostles would not have ventured to do, refuse their Lord's

invitation," said Harry.

"But ye see, sir," observed Garth, after a pause, "it was all such

a new thing with the Twelve; there had never been anything like the

Communion before."

"Excuse me," said Harry, quickly; "the Christian feast of the Holy

Supper is founded on the Jewish feast of the Passover, which our

Lord Himself kept in obedience to God's command. If you turn to the

12th chapter of Exodus, you will find that on one particular evening

in the year, every Israelitish household had to partake of a lamb,

in remembrance of the firstborn of Israel being spared, through the

sprinkled blood of a lamb, when the firstborn of Egypt were slain.

'This day shall be unto you for a memorial, said the Lord, all the

congregation of Israel shall keep it.' * A Jew who should have

neglected attending the Holy Feast would have shewn, by such neglect,

that he cared not for the blood of sprinkling, that he did not choose

to cast in his lot with that of the Lord's chosen people."

* Exodus xii. 14, 47.

"But surely, sir," said Michael, earnestly, "we Christians in Britain

are not bound to keep a Jewish feast."

"No more than we are called upon to sacrifice a lamb," replied Harry,

"and sprinkle its blood on our door-posts. Our sacrifice was offered

once for all, when the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the

world, died on Calvary for us. But the feast which he ordained in place

of the Jewish Passover, is to be kept 'till He come.' † What are the

words of St. Paul on the subject? 'Christ our Passover is sacrificed

for us: therefore let us keep the feast.'" ‡

† 1 Cor. xi. 26. ‡ 1 Cor. v. 7.

"I never understood afore that the Passover had anything to do with the

Lord's Supper," said Michael.

"It was what is called a type of it," replied the officer. "The

Israelites in the Passover celebrated their deliverance from death,

and the bondage of Egypt; Christians celebrate in the Communion their

deliverance from eternal death, and the bondage of sin. The Israelites

rejoiced in the gift of Canaan, Christians rejoice in the gift of

Heaven. The Israelites, when starting on their long journey through the

desert, gained strength in body by partaking of the food which they

ate by God's command. Christians, in their long journey through life,

gain strength in soul by partaking also, by God's command, of bread and

wine, with faith and repentance."

"Oh! My friends, let us never forget this. If we feel that we are

sinful and weak, let us go to the Lord's Table for grace and strength

to struggle against sin, grace and strength to press on towards Heaven.

'Let us draw near with a true heart, in full assurance of faith.' * The

Christian Communion is not only a service of obedience, it is also a

service of hope, and a service of joy."

* Heb. x. 22.

Harry rose as he finished the last sentence, but the old labourer did

not rise; Michael did not wish his visitor to quit the cottage just yet.

"Then really I may be angering God by leaving this thing undone," he

began, rather as if speaking to himself, than as addressing any other

person present.

"I am afraid that wilful neglect of anything which we are bidden, in

the Bible, to do is sin, a sin of omission," said Maude. "We are apt

to think little of such sins; and if we abstain to a certain degree

from doing what we ought not to do, we are seldom much troubled by the

conviction that we have left undone that which we ought to have done.

But God's Word teaches a different lesson. The barren fig tree cumbered

the ground, not because it brought forth bad fruit, but because it bore

no fruit at all. The man with one talent was reproved, not because he

had misspent the money, but because he had not used it for good."

"In our Lord's own account of the Judgment, He tells us not of the

sentence which will be passed upon those who have injured, robbed,

or murdered His poor; but that which awaits those who have neglected

to help them. This shews us most clearly that God marks our sins of

omission. I would not have ventured thus to speak to you, my friends,"

continued the young officer earnestly, "had I not feared that, almost

without knowing it, you might be committing this sin by neglecting

an ordinance of God. I own that I have often myself thus offended by

leaving known duties undone, and from the bottom of my heart I join in

the dying prayer of Archbishop Usher, 'Oh! God, forgive me my sins,

especially my sins of omission!'"

"Amen!" murmured the old labourer, and his wife, as she folded her

wrinkled hands, faintly echoed the "Amen."

"And once more I ask your pardon for having spoken thus freely," said

Harry Maude, holding out his hand to Garth with cordial frankness of

manner. "But I had it on my heart to entreat you not to miss a blessing

by neglecting a duty, and turning away from a service of obedience, of

hope, and of joy. Every loyal subject of the Lord, when of ripe years,

is invited to the Table of his Heavenly King, and it is his blessed

privilege as well as his bounden duty to appear there as a thankful

guest, looking forward to the time when he, through Christ's merits and

death, shall be welcomed to sit down with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, at

the glorious feast in the Kingdom of Heaven."

CHAPTER V.

A Service of Love.

HARRY MAUDE quitted the cottage, and Michael and Martha returned to

their occupations, the one digging in the garden, the other mending

stockings by the fireside. But the old man bending over his spade, and

his good wife over her needle, were both reflecting on what they had

heard.

"To think of his taking us to task like that! But he meant it

kindly—yes, he meant it kindly," murmured Martha to herself as she

darned. "He'd not have us treat our great and merciful God as we would

never dare to treat our Queen. We've been a-shutting ourselves out from

the feast in church; I pray God He mayn't shut us out from the Feast up

above."

But though Michael and Martha thus pondered over the subject, neither

of them felt inclined to talk about it.

When Mat came in from the plough, his grandmother told him that "young

Master Harry" had come to see them, but not one word did she repeat of

the conversation that had taken place, except that part which simply

related to the invitation from the Queen. The husband and wife avoided

even speaking to each other about that subject which was uppermost in

the minds of both.

Evening closed in; the aged couple and their grandson sat down to their

simple supper, and, while they ate, chatted about the morrow's wedding,

and the sailor's return, and the Queen's invitation, and other topics

of the day.

But when the meal was over, and Martha had cleared away the fragments,

Michael, from his seat by the hearth, gravely addressed his wife.

"Martha, I've been a-thinking about what you and me was hearing to-day

about these same sins of omission—that's the word—leaving undone what

ought to be done. You and me—we reads our Bible on Sundays reg'lar

enough; but I mind me that the parson told us in church that we should

no more do without our daily reading of Scripture than without our

daily food. Suppose now you bring the Book. It's late to begin the

custom, seeing we're both growing old, but there's the less time for

delay, so we'll read a bit o' the Bible to-night afore we go to our

rest."

"Ah! Michael, I've often thought of this, but I didn't like to be the

first to speak about doing it," said Martha, as, after dusting the

large Bible with her apron, she set it on the deal table before her

husband, and then pushed the little brass candlestick towards him, that

the light from the candle might fall on the Book.

Michael slowly opened the holy volume, slowly turned over page after

page, before he found the passage which he sought. Then, in a solemn

tone, tracing the lines as he read with his finger, the old cottager

began the 22nd chapter of the Gospel of St. Luke.

Mat sat very quiet and attentive at his grandmother's side; the cottage

seemed to the lad to have become as holy a place as the church; and

though his grandfather certainly could not read like the parson, the

lad thought to himself that somehow or other the words went just as

straight to the heart.

Michael read on slowly and steadily till he came to the end of the 19th

verse, and then his voice faltered, the finger which rested on the page

trembled, and, with a deep sigh, the old man closed the Bible.

"Be you not well?" asked Martha, anxiously.

Her husband leant back in his chair, and pressed his hand over his eyes.

"It's not that, wife, it's not that," replied Michael, removing his

hand. "It was those words—'twas the bidding us do this 'in remembrance

of Me.' I couldn't abide the thought of having so long neglected the

dear Saviour's dying wish, let alone it's being the King's command. You

see," continued Michael, addressing himself to his grandson, "I have

known what it was to receive a dying request, and to treasure it up,

and keep it, as if 'twere a bit of my life. Your Granny knows the story

well, but, maybe, you han't heard so much about it."

Then, after pushing back his chair from the table, and again passing

his hand across his eyes, Michael Garth began his simple tale.

"I had as good and kind a mother as ever lived, and, I take it, never

son loved mother more than I did. When I was a lad, not much older than

you be, I sickened with the fever which was a-spreading all through the

village. My mother she watched me day and night, and would scarce stir

from my bedside till the doctor he said as how the worst was over.

"But the worst was not over," continued Michael with feeling, "for she

had caught the fever from me, she had, and on the day when I first

rose from my bed, my mother lay a-dying upon hers! I was just able to

crawl to her side, to get her blessing, and to hear her last words. I

half wished in my grief that the fever had taken us both away, so there

would have been no sore parting for either. My mother drew from under

her pillow my father's silver watch, which she had kept ever since she

had lost him. She was so weak she scarcely could hold it, and her voice

was so faint that I had to bend down close to catch her last words,

'Keep it for my sake;' they was the last words as ever she spoke. I

could not answer, a lump was in my throat, but I vowed in my heart that

I'd never part with that watch to my dying day!"

"And you never did!" exclaimed Martha. "So that there old watch is

locked up safe in yon box at this moment."

"I treasured that watch, I wore it by day, I put it under my bolster

by night, often and often did it bring my mother to my mind, it seemed

like a bit of herself. If I was a-tempted to go wrong, the very sound

of its ticking when I wound it up at bedtime seemed like a warning

voice from her grave. Years passed on, and I married, and a family

came—bless 'em—and after that great troubles. You mind that hard

winter, wife, when I was ten weeks out of work, and we scarcely knew

where to turn to get a crust to keep soul and body together!"

"I can never forget it," said Martha; "we lay down hungry, and we got

up hungry, and were well-nigh driven to part with the bed beneath us

for rent."

"I was well-nigh driven to part with something else," observed her

husband. "Many and many's the time that I thought of my silver watch as

the one thing that I could turn into money; but I al'ays shrank back

from doing that, I counted it would be a'most like trampling over my

mother's grave. One day I was pretty near desperate; there was the rent

unpaid, and the little uns crying, and I started off for the town where

the pawnbroker lived. When I came nigh the place, in sight of the three

gilt balls, I pulled out my watch, it seemed to throb like a living

thing in my hand. I stood stock still and looked on it, and all the

deathbed scene came back upon me as fresh as if I had just left it, the

pale face—the wistful eyes—the faint whisper, 'Keep it for my sake.'

"I turned back, Mat, I couldn't go on; I had had my long trudge for my

pains; thinks I, it's rather starve outright I will, than break the

last command of my mother."

The voice of Michael sounded husky, and Martha raised her apron to her

eyes.

"And better times came," observed Mat.

"Ay, lad, better times came," said Michael; "but I've not finished the

story of my watch. It was about seventeen years ago, the very winter

when ye was born, lad, and a sharper winter never I knew. I was coming

home one evening, a cutting wind was a-blowing, which seemed to pierce

to the very marrow. The stream was quite frozen over, I thought it

was hard enough to bear me, and to save going round by the bridge, I

tried to cross on the ice. The first step I took there was a crack. The

next—the ice gave way, and down I splashed into the water."

"The stream ain't very deep," observed Mat.

"Quite deep enough, lad, to make a plunge into it on a bitter cold

evening no pleasuring matter," said Michael. "I was any way up to my

arm-pits, and a bit cut by the ice besides. I scrambled out with a

little trouble, shivering and wet, my teeth chattering with cold, and

my hands a-bleeding with the ice. But the first thing as I thought on

was my watch, I clapped my hand to the little pocket which your Granny

had made in my jacket on purpose to hold it; the pocket was empty, the

watch had slipped out into the stream in the struggle and scramble."

"It warn't likely to be worth much after being in the water," said Mat.

"Worth, lad! It warn't the money's worth as I cared for!" exclaimed

the old man. "Had it been a brass farthing as had been given me as a

keepsake by a dying parent, it would ha' been more to me than a purse

of gold! I didn't take much time to think about it, the day was short,

'twas already getting dusk, if I waited, the under-current might drag

my watch down where I never should find it again. Back I plunged into

the deadly cold water, striking my arms right and left to break the

ice, and to keep in the life which was well-nigh frozen out o' me,

for a numbness was a-creeping over my body. I searched and searched,

feeling about the bottom, now with my feet, now with my hand, and more

than once I got right under the ice, and lost my breath, and thought

it was all over with me. I've done many a hard day's work in my life,

but the toughest job as ever I had was the seeking 'mid the ice for my

watch on that piercing night in December."

"But you found it at last," said Martha.

"Ay, ay, I found it at last," rejoined the old man, a gleam of honest

pleasure lighting up his weather-worn face; "warn't I glad when I

found it warn't a round pebble as I had touched with my foot, as I was

afeard at the first! I brought the watch up out of the water, after I'd

been a-hunting, gasping and struggling, shivering and freezing, the

best part of an hour. It was the thought of the words, 'Keep it for my

sake,' as gave me strength to hold on; and though I had to lie in bed

for a week, and had rheumatics that I didn't shake off till the summer,

all along of that search under the water, there was something as

out-matched the trouble and the pain—it was such a comfort to my heart

to know that I'd kept the dying request of my mother!"

The tale was not a now one to Mat, but it was one which, by the family

of Michael, was always heard with interest, and it had deepened in the

minds of his children and grandchildren impressions of filial reverence

and love. The old silver watch, thus handed down from generation to

generation, was—and was likely long to be—a precious relic in the

cottager's home.

When Michael had finished his story, his grandson observed, "I don't

see why you should ha' thought about that watch when you was a-reading

that chapter just now."

"Do you not see, lad, it's all plain enough to my mind!" exclaimed

Martha. "Your grandfather was willing to suffer hunger and hardship,

danger and chill, sickness and pain, rather than neglect the last wish

of a dear mother who had taken her death from watching over him—"

"And yet," interrupted Michael Garth, finishing the sentence for his

wife, "never till this night have I taken to heart the dying wish of

One who has loved me better than ever did my mother, and has suffered

more for me than ever a mother suffered! I've read His words, and

scarce given them a thought—God have mercy upon me, a sinner—for my

heart must have been more dead than a stone!"

"Ah! Michael," said old Martha, leaning forward on her chair, and

laying her hand on the arm of her husband, "there was something which

Master Harry missed out when he spoke to us to-day so anxious and

earnest about attending the Holy Communion. He said that the Lord's

Supper be a service of obedience, and a service of hope, and he was

right enough there; but it's more than that, it's a service of love

besides. How the holy angels must wonder that those for whom the loving

Lord poured out His very life's blood, can go on year after year

as—shame to us we have done, neglecting His dying command—as if He had

never spoken, or they had never heard the words—'This do in remembrance

of Me!'"

CHAPTER VI.

One Family.

BRIGHT and cloudless rose the sun on the following morning. The air

was balmy as in May, and the budding leaves on the boughs, the early

wild-flowers under the hedges, all seemed to rejoice.

Harry Maude was up as early as the sun life was too full of happiness

for him, for the young officer to care to waste the fresh morning hours

in sleep. He gave his early moments to God, and found that:

"His morning smiles bless all the day."

Though young Maude could not, on account of his journey to London,

attend the wedding service, he accompanied his sisters, who were

bridesmaids, to the Grange, before he started by the train. The Maudes

found the family of their friends, the bride included, at their early

breakfast, a cheerful meal, at which Harry and his sisters joined as

welcome guests. The sight of the happiness of others was ever a source

of happiness to the young lieutenant. One of the brightest hours of his

life was that spent at the Grange amongst old friends and companions

upon that bridal day. Pleasant is it to fulfil the command, "Rejoice

with them that do rejoice."

Though the young officer quitted with regret the cheerful circle

of his friends, yet it was, perhaps, with a feeling of yet deeper

gratification that he appeared on the evening of that day in the

presence of his Queen. He sat at the board of his Sovereign, a welcome

and honoured guest, because he had nobly done his duty, because in the

hour of trial and danger his courage had never failed. Thankfulness,

and not pride, beat in the bosom of Harry; he gratefully acknowledged

that it was God who had helped him in need, who had strengthened his

arm and nerved his heart, who had carried him safe through dangers,

and crowned him with honour and joy. That evening, when on the young

officer rested the approving glance of his Queen, was one which to his

dying day he would recall with gratification.

"Earth's pleasures are fleeting, and its honours are passing away; the

bridal feast and the royal banquet may both be joyous, but they belong

to those things which Time sweeps from our view at last, as though they

had never been. God be praised, who hath prepared for His children

pleasures that abide, and glory that never shall end!" So thought Harry

on the following Sunday, when, for the first time since his departure

ten years before, the pastor's family, as an unbroken family, met in

the House of Prayer.

It was deep joy to the sailor to pass once more down the

well-remembered aisle, with kind familiar faces around him, to occupy

once more the very seat where so often, when a boy, he had listened

with reverence to the voice of his father proclaiming the message of

God. It was deep joy to join again in worship with the friends of his

youth in that church, to which memory so often had turned during long

years of absence.

Harry did not leave it after the sermon was ended, he and his family

all remained to join in the service of obedience, the service of hope,

the service of love. There, indeed, they could enjoy the sense of

communion, not only with their Heavenly Father, but with all His family

in heaven and earth—there they could realise that all true Christians

are one in Christ, united with the angels above, and the spirits of the

just made perfect.

If anything could have added to Harry's happiness at that sweet and

solemn hour, it was to know that the Garths were worshipping near him.

There were the grey-haired labourer and his wife, and their young

grandson beside them, sharing for the first time, but not for the last,

the privilege and blessing of drawing nigh to the Lord at His Table. As

with meek reverence and love they obeyed their Master's command, faith

raised their thoughts to the great Feast above, to which all God's

servants are bidden. "Blessed is he that shall eat bread in the kingdom

of God." * "Blessed are they which are called to the marriage supper of

the Lamb." †

* Luke xiv. 15. † Rev. xix. 9.

My reader, this is a solemn subject, and should it be one to which

you have not yet given much thought, most earnestly would I commend

it to your prayerful attention. May we duly prize the privilege of

Christian Communion while yet we remain upon earth, nor refuse the

loving invitation so graciously given to penitent sinners—"Come, for

all things are now ready." * And when this life is over, and earth

itself shall have passed away, may we, through our Saviour's merits, be

received at the heavenly feast above, as rejoicing and thankful guests!

* Luke xiv. 17.

HYMN.

OBEYING Christ's command, oh! Lord,

I come, a thankful guest,

In no polluted tattered robe

Of human merits dressed,

But in my Saviour's righteousness,

The spotless wedding-vest.

Unworthy as I own I am,

Thy feast of love to share,

For His sake hear my humble cry,

For His sake grant my prayer;

And let Thy mercy cleanse my soul.

And shed Thy Spirit there!

Oh! Make me one with Thy dear Son,

To Him my soul unite,

A branch of the Eternal Vine,

Not fruitless in Thy sight:

Thine own on earth—Thine own in heaven.

Through ages infinite!