"Uncle, I don't like to think about that. But do tell me, for that is
what I want to know, what is the difference? I do not see how people
get from the one road to the other."
I did not say--but I feel sure that my Uncle Drummond did not need it--
that I felt I was on the wrong one.
"Lassie, if you had fallen into a deep tank of water, where the walls
were so high that it was not possible you could climb out by yourself,
for what would you hope?"
"That somebody should come and help me, I suppose."
"True. And who is the Somebody that can help you in this matter?"
I thought, and thought, and could not tell. It seems strange that I did
not think what he meant. But I had been so used to think of our Lord
Jesus Christ as a Person who had a great deal to do with going to church
and the Prayer-book, but nothing at all to do with me, that really I did
not think what my uncle meant me to say.
"There is but one Man, my child, who can give you any help. And He
longed to help you so much, that He came down from Heaven to do it. You
know who I mean now, Cary?"
"You mean our Lord Jesus Christ," I said. "But, Uncle, you say He
longed to help? I never knew that, I always thought--"
"You thought He did not wish to help you at all, and that you would have
very hard work to persuade Him?"
"Well--something like it," I said, hesitatingly Flora had left the room
a moment before, and now she put her head in at the door and called
Angus. My Uncle Drummond and I were left alone.
"My dear lassie," said he, as tenderly as if I had been his own child,
"you would never have wished to be helped if He had not first wished to
help you. But remember, Cary, help is not the right word. The true
word is save. You are not a few yards out of the path, and able to turn
back at any moment. You are lost. Dear Cary, will you let the Lord
find you?"
"Can I hinder Him?" I said.
"Yes, my dear," was the solemn answer. "He allows Himself to be
hindered, if you choose the way of death. He will not save you against
your will. He demands your joining in that work. Take, again, the
emblem of the tank: the man holds out his hands to you; you cannot help
yourself out; but you can choose whether you will put your hands in his
or not. It will not be his fault if you are drowned; it will be your
own."
"Uncle, how am I to put my hands in _His_?"
"Hold them out to Him, Cary. Ask Him, with all your heart, to take you,
and make you His own. And if He refuse, let me know."
"I will try, Uncle," I answered. "But you said--does God _never_ save
anybody against his will?"
My Uncle Drummond was silent for a moment.
"Well, Cary, perhaps at times He does. But it is not His usual way of
working. And no man has any right to expect it in his own case, though
we may be allowed to hope for it in that of another."
I wonder very much now, as I write it all down, how I ever came to say
all this to my Uncle Drummond. I never meant it at all when I began. I
suppose I got led on from one thing to another. When I came to think of
it, I was very grateful to Flora for going away and calling Angus after
her.
"But, Uncle," I said, recollecting myself suddenly, "how does anybody
know when the Lord has heard him?"
He smiled. "If you were lifted out of the tank and set on dry ground,
Cary, do you think you would have much doubt about it?"
"But I could see that, Uncle."
"Take another emblem, then. You love some people very dearly, and there
are others whom you do not like at all. You cannot see love and hate.
But have you any doubt whom you love, or whom you dislike?"
"No," said I,--"at least, not when I really love or dislike them very
much. But there are people whom I cannot make up my mind about; I
neither like nor dislike them exactly."
"Those are generally people of whom you have not seen much, I think,"
said my Uncle Drummond; "or else they are those colourless men and women
of whom you say that they have nothing in them. You could not feel so
towards a person of decided character, and one whom you knew well."
"No, Uncle; I do not think I could."
"You may rest assured, my dear, that unless He be an utter Stranger, you
will never feel so towards the Lord. When you come to know Him, you
must either love or hate Him. You cannot help yourself."
It almost frightened me to hear my Uncle Drummond say that. It must be
such a dreadful thing to go wrong on that road!
"Cary," he added suddenly, but very softly, "would you find it difficult
to love a man who was going to die voluntarily instead of you?"
"I do not see how I could help it, Uncle," cried I.
"Then how is it," he asked in the same tone, "that you have any
difficulty in loving the Man who has died in your stead?"