OLD TIES SEVERED.
The month of March opened cold and stormy. All day long the rain
and sleet had fallen unceasingly. As night approached there was no
cessation of the storm; it had rather increased. During the evening the
wind veered. The cold was growing more and more intense. The clouds
lowered darkly, and prematurely hid the day, while they poured their
watery contents down in sweeping floods.
It was the evening for the weekly prayer meeting at the First Church,
and Ray Branford put on his coat, and prepared himself to face the
storm.
"Are you going up to the church to-night?" his sister-in-law asked, in
surprise.
"Yes; I haven't missed a prayer meeting yet; I am well and strong, and
I see no reason why I shouldn't go to-night," he replied.
"I wish you wouldn't go, Ray," Betsy said. "I'm all alone with the
children, and it is so stormy. I thought perhaps you'd stay and read to
me."
Ray glanced at the clock. "I can wait a half hour, and then get there
in time for the meeting; what shall I read?"
"Oh, select some chapter full of comfort," she answered, "for I'm just
about discouraged. I believe George delights to do everything he can to
try me since I became a Christian. He spends more time at the saloon,
and don't help me near as much with the children. You know just how
father has gone on since mother died; there is hardly a day he has been
sober. The girls, too, say the most provoking things they can think of.
I tell you, Ray, I find it pretty hard to do just as Jesus wants me to
all the time. I wonder, sometimes, how you bear it all so patiently;
you never seem to get discouraged."
"Yes I do," he quickly replied. "I find it hard among these old
associations to keep from sin. The boys try every way to make me mad,
and they have succeeded more than once. Only the other day I knocked
John Gardiner down for calling me names, and to-day I almost swore at
Ned Clark for breaking the yarns on my jack. The oath got clear to my
teeth, and I shut it off with such force, it almost took my breath
away. And you know just how father and the boys treat me. Not a week
passes that they don't curse me for what they call my oddities. I tell
you, Betsy, it's as hard for me as for you to show the spirit of Jesus
at all times. I sometimes think, 'Has this got to be always?' I want to
do something besides spin all my life. I wish I could get an education;
I want to fit myself for Christ's work." And the boy sighed heavily.
These two, since their conversion, had, as often as possible, read
the Bible and prayed together, but never before had Ray spoken of the
longings of his heart. Betsy looked up in quick sympathy with him,
saying:
"I wish you might become a preacher; wouldn't it be grand?"
"Yes; and I do feel called to that very work. I felt it at times before
I even accepted Jesus. I mean to obey the call, too, just as fast as
Jesus will show me the way."
He now opened his Bible and read the ninety-first Psalm; then knelt
and offered a brief prayer, the burden of which was that he and his
sister-in-law might never be discouraged, but, sure of the Master's
presence and help, might ever walk in the path of known duty. After
this, he started for up town.
It was a cold and dreary walk. The rain had turned to snow or fine
sleet, which the wind blew furiously, driving it with blinding force
into his face, and but for the street lamps he would have lost his way.
He arrived at the church wet and cold, and well-nigh out of breath, to
find but a bare half dozen besides the pastor. Even he seemed surprised
to see the boy on such a night, and so expressed himself as he shook
hands with him.
"I had no good excuse for not coming," the lad answered, simply.
Mr. Carleton smiled as he looked down into that earnest face, and said:
"There are a good many nearer the meeting house than you, who have
evidently regarded this storm as sufficient excuse for not coming."
Then to himself: "God surely has not bestowed such an unflinching
regard for duty upon this lad without having some special work for him
to do; he must be helped to something better than running a jack in the
Black Forge Mills." But he little knew how that little prayer meeting,
even as one a few months before, was, by the blessing of God, going to
become an important factor in changing the whole current of the lad's
life.
He read the sixth chapter of Second Corinthians for the Scripture
lesson of the evening, and talked briefly upon the words of the
seventeenth verse: "Wherefore come out from among them, and be ye
separate, saith the Lord."
"Paul, in this chapter," he said, "is showing the Corinthian Christians
that there is no fellowship between righteousness and unrighteousness,
or between the believer and the unbeliever. The Christian cannot
contract worldly friendships, nor enter into any connection with
unbelievers which requires much familiar intercourse, lest he be
tempted to join with the unbeliever in his wicked principles and
practices. As the privileges conferred upon the Jews obliged them
to withhold themselves from all heathen intercourse, and from the
pollution of every unclean thing, so, the apostle argues, the followers
of Christ, on account of the special favors and blessings they have
received, are much more under obligations to keep themselves separate
from all impure associations and unholy practices. He then, to enforce
his argument, quoted these words: 'Wherefore come out from among them,
and be ye separate, saith the Lord, and touch not the unclean thing;
and I will receive you, and will be a Father unto you, and ye shall be
my sons and daughters, saith the Lord Almighty.'"
Ray listened attentively to Mr. Carleton's remarks. He always did. But
what he carried away from that prayer room was the divine command:
"Wherefore come out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the
Lord." The words rang in his ears. They went home with him. They even
followed him into the mill. He could not shake them off. He read them
over and over again. He prayed over them. They had but one meaning to
him. He gave them the most literal interpretation. He must leave his
old associations, he must abandon his old life, he must sever the old
ties; and he was fully persuaded that only thus could he secure the
highest spiritual development, and prepare himself for the work of God.
He talked the matter over with Betsy a few evenings later. But she,
with a puzzled look upon her face, finally asked: "If those words mean
what you say they do, what is my duty? Am I to take the children, and
leave here too? How in the world am I to care for them if I do?"
"Don't you see, Betsy," Ray answered, eagerly, "those words may
mean more to me than to you? You have ties; you had them before
your conversion, and you cannot break them without wrong to others.
The words mean to you to come out and be separate from all in your
surroundings that will hinder your fidelity to the Saviour. But those
things you can do and still honor Jesus, you have a right--nay, it is
your duty to do. The words mean the same to me, but in my case may have
a wider bearing than in yours. I can leave home, I can leave the mill,
I can sever the old life, and instead of neglecting any duty, I shall
be placing myself where I can do far more for the Master. I feel he
is calling me to a higher work. I am sure that in my present life and
surroundings there is little if any opportunity to prepare myself for
obeying that call. I must seek some other work. I must find some way
wherein I can carry out the Master's wishes."
"Why don't you go and talk with Mr. Carleton about it?" inquired Betsy.
"I would, but he might think I was asking for help; then, too, what
may seem plain duty to me may not seem so to him. When my life and
my growth in grace and knowledge of Jesus are such as to lead him to
believe I am called to the Master's work, I will tell him freely of my
convictions. So far I have confessed them only to you. For the present
I must fight out the battle alone. All I can do is wait, watch, and
pray for God to open up the way for me. He knows I am willing to walk
in any path he may mark out for me. In his own time he will show me
what he would have me to do."
Several weeks passed away. Ray patiently did the work before him,
but the conviction grew stronger and stronger in his heart that his
mill life was drawing to a close; that before a great while the Lord
would throw open a door through which he might go on toward his most
cherished hopes. And, as is often the case in God's dealings with us,
it was opened so unexpectedly, and so naturally and simply, that only
those who recognize God's hand in everything would have seen his hand
in it at all.
There came a warm bright Sunday in April. The snow had left the hills;
the grass was starting up fresh and green; the trees were showing their
tiny buds; here and there in some sheltered nook an early flower had
ventured to open its bright face, as a harbinger of others to come.
Ray had been to church and Sunday-school as usual, and now, dinner
having been eaten, he stood on the door-steps looking off toward the
hills. "I am in the mood to-day for a tramp," he said, "and it is a
long time since I went up to the top of Pine Hill. I guess I'll take
a walk up there, and come down the other way in time for the evening
service." So calling out to Betsy that he would meet her at the church
at the hour for service, he started off on his long tramp.
The path wound around the edge of the hill, and soon ran along a
precipice just above the highway. He sat down here and looked off
toward the mills, his thoughts busy with the changes of the past year.
He was soon lost in his reverie, and took no note of what was passing
around him until aroused by the sound of an approaching wagon. He
looked down, and saw a pair of horses and a light wagon in which were
two men passing directly beneath him. One of the men was Jacob Woodhull
and the other was his nephew, George Woodhull, who owned a large farm
down on the east shore of the bay. Ray remembered now that Jacob
Woodhull had not been at church or Sunday-school that morning, and
thought: "He has been down to his nephew's to-day, and is just coming
home."
The men were busy talking, and did not notice the boy a hundred feet
or so above. "I tell you, George," Mr. Jacob Woodhull was saying to
his companion, "this boy will just suit you; I will guarantee that he
is thoroughly reliable, and I think he will be glad to leave the mill.
Anyway, we can----" And the rest of the sentence was lost by the horses
breaking into a fast trot, and soon disappearing around a sharp turn in
the road.
Ray rose and went on, his mind busy with what he had overheard. "My!"
he ejaculated, "I wonder if they meant me. Wouldn't I just like to
work for George Woodhull. I can assure them I am ready to leave the
mill any time to go there."
He reached the summit of the hill, and for a time gazed around in
delight on the landscape presented to his view. He felt that the scene
had never seemed half so beautiful before. He forgot that the change
was more within himself than in the outer world. There had been in him
a growth that he scarcely realized. His spiritual eyes were opened. He
saw beauty where he had never seen it before, because he discerned in
all things now the finger prints of God.
His eye finally rested upon the east shore of the bay, and he readily
picked out from among the others the farm he knew was Mr. George
Woodhull's. This brought to his mind again the conversation he had
heard, and falling there upon his knees he prayed that if God so willed
he might find an opening out from the old life just here.
He was scarcely surprised, then, when Mr. Jacob Woodhull joined him
at the close of the evening service, and, as they walked on together,
asked:
"Ray, have you ever felt like giving up your mill life for something
better?"
"Yes, sir," he promptly replied. "Just as soon as God gives me the
opportunity."
"You know my nephew, George Woodhull, who owns the big farm down on
the east shore, don't you?" his companion then asked.
"I know him by sight," admitted Ray, "though I never spoke with him
that I remember of."
"Well," continued Mr. Woodhull, "he came up after me this morning--had
an awful sick cow, and wanted me to doctor it; that's the reason I
wasn't at church;--and I find he wants to get a young fellow he can
trust to come on his place this summer. He's going into the stock
business, and will be away a good deal. He wants some one to look out
for the stock, and around the house; to be company and protection for
Mrs. Woodhull when he's away. There are two other men to attend to the
farmwork, so the place won't be so awful hard for the one who gets it.
I kinder recommended you. You see, George and his wife are earnest
Christians, members of a little church down near their place. Then he
has lots of books, and Mrs. Woodhull was a school teacher before she
was married, and teaches her own children; 'twill be a capital place
for you to brush up your studies, if you wanted to do such a thing. But
I tell you: he's going to be over to my house to-morrow night. Come
over about dusk, or soon as you can after supper, and we'll talk it
over."
So early the next evening Ray found himself face to face with Mr.
George Woodhull, and listened with glowing cheeks to that gentleman's
proposition.
"Your work will be entirely about the house and barns," he said, "and
there will be nothing you cannot easily learn to do. What I want is
to have some one at the farm when I am away, who I know is thoroughly
trustworthy, and who will see that everything is kept up in proper
order. You may go to just as many meetings as you please, as long as
your duties are not neglected; and we'll give you every opportunity to
read and study that is possible. I'm willing to pay you well for the
work, say twenty-five dollars a month, for eight months, to begin as
soon as you can get away from the mill. Are you willing to come?"
Willing? Wasn't it for just such an opportunity that he had for weeks
been praying? And with a thankful heart he accepted the position, to
begin two weeks from that very day, as he could not get away from
the mill before that. But what amazed him most was the compensation
offered; and it was not until years after that he knew that Mr. Jacob
Woodhull had added an extra five dollars to each month's pay, it being
_one_ of the ways that the eccentric old man had taken to see "that
that boy lost nothing by settling up his old scores with him"; and
there were _others_ to follow.
After the lad had gone, the two men spent some time planning for his
farther advancement just as fast as he should prove worthy of it,
and they did it with a heartiness that showed a deep interest in him
already awakened in their hearts. Had either one of them been asked to
account for this interest, he would have softly repeated the Master's
words: "Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a
cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto
you, he shall in no wise lose his reward."
It was the Master's work, and done for the Master's sake.