THE SPRINGING GRAIN.
"NOW, Kitty, let us get at the bottom of all this trouble of ours,"
said Miss Armstrong. "Agnes, do you wish to see me?"
"Yes, please, Miss Armstrong. But I will wait: I haven't so far to go
as Kit has. Or I don't know why I should mind speaking before her,"
said Agnes, coloring. "It isn't any thing I need be ashamed of. I have
made up my mind to try to be a real Christian, Miss Armstrong. I don't
know whether I shall have strength to persevere, but I am going to
begin."
"You will surely have strength to persevere if you only look in the
right place for it, my dear child," said Miss Armstrong, kissing her.
"You don't know how glad I am to hear you say this, Agnes. Tell me,
when did you make up your mind?"
"Last night, after I went home. I have been thinking a great deal about
the matter lately, and somehow what that old lady said seemed to bring
me right to the point. I seemed to realize that the Lord died for
me, just as much as if there had been no one else to die for; and I
couldn't hold out after that."
"You were led to see the truth, and the truth has made you free," said
Miss Armstrong. "He did die for you, and for me, and for little Kitty
here, just as much as if there had been no one else to die for; and He
loves us as much as if He had no one else to love. Have you told your
mother, Agnes?"
"No, ma'am; I am going to tell her to-night. Ma isn't a church-member
herself, but I think she will be glad. She always wants me to go to
church and Sunday school, and she never would let me go walking on
Sundays with Milly Richmond. Oh, dear! I wish the Richmonds were not
coming."
"Don't borrow trouble, dear child. Trust your best Friend to do what is
best for you, and make all things work together for your good. I will
talk with you again as soon as I can. Good-night."
"Who do you mean by Agnes's best friend?" asked Kit, as Agnes left the
room.
"Her Father in heaven, and her Saviour," answered Miss Armstrong; "you
know I told you that before, Kitty."
"Well," said Kit with a deep sigh, "I wish He was my friend, that's
all. But I don't think He is."
"Why not, my poor child?"
"If He had been, He wouldn't have let Melissa put uncle Phin up to
shake me, and burn my book, all because—I—" The recital of her wrongs
was too much for poor Kit, and she burst into a fresh agony of crying.
Miss Armstrong took her on her lap, pressed the hot head against her
bosom, and by and by began gently to soothe and check the outburst.
"Tell me all about it," said she when Kit was quiet enough to speak.
Kit sobbed out the story of her wrongs.
"And you think He does not love you, because He lets you have trouble?
My dear, that is a great mistake. He has never promised us freedom from
trouble in this world: on the contrary, He has expressly said, 'In the
world ye shall have tribulation.' But He adds in the same breath, 'Be
of good cheer; I have overcome the world.' He says in another place
that He sends us trouble, or lets trouble come, to make us more fit for
heaven, just as the kindest parents sometimes punish their children."
"Then I don't see how Christians are any better off than other folks,
after all," said Kit, "if they have troubles just the same."
"They don't have them 'just' the same, Kitty. It is not just the same
whether a child is a slave, and beaten by a cruel master, or whether it
is punished to cure it of its faults by a kind and loving father."
"That is so," answered Kit.
"And there is another thing about it," continued Miss Armstrong.
"Suppose I should say to you, 'Kitty, if you will bear all your
troubles patiently, and do your work as well as you can for one week,
then I will take you home to live with me, and be happy all the rest of
your life.' Would the time seem long or hard to you then?"
"No, indeed!" said Kit, with kindling eyes. "I would work my fingers to
the bone, and never say a word, whatever happened."
"Well, that is the way our Father treats his children. He lets them
have plenty of trouble and sorrow here,—sometimes it seems as if the
best people had the most of it,—but He promises them a home with Him
in heaven, where they shall never know any pain and grief, but be
happy and holy for ever and ever. Just think! When we look back on our
present life, after we have been in that blessed place a million years,
it will not look very long or very hard to us."
"No, indeed!" said Kit, drawing a long breath. "A million years without
any trouble, happy all the time! It just takes my breath away."
"And then to be no nearer the end than before," said Miss Armstrong. "I
used to hear an old hymn sung, of which this was the last verse,—
"'When I've been there ten thousand days,
Bright shining as the sun,
I've just as long to sing God's praise
As though I'd just begun.'"
"Yes, it is nice for you, and I am glad you are going there," said Kit,
her face darkening again, "but it won't do me any good. 'I' shall never
get there, I know."
"And why not, my little girl?"
"I shall never be good enough," answered Kit. "I have tried and tried
to be good. Every morning since I came to school, I have said to
myself, 'Now, I won't do one wrong thing to-day;' and I do all the
time. And, if I don't act wrong things, I think them. I never can be
like what it says in the Testament,—like what He was."
"Poor Kitty! I don't wonder you are discouraged. Why, my child, if
people were to be saved by their own goodness, there would not be one
in paradise at this minute. It is because Christ died for us that we
are saved, because He bore our sins for us when He was nailed to the
cross; because He died for us, and rose from the dead for us, and
pleads for us at the right hand of God. We are not to be saved because
we are good, but we are to be good because we are saved."
Kit's face brightened a little. "I don't quite understand," said she.
"It is just this, Kitty: you have not to earn eternal happiness. You
never could do that, and you have no need to try. The Lord Jesus has
done that for you. He bore the punishment of all our sins when He was
here on earth; and what we have to do is, to believe that He has done
so, to put our trust in Him, and give ourselves to Him to be His. See
what the Bible says about it:
"'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting
life.' (St. John iii. 16)
"'God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet
sinners, Christ died for us.' (Rom. v. 8)
"'He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.' (St. John iii.
36)"
"Then all the goodness is in believing," said Kit.
"Not at all, my dear. There is no more goodness in believing than in
any thing else, but we shall not ask Him to save us unless we believe
He can do it. Just so, you might be drowning, and some one might throw
you a rope: unless you believed that the rope would save you, you would
not take hold of it; and yet there would be no goodness in taking hold
of it."
"I see now!" exclaimed Kit. "Just as there might be a doctor in Oldbury
who could cure aunt Martha, but unless uncle Phin believed it, and went
after him, he would be of no use to her. But, Miss Armstrong, will God
save 'me' like that?" asked Kit with a tone of deep reverence, and a
far-off look in her great blue eyes. "Will He do all that just because
I ask Him,—a poor little naughty, ignorant girl, like me, that don't
know any thing about Him hardly? It seems too good to be true."
"It is not one bit too good to be true. You have only to ask Him, and
the work is done, now and forever."
"And won't I ever do any thing wrong again?"
"I cannot say that, Kitty. As long as we are in the world, we have to
fight with temptations from without, and with the sinful nature that is
born in us. But, if we are faithful in asking, He will give us strength
to conquer; and, if we do fall into sin, He will help us out.
"'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' (1 John i. 9).
"He not only forgives us our sins, but He washes them away, and makes
them as if they had never been. Only God can do that."
"I can see that," said Kit. "Men can't make the least thing to be as if
it had never been, if they are ever so sorry about it."
She sat still a moment, and then turned to her friend with a great
light shining in her sweet face. "Well, then, Miss Armstrong, I don't
see but I 'am' saved, after all, because I do want Him to save me, and
I do believe He can."
"Then you certainly are, my precious child," said Miss Armstrong, her
own eyes overflowing. "Let us thank Him, Kitty, for all His goodness."
About an hour after this conversation, two young ladies, walking over
the hill, came to Kit's favorite haunt, and stood still in admiration
at the picture presented to them. Kit was lying on the ground, her
head pillowed on the mossy flat stone which was her favorite seat,
fast asleep. Her hat lay on the grass beside her, her long dark lashes
rested on her cheeks, and the soft summer wind was gently playing with
her black curls, as if it feared to wake her. It almost seemed from her
attitude that she had been kneeling by the stone, and had sunk down
overpowered with sleep.
"What an exquisite picture!" whispered Amity. "What a pity Percy is not
here with her sketchbook."
"It is lovely," answered Ida in the same tone. "But she ought not to
lie there: she will take cold. Her hand is hurt too. Poor little dear,
I wonder who she is. I am sure I don't know her, and yet it seems as if
I had seen her before."
"I was just thinking the same. But we must not leave her here. She
might sleep till dark, and awake frightened out of her senses, and with
rheumatic fever into the bargain."
As Amity spoke, she bent down and kissed the little sleeper. Kit awoke,
and started to her feet with a little cry of pain, as the sudden
movement shook her burned hand.
"My poor child, did you hurt yourself?" said Amity kindly. "I am sorry
I gave you such a start. I only meant to wake you, and keep you from
getting cold. What ails your arm?"
"I burned it; but it is not very bad now, only I twisted it a little,
getting up," answered Kit. "I can't think how I came to go to sleep,
only I was so tired. Ain't you the lady that sung at the meeting last
night?" she ventured to ask shyly.
"Yes, my dear. Were you there?"
"No, ma'am, but I stood under the window and listened. Uncle won't let
me go to meeting. He don't believe in God or any such thing."
"And don't you believe in Him?"
"Yes, ma'am, I do," answered Kit, with a quiet decision which made
Ida and Amity exchange glances. "I feel as though I had just 'got' to
believe in Him, for He's all the friend I've got, only Miss Armstrong
and Symantha."
"He is the best you could have. What is your name?"
"Kit Mallory, ma'am; at least, that is what every one calls me, only
Miss Armstrong calls me Kitty."
"Well, Kitty, can you direct us a short way to Mrs. Van Zandt's house?
We have walked farther than we meant, and are both tired."
"You are near by now," said Kit; "you can see the house when you are
past this ledge, and I'll show you a cow-path that goes close by the
barn. Wouldn't you like a drink?" she added. "This is real nice water,
and I've got a cup I keep here."
"Thank you, that will be very refreshing," said Amity.
Kit produced her cup, washed it in the stream, and filled it at the
spring-head. Both the girls drank, and praised the cool, sweet draught.
"What a lovely spring!" said Amity, bending down to look into its
depths.
"It has great bubbles in it," said Kit. "If you watch, you will see one
presently. There! Isn't that pretty?"
"It is, indeed," said Amity. "Look, Ida."
"I see," replied Ida, bending down in her turn. "I see, too, that the
sun is getting low, and aunt Barbara will be uneasy about us. So this
is the way, is it?"
"Yes, ma'am. Keep in the path, and you won't get into any of the soft
places."
"Thank you, my dear. Good-night."
As Kit bent over the spring to dip a cup of water for herself, she saw
something red and golden lying under the great tuft of lady-fern which
partly overhung the water. She picked it up. It was a beautifully bound
little book, bearing marks of a great deal of careful wear. And on
opening it, Kit saw that it was a New Testament.
Her heart gave a great bound at the sight. She had been asking for a
Testament before she went to sleep, and here it was. Then came another
thought. One of the young ladies must have dropped it. Kit could read
writing. She turned to the fly-leaf, and read, written in a clear
though somewhat tremulous hand,—
"Amity, with mother's love, on her tenth birthday."
Underneath was written, in another hand,—
"The very day my dear mother died."
"It is that plain young lady's, the one they say is so rich," thought
Kit. "Well, she can buy plenty more, and I haven't any. But then she
must think every thing of it, because her mother gave it to her. Oh,
dear! I wish I knew what to do. It does seem as though I ought to have
it."
Just then something seemed to whisper in Kit's ear a verse she had read
in her own Testament only the day before,—"Whatsoever ye would that men
should do to you, do ye even so to them."
"'He' said that," said Kit, speaking aloud. "Suppose I had a Testament
that mother gave me, and I should lose it, and some one should find it."
Kit did not hesitate another moment. She ran down the hill as fast as
she could, and overtook the young ladies just at their own gate.
"Why, here is our little friend again," said Amity. "My dear child, how
you have put yourself out of breath!!"
"Isn't this yours?" asked Kit, producing the book. "I found it down by
the spring."
"It is, indeed!" replied Amity. "My dear child, how can I thank you
enough? I would rather have lost almost any thing else that I possess."
"I thought you would be sorry to lose it, because it had your mother's
writing in it," said Kit, feeling very happy as Amity kissed her. "I
know, if I had a Testament that my mother gave me, how much I would
think of it. But I must hurry home."
"Wait a minute," said Amity. "Kitty, I want to give you something, not
as a reward, but as a keepsake. What shall it be?"
Kit's carnation cheeks grew more beautiful than ever, between eagerness
and bashfulness.
"If it wouldn't be impudent to ask, if you had a little old Testament
you could give me," she said.
"Would you rather have a little one than a large one?" asked Amity.
"Yes, because I could hide it easier."
"Wait just a moment," said Amity. "So she has to hide her Testament,"
she remarked to Ida as they went into the house.
"They are a dreadfully hard family, from all I hear," answered Ida.
"One of aunt Barbara's soft-covered Testaments will be just the thing
for her."
Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt was sitting by the parlor window, hemming a
napkin with an exquisite overhand hem. She was almost always hemming
napkins when she was not buying them or packing them in neat parcels
to send away, and she had brought abundance of her favorite fancy-work
with her to the country.
"You are late," said she as the girls entered. "I began to think you
were lost."
"So we were," said Ida; "and I don't know where we should have landed,
only for a little girl such an odd, lovely child!—whom we found asleep
on the hill-top."
"And, aunt Barbara, will you give me one of your nice Testaments for
her?" added Amity. "She says she would rather have a little Testament
than any thing; but it must be a small one, because she has to hide it."
Aunt Barbara rose with alacrity. "Poor child, how sad! Yes, I have just
the thing for her. In that cupboard by the fireplace, Amity. No, not
that; the one with soft covers. Where is the child?"
"Out by the door," answered Amity. "She says she dare not come in. Do
come and look at her, aunt Barbara, and tell us who she is like."
"So you are the little girl who would rather have a Testament than any
thing," said Mrs. Van Zandt in those peculiar deep, soft tones of hers.
"Well, here is a nice one for you. Look up, my dear."
"Who is she like, aunt?" asked Ida. "I can't think, and I am sure I
have seen that face before."
"Do you remember the picture which hangs in my sewing-room at home?"
asked Mrs. Van Zandt. "She is the living image of my poor lost Kathleen
Joyce."
"Please, ma'am, would you say that name again?" asked Kit, trembling
with eagerness.
"Kathleen Joyce," repeated Mrs. Van Zandt. "Did you ever hear the name
before?"
"That was my name! That was it!" exclaimed Kit exultingly. "Kathleen,
that is it! I knew it was not Keturah, I knew it wasn't."
"Kathleen? Kathleen what?" asked Mrs. Van Zandt as eagerly as herself.
"I don't know. I mustn't stay another minute," said Kit in a tone of
alarm as the clock struck. "I forgot uncle Phin told me never to come
here."
"Don't keep her, Mrs. Van Zandt," said Aggy, an elderly colored woman
who had taken care of the house for years, speaking in an undertone.
"He is an awful man, and there is no telling what he might do."
"Well, good-night, dear child. Perhaps we shall meet again. I must see
her somehow," added Mrs. Van Zandt, looking after Kit as she hurried
away. "If she is not Kathleen Joyce's child, there is nothing in
resemblances."
"And she said her name was Kathleen," observed Ida. "How strange!"
"I wonder if this man is really her uncle," said Amity.
"Melissa Mallory says not," replied Aggy. "She says her father took Kit
from the poorhouse, but there is no telling any thing by that.—Miss
Ida, do come in out of the dew, and let your aunt get her tea. She'll
be having one of her headaches again, and your hand will be paining you
all night."
"Kathleen, Kathleen," repeated Mrs. Van Zandt as she sat down to the
table. "I must contrive to see that child again."