FLORA'S FIRST SUNDAY.
Breakfast over, and the dishes cleared away, Flora looked about,
wondering what else there was for her to do. Her father was reading a
paper, and the boys had gone away. She went to the window where Lottie's
potato stood in its jar. The sight of it carried her thoughts back so
vividly to the old days, that she half resolved to look at it no more.
She felt dull and spiritless to-day; it was no wonder, for there was
little to make her feel otherwise. At Aunt Bertha's, every one had been
accustomed to attend church, and Flora remained to Sunday-school. She
had been converted and received into the church about a year before her
aunt's death. Her sudden sorrow, her hasty trip from Brinton, and her
unfamiliar surroundings in her new home, caused her to feel as if she
had been removed to a heathen land.
None of the Hazeley household attended church, and Flora knew of no
place to which she could go, for all was so new and strange to her, and
being somewhat timid, she would not go alone.
Still standing at the window, and looking drearily out on the quiet
street, she saw Ruth and little Jem passing, on their way to church.
When they saw Flora they stopped, and she, glad to see a friendly face,
hastened to open the door.
"Would you not like to come with us to church, this morning?" asked
Ruth.
"Indeed I should," replied Flora. "I was just wondering what I was going
to do with myself to day. Wait a minute; I will be ready in a very short
time."
As good as her word, she was soon ready. "I am so glad that you stopped
for me, Ruth," said she, as they walked along. "I know nothing about the
churches here, and no one goes from our house."
"That is too bad," returned Ruth, sympathizingly.
Flora was indeed glad that she had come when, as they ascended the
church steps, she heard the deep tones of the organ pealing out a
welcome to all who entered. As they walked up the aisle, it seemed as if
the sweet notes of the music twined around them, as though enfolding
them in a loving embrace. A feeling of quiet content filled the heart
of the young girl, and for a time the realities were forgotten in the
soothing sense of rest that stole over her. Nor did she attempt to
arouse herself until the opening services were ended, and the minister
arose to announce his text.
In clear, distinct tones he read: "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do
it with thy might." Twice he slowly read the words, until Flora thought
he surely must have pressed them right into her brain, for she felt that
they were indelibly imprinted on her memory. Whether the sermon was
intended especially for young people, or not, she did not know, but she
felt that it was peculiarly adapted to herself. I have no doubt that the
older folks felt the same with regard to themselves. It was one of those
texts and sermons that suit everybody.
"I wonder how many of my hearers can say truthfully that they have done
with their might 'whatsoever' their hands found to do," said the
minister, looking, as Flora thought, directly at her.
She dropped her eyes uneasily to the floor, and mentally admitted, "I,
for one, have not, unless it was to grumble and fret with all my might.
I have done that, but nothing else, at least since I came home."
"I am sure you cannot say that your hand has found nothing to do. You
can perhaps say that your hand has not found what you wished it to do;
but that is not what the words of the text teach. It says '_whatsoever_
thy hand finds to do.' Then too, it is to be done 'with thy might'; not
half-heartedly."
"Oh," commented Flora to herself, "why _should_ he talk so straight at
me? If he is not describing Flora Hazeley, I am mistaken."
"Did you ever notice," the minister continued, "that when you did a
thing heartily, even though it was not the most agreeable occupation to
you, it became more easy and pleasant to you?"
Flora thought of the little help she had voluntarily given her mother
the previous evening, and again inwardly agreed with the speaker. The
minister said a great many things that morning, some of which had never
entered Flora's mind, and they made her very thoughtful; so thoughtful
that she paid but little attention to the strains of the organ that
accompanied her out of the church. She remembered he had spoken of many
kinds of work the hands might find to do, and which were to be done
faithfully and heartily. Perhaps it would be church work; perhaps
professional work; perhaps mechanical work; and perhaps house-work and
home-work. The last two, he thought, ought to go together, as neither
could do very well without the other, although each differed in
character. "House-work," he said, "as all knew, was sweeping, dusting,
cooking, and the other duties connected with caring for the house; but
home-work was the making and keeping a home; helping those in it to be
contented and happy; brightening and making it cheery by both word and
deed; shedding a healthful and inspiring influence, so that those around
us may be the better for our presence."
"According to that, we _all_ have a 'whatsoever,'" said Flora,
emphatically to herself; "and the sooner I decide to start on my own
part, the better it will be for me."
With her mind busy with many things, Flora was very quiet on her way
home. The sermon to which they had listened was plain and practical. It
was not brilliant, but it was helpful. The ideas were not necessarily
new, but the words fell upon at least one heart already prepared and
softened by circumstances to receive and profit by them. To Flora they
were seed, falling upon the prepared ground of her heart, and in due
time the fruit came forth. Most of the suggestions were new to her, for
never before had she viewed them in this particular light.
Ruth respected her friend's silence, for she saw that she was busy with
her thoughts, and guessing something of what they were, she was also
quiet. Jem was unaffected by the silence of her elders. She walked along
at Ruth's side, with her hand closely holding her sister's. Her happy
life caused her every now and then to lapse from her dignified walk, and
give a little jump and a skip. A continual volley of questions was
thrown at Ruth, whose replies were not always as obvious as occasion
demanded.
Jem's quick retort, "No, it isn't, Ruth," brought her to a realization
of her abstractedness, and she resolved to be more attentive.
They left Flora at her door, Ruth asking if she had enjoyed the service,
and added:
"Will you not come to Sunday-school with us this afternoon?"
"I did enjoy the sermon very much," Flora replied, "and I shall be
pleased to go to Sunday-school. If you will call for me, Ruth, I will be
ready when you come."
A number of things grew out of Flora's experience on this Sunday. Its
influence stayed with her, and had no small part in shaping her future
life. She soon became an earnest worker to make the world better for her
living in it; striving patiently and faithfully to render her daily life
a power for good to those around her. How she succeeded our story will
tell. Last, but not least, a strong affection sprang up between Ruth and
herself, which proved a blessing to both.
Ruth taught a class in the Sunday-school, and persuaded Flora to consent
to take one also, if the necessity arose. She introduced her to the
superintendent, who welcomed her cordially to the little band of
Christian toilers.
"One class is in need of a teacher," he said; "will you not take it? It
is composed of girls from ten to twelve years of age."
"Oh, I should not dare to undertake a class of girls so old!" exclaimed
Flora. "I am too young myself. Give me little girls, such as Ruth has."
"But," said Mr. Gardiner, "there is no such class in need of a teacher.
Besides, it is not the age that has to do with your success as a
teacher; it is the earnestness, perseverance, patience, and true piety
which you bring to the work that will bring forth the results you
desire."
"I am so inexperienced," murmured Flora.
"Neither has that anything to do with the matter," contended the
gentleman, smiling. "Experience will come, all in good time," he added.
"Well," said Flora, "I will do my best."
"That is right," answered Mr. Gardiner, heartily. He felt sure that the
young girl before him would succeed, for energy, conscientiousness, and
determination could be read plainly in her bearing, and these, he knew,
were characteristics of a successful teacher. He was glad, therefore, he
had persuaded her.
Ruth, also, was pleased, for now her friend would be also a co-worker.
Flora felt sad when she thought that her family were the only ones of
those who knew her who were entirely indifferent as to what she did or
where she went.
"Only think, Ruth," she said to her friend, "it doesn't matter to them,
whether I go wrong or right. What encouragement is there for a girl in
my place to try to do right?"
"It does seem hard, dear," the gentle friend replied; "but then you will
shine out all the brighter in the end for doing right in the face of
discouragements; and God cares, you know."
They were at the gate, and bidding Ruth good-bye, Flora slowly went up
the path to the house, her brain very active with new thoughts and
purposes.
"Yes, God will help me, if I ask him," said Flora, softly, as she went
to her room, and after doffing her hat and jacket, she knelt beside her
bed, and asked the dear Lord to bless and strengthen her in her new
surroundings, and let her life tell for him.