AGATHA'S STORY.
ON Christmas Day, three children were walking down the lighted streets
of a dark city, and were all, from different directions, wending their
way to the same place.
This place was a mission-room in one of the crowded streets near the
East End.
Even though it was Christmas night, there were a few people who
preferred the warm mission-room to their own homes, and these children
were some of them.
One was a ragged boy who had no home.
The second was a little girl, who wandered in for the sake of the warm
stove, for she was perished with cold.
The third was the clergyman's son, who came because his father came,
and because on this night, he could not bear him to come alone.
The ragged boy, cold to the bones, with a body wasted by disease and
want, crouched down in a corner, intending to go to sleep till a cup of
coffee, which he knew would be given, should be offered him.
The girl put her feet as near the stove as she could, but she knew
nothing about the coffee, and only prepared herself to wait till she
was warm, and then intended to slip out and go away.
And the clergyman's son was longing to get home to his Christmas
presents and the bright party he had left for his father's sake.
But every one of them received a Gift which they little expected, and
which altered their whole lives from that day forth.
"Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear My voice, and
open the door, I will come in and sup with him, and he with Me."
By the time the clergyman had impressed this verse and its meaning
on the attention of his hearers, the poor little girl was warm, and
shrinkingly giving a glance behind her, for fear she should be chidden,
she slipped out into the cold, windy, winter air.
Drawing her thin little shawl closer around her, she ran as fast as she
could to the court in which was her home. She found her way up the dark
stairs, and soon stood within her mother's attic.
There was a glimmer of fire in the grate, but it was too small to shed
any light in the room.
"How long you've been!" exclaimed her mother's voice from a corner,
sounding near the floor, for bedstead there was none.
"No, I ain't," answered the little girl, remembering, as she said the
words, that she must have stayed full half an hour by that warm stove.
"I know it don't take you all this time to get that candle and a bit of
bread; and there's yer brother been whining the whole time you've been
gone."
The voice was sharp with pain and suffering, and at the same moment
little Bill began his whining again.
The poor little girl lighted the farthing candle and cut her brother a
piece of bread, then placed another by her mother's side, and lastly
seized, rather than took, a piece herself, and sat down by the tiny
fire to eat it.
But as she ate the first food she had tasted that day, before her eyes
came up a picture, living as it were, and she saw over again a Kingly
Stranger knocking for admittance, and promising to enter and sup with
those who opened to Him.
The little girl glanced round the wretched room: no loving hand had
been there to put it tidy, no hope had entered it to make it bright, no
relief had come to cheer and comfort.
All that dreary Christmas Day, her mother had lain moaning on her
miserable straw, and her little crippled brother had cried for food
since early dawn, when the Christmas bells had sounded on the frosty
air.
Ah! no help, no succour, no happiness; nothing but want, and sin, and
misery.
An hour before, a neighbour, pitying the wretchedness of the poor
starving family, had made her way up the dark stairs.
"It ain't much I've got to give," she said abruptly, "but on Christmas
night, I don't like to feel as you've not had a bit in your mouths all
day; so here's sixpence, and you're kindly welcome."
With that she laid down the little coin, and without waiting for thanks
or to inquire how the invalid was, she hastened back to her room.
And so it was to her kindness, they were indebted for that bit of
candle and loaf of bread.
Again the child heard the voice, "I stand and knock; I will come in and
sup."
"He said it was our hearts," she murmured to herself, looking still at
the picture in the fire.
"What?" asked her mother sharply.
"The gen'lman said as He was askin' to come in, and if He came in, He'd
make the place as beautiful as a palace—that He would!"
"We don't want no one in here," gasped her mother; "leastways, unless
they bring some'ut with 'em!"
"The gen'lman said as He would, if we opened the door."
"Then open it!" exclaimed the sick woman, rousing herself suddenly.
"It's our hearts," said the girl, musingly, "and I daren't open the
door for such as Him to come in; it ain't fit."
The sick woman threw herself back impatiently, but after a long, long
silence she said more softly:
"Say them words over again, Meg; I've heard 'em afore, and I believe
it's the Saviour as is knocking and wants to come in."
"Yes, mother," answered Meg, eagerly; "I couldn't call it to mind
afore. It's the Saviour as sez He's a-coming in, if we'll have Him!"
"He's waited a long time for me to open the door," said the sick woman,
"but—if He'll forgive—"
* * * * * *
And the clergyman's son heard the message, as he had so often heard it
before, and he turned away from it as he had so often turned before.
But when he reached his own chamber that night, after the pleasant
family party was over, his mind went back to what he had witnessed in
that mission-room.
The little starving, emaciated, ragged boy had sat with his hungry eyes
waiting for the coffee; but, though the child had intended to go to
sleep, he did not do it, for the clergyman made it so plain that the
Saviour was knocking at his heart that he could not forget it, and he
listened with deep attention to every word.
"If any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in."
"That's me," he said; "I'm anyone, anyhow. But I'm so 'ungry and so
cold and so wretched, I don't see as 'ow He can care to come into my
heart."
So he listened again; and again, he heard the words, "He wants every
one of you to be happy and blessed."
"He's a kind 'un, then," said the boy to himself, as the rare tears
filled his sunken eyes. And then the cup of steaming coffee had come,
and he had swallowed it quickly enough, and the kind clergyman had
said a few words to him about the love of Jesus, and then the boy had
crouched down again in the same corner as before, too ill and miserable
to move.
"My poor boy," said the minister, "I am afraid you must leave here, we
are going to shut it up."
"What, sir?" asked the boy, rousing a little, while a deathly pallor
overspread his face.
The sentence was repeated even more gently, but the child did not take
it in. He started up and stretched out his arms, calling, in a voice
in which love, and yearning, and joy were all expressed, "Oh, come in,
come in; I've opened the door for yer!"
With that his arms fell, and then they saw that he needed no more
earthly care, for he had gone in to supper with the King of kings.
* * * * * *
This was what the clergyman's son had seen, and as he stood in his room
alone that night he thought that the knock had come to him too, and woe
be to him, if he disregarded it!
He knelt down by his bedside.
"So sinful," he whispered, "so forgetful, so full of selfishness and
self-seeking—if Thou comest in, Thou King of Glory, it is Thou who must
make it fit, for I cannot. Nevertheless, if Thou dost knock—and Thou
dost, I hear Thee—Thou shalt not knock in vain; for this very night I
will echo those dying words, 'Come in, come in!'"
* * * * * *
"Children," said Agatha, "He knocks at your hearts to-night. He wants
you to let Him in, that He may bless you and dwell with you all this
coming year. You will not keep Him waiting, you will not hold the door
fast! Surely you will say too, 'Saviour, come in, come in.'"
So the moonlight city faded away, the little guests bade their
entertainers good-night, and each one went home with new thoughts, and
some of them with new hopes for the New Year.