Again it is a Sunday evening at Twickenham. Walter Petherick has been
celebrating his fiftieth birthday. Three years have passed since the
Great Plague and two since the Great Fire. In the presence of the young
people, he has poured out his heart in reverent gratitude for the
mercies that have so richly crowned his days. And now, the soft autumn
day, with its russet tints and its misty sunlight having closed, he is
once more alone in his room.
'O Lord,' he prays, 'Thou hast been pleased by pestilence and by fire to
redeem my soul from destruction. Thou didst threaten me with the loss of
Thy choicest _gifts_ that I might set my heart's affections once more
upon their _Giver_. But the fig tree did not wither; the vines did not
perish; the olive did not fail. The pestilence did not touch my
children; the flames did not destroy my goods. Accept the thanks of Thy
servant this day and help him, all his days, _to rejoice in the Lord and
to joy in the God of his salvation_.'
And the records show that Walter Petherick lived to enjoy long life,
abounding wealth, great honors, and the clinging affection of his
children's children. And ever in his heart he cherished a deep, deep
secret and sang a rapturous song. For he reveled, not only in the
_gifts_, but in the _Giver_. He rejoiced in _the Lord_ and joyed in _the
God of his salvation_.