KATE DONALDSON.
OWING to various causes, some time elapsed before Peter Marshall was
able to avail himself of Matthew Reardon's permission to call and see
the children. It was not that he resented, or even remembered its
ungraciousness, but because he really had had no time.
The old man was a busy worker in the crowded wilderness of human life,
where the harvest is so great and the labourers—alas! that it should
be so—but few; and where he had worked all the harder of late, from a
presentiment he had that the night, or rather the dawn, was at hand.
Matthew had not been to the office for several days, and the
kind-hearted old man remembered how ill he had thought him looking the
last time he was there, and determined to go and see what had become of
him.
"That poor girl, too," thought he, "I should like to meet her again.
Who knows but what the Lord may be pleased to give me a word for her."
It was a strange fact—and yet not strange either, for the same thing
is constantly happening, if the children of God would only observe
and ponder it in their hearts more frequently than they do—that no
sooner had Marshall turned into the street in which the Reardons lived,
than he saw Kate Donaldson standing at the door. He knew her at once
by her shawl—the same thin gay-coloured shawl. But he could not have
distinguished it if she had not been standing immediately under a
gas-lamp, the night being foggy, while a cold drizzling rain fell fast
and drearily.
The girl started when he spoke.
"Isn't it late for you to be abroad, my child?"
"Not later than usual," was the careless reply.
"But that should not be."
"Are you going to see your friend?" asked Kate. "You'll find him at
home to-night safe enough. He won't be out again in a hurry."
"I was afraid that he was worse."
"He'll be worse before he's any better, I'm thinking," said the girl.
"You think he will die?"
"I don't know anything about it. It's nothing to me—only I found her
crying to-day on the stairs—not liking, maybe, to let him see her fret."
"His wife? And you were sorry for her?"
"She would not have cared for my pity, however much I had felt,"
replied Kate. "But I won't keep you, sir. You can help them a bit,
perhaps."
"And you—is there nothing that I can do for you?"
"Nothing; thank you kindly," added the girl, after a pause, and moving
away as she spoke.
"One moment," said Marshall, stepping inside the door, which was
generally left open until late for the convenience of the numerous
dwellers in that large gloomy house. "You will be wet through if you
stand there."
"It won't be the first time by many if I am," answered Kate, recklessly.
But she followed him, nevertheless, into the spacious and dimly-lighted
vestibule.
"It was only this evening," said the old clerk, "that I was thinking of
you, and wondering whether the tender and loving Saviour, who is not
willing that any should perish, but rather that they should come unto
Him and be saved, might not have a word for his poor wandering sheep,
and if so, whether He would be pleased to send it by me."
"You brought me a message once before," said the girl. "A hard message
about the wrath of God. I have been trying to forget it ever since, but
I can't. I don't want to hear any more."
"Poor child!" murmured the old clerk. "It was a pity that you did not
also remember the way of escape of which I told you."
"Yes, I remembered—but it did not seem meant for such as me."
There was a moment's pause—just long enough for the brief prayer,—
"Lord, help me,"
And the speedy answer, "I will," to ascend and descend between heaven
and earth. And then the old clerk spoke again, using his Master's words
in preference to his own.
"'If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth
is not in us; but if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to
forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness!' *
'This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ
Jesus came into the world to save sinners'—even the chief! ‡ And lest
any poor trembling sinner, notwithstanding these gracious promises,
should be afraid to come to Christ, our blessed Lord Himself adds, 'Him
that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.'" †
* 1 John i. 8, 9. ‡ 1 Timothy i. 15. † John vi. 37.
The young girl sat down upon the stairs and buried her face in her
hands, while Marshall stood silently and reverently by her side praying
for her in his heart. Every now and then he could hear Matthew Reardon
coughing in the room above; and then the little children began to sing
a hymn, while the ceaseless hum and tread of human life went on in the
busy street without.
Presently a footstep approached, descending the stairs from one of the
upper rooms, and Kate arose quickly, pushing back the bright hair which
had fallen over her face, and glancing round with a startled look.
"You won't go out any more to-night?" said Marshall, laying his hand on
her thin, damp shawl.
"No," answered Kate, dreamily. "I don't think I'll go out any more.
Thank you for bringing the message."
Marshall took a card from his pocket and gave it to her. "This is my
address," said he. "If you should want a friend at any time—you won't
lose it?"
"No fear of that, sir; I haven't so many friends that I can afford to
lose one."
At that moment, an elderly woman appeared in sight. She walked slowly
in consequence of being somewhat lame, and glanced curiously from one
to the other.
Kate nodded to her, and ran upstairs without even wishing the old clerk
good night.
"Were you wanting anything, sir?" asked the woman.
"All right, thank you," replied Marshall. "I know my way."
But she stood and watched him nevertheless.
"A friend of the Reardons," murmured she, as Marshall knocked at the
door. "I didn't know they had a friend."