BARBARA'S GIFT.
THE tricycle, however, was returned without any more use. Ivor could
not make up his mind to get on it again. "Garge" was commissioned to
take it back to Windsor, pay the hire, and for the slight damage done,
and there the matter ended.
But when Evan was a little better, the donkey carriage was found of the
greatest use, and many hours were spent in the woods, Lucia taking her
sketching and Barbara her book and her dog.
For Barbara had found at the cottage two things which gave her intense
delight—a puppy which "Garge" was rearing for her father, and a
cupboard of books which she discovered one wet day, and from which she
brought volume after volume, reading aloud to her brothers and sisters
when they could listen, or lying in luxurious loneliness on the wet
days in the empty drawing room, buried in some tale of travel such as
her heart loved. Thus the time flew away, and the three months were
almost gone.
Letters were coming from their father and mother, speaking of their
speedy and happy return, which would be very, very soon, and telling
too of renewed health and hope for the future.
As Lucia looked out of her window one evening, and remembered the
thoughts with which she had stood there three months ago, she could
only fall on her knees and thank God that He had not allowed her to go
on in her impatience and rebellion. He had enabled her to yield her
will to Him, and then had given her back a hundredfold in happiness and
peace. For when she looked round at the change in her step-brothers and
sisters, her heart melted with thankfulness.
One morning, soon after breakfast, a telegram was put into her hand.
"They are coming to-day—to-day!" she exclaimed, as nurse and children
crowded round her. "They are coming here. They ask if we can make room
for them."
"Make room for them?" echoed everybody. "Why, if we could squeeze flat—"
"I must telegraph back," began Lucia. "Where do they date from? Why,
from Newhaven. They are there, waiting for my answer! Oh, mother! Oh,
father!"
And as she put her arm round Evan and supported him to a seat, she
realized as never before what a care the care of them had been, and
what a relief it was to know it was over.
What a busy morning they had. How Evan even tried to help by cutting
the frill for the ham and running the tape through some fresh
window-curtains. Lucia noticed that in his eager expectation, some of
the fragile look went out of his face, and a sweet, gentle brightness
took its place.
At last all was done. Everything was looked over for the last time, and
the children decided that nothing was wanting for the perfection of a
welcome.
"We will go into the dining room and listen for the wheels," said Ivor.
"Evan is there, and we'll be with him."
But the younger girls preferred to go round the house once more with
nurse. Barbara was glad to be left alone with Lucia; so Ivor found
himself alone with his brother.
"Evan!" he began eagerly. "Do you think father and mother will want to
know what we spent it on?"
"Yes," said Evan gravely; "and I mean to tell them directly I have a
chance. I shan't burst out with it, but no more underhand doings for
me!"
"Oh, no—I didn't mean that—!"
"Ivor, if we belong to the Lord Jesus we have to leave behind all that
is wrong."
Ivor nodded earnestly. "I mean to—indeed I do, Evan. I have begun."
Meanwhile Barbara and Lucia were in the drawing room, holding another
conversation quite as particular in its results as that.
"They cannot come for an hour at the earliest," said Lucia, looking
round the room for something to do.
"Can't you finish that painting? I'll get your apron," coaxed Barbara.
"There is time; you said an hour would do it—"
"So I did. Then I will, Barbara, now all is done."
The little girl stood by her in unusual silence, watching her busy
brush, but not chatting as she often did.
An hour! The time was slipping away, and before it was over, she must
get something said.
At last she flung her arm round her sister's shoulder, and with the
other hand poured some bright coins into her lap.
"Whatever is that?" asked Lucia. For somehow the pressure round her
neck told that Barbara felt what she was doing very much.
"You know about that money father and mother sent?"
"Yes—"
"They will think I have spent it, and I haven't."
"They will not mind, dear, about spending it if you do not want to."
"But I do want to. You know that book I've been reading by myself all
the last days? Well, I never thought of those sort of things before.
It's a missionary-book; it tells about the little girls who are married
so young in India, and are shut up in houses with no pleasures, no
employments, no books, no work, no love, no anything! And, oh, Lucia, I
thought—"
Lucia looked up in her face with swimming eyes.
"I thought," pursued Barbara, hiding her face on her sister's shoulder,
"that I had so much; and that if I could do anything—I know this isn't
much; but, Lucia, they want so much—money, and people to go, and lots
of things. But I thought if I sent this now, when I am old enough I
might go!"
"Oh, Barbara!"
"Don't you like me to? You would want to go if you had read how sad
and desolate they are without ever having heard of a Saviour, and how
perfectly different it all is when they know about Him!"
Lucia turned round and clasped the little missionary in her arms.
"Oh, Barbara, Barbara!" she said lovingly.
"You don't think father and mother will mind?"
"Mind losing you by-and-by, do you mean?"
"No; about the money?"
"I feel sure they will not."
And then there was the sound of wheels, and in another moment their
father had sprung out of the carriage and was walking up the path
almost with his old step.
What an evening that was! How the mother and father looked at their
children's faces, wondering to see in them such a chastened gladness as
they had never noticed before. Was it Evan's illness? What was it that
had made the change?
Barbara, as she gave her mother a good-night hug, gave her the key.
"Mother, we've all been getting nearer to Jesus! Lucia has helped us
ever so nicely. She said she'd got nearer herself."
And Lucia went to bed that night with a thankful heart, glowing from
her mother's tender words of thanks; for had she not received, even
now, more than she had yielded?
The next morning her step-father said at breakfast, "Oh, Lucia, did
your mother tell you that you are to go back to Yorkshire and finish
that visit? It seems they cannot be satisfied without it; so you are to
be off as soon as possible—eh, mother? Now we are home!"
And that was how Lucia's Trust ended. At least, did it end there?