mother's face, she would have read the maternal longing even through
that unnatural coldness; for all the while Margaret thought to herself:
"I would give worlds to clasp my child to my bosom as other mothers
fold their little children in their arms; but I will never love aught
again, lest it should be taken from me. I will not be wounded through
my child as I was by the loss of her father."
Poor, vain, rebellious soul! To think that its puny strength could
successfully contend against Him who holds the winds in the hollow of
His hand, and to whom we poor sinful creatures are but as the clay
which the Potter fashioneth as he will. So, at home, Effie was ruled
less by the law of love than by that of fear, and she became accustomed
to hush the merry laugh and check the bounding step when she reached
the little gate at the entrance of the garden amid which stood her
pretty home.
One Saturday afternoon, two women, next-door neighbours, having seen
little Effie pass an hour before, ceased their household work to make
remarks about the mother and daughter.
"How grave Effie looks," began Mrs. Brown, leaning the while upon the
sweeping-brush she had been busily plying the minute before. "Poor
thing! I declare she is beginning to look like a little old woman."
"And well she may," replied Mrs. Green, "only think what a dull time
she has at home. If she had no more cheerful company than her mother,
she would be fairly moped to death."
"Ay, Mrs. Henderson has grieved sorely for her husband. Nobody has ever
seen her shed a tear, but I believe she never will forget him. Dear,
dear me! Who, to look at her now, would think she was the laughing lass
that Frank Henderson was so delighted to bring to Deerhurst."
"To be sure, she is changed, and no doubt she has mourned terribly; but
still I can't think it is right to be so hard and cold with poor little
Effie. I call it both sinful and selfish to nurse one's grief until it
makes others miserable."
"Come, come, neighbour," said Mrs. Brown; "we must remember what the
Bible says about judging. It isn't easy to see the thoughts of another
person's heart, and I am sure Mrs. Henderson never neglects anything to
make Effie comfortable. There is not a child in the place that wears
such beautiful clothes and goes so neat as that little thing does."
"Well, to be sure, the Bible says, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged,'
and I don't mean to say for a moment that Mrs. Henderson means to be
unkind to the poor child. Still, one can't help having some idea of a
person's heart if one sees their actions. Now, do you think a child
cares half so much for fine clothes as for loving words and kind looks?
Why, if my little lass were not allowed to run and throw her arms round
her father's neck and mine, and tell us all her little pleasures or
troubles, she would wonder what was going to happen. Depend on it, you
must treat children just like little friends, if you want them to grow
up honest, truthful, and loving."
"I don't think Mrs. Henderson understands much about a child's ways,
or cares for poor Effie's pleasures or troubles. It does seem strange,
too, for she is so like him that's gone. I would look at her till I
fancied I saw poor Frank Henderson himself."
"It just comes to this, though," replied Mrs. Green, "that Mrs.
Henderson seems to want to make an old woman of Effie, and never
remembers or sits down to think a bit about what she liked when she was
a child herself. I have a great idea of duty to parents; but I consider
I owe a duty to my children; and that if I would have them care for
the things I care for, I must show that I feel for all their little
troubles, and am glad when they are happy."
At this moment, a gentle and pleasant-looking lady came in sight. It
was Mrs. Elwood, the wife of the Deerhurst doctor; and the two gossips
suddenly recollected not only that the household business was at a
stand-still, but that they were "not fit to be seen;" so they vanished
indoors and resumed the labours which their chat had interrupted.
It was a common thing for Mrs. Elwood to ask little Effie Henderson to
spend the Saturday half-holiday with her own children, and she was now
going with the intention of taking her back. But, when she arrived,
the widow's face had a flushed and angry look, as she opened the door
for her visitor; and Mrs. Elwood began to fear for the success of her
mission, when she saw Effie's hands clasped in a supplicating attitude,
while the tears streamed down her cheeks.
A table was strewed with a curious collection of odds and ends, such
as would provoke a smile in a grown-up person, but which in a child's
eyes are priceless treasures. There were shreds of silk and velvet; a
little half-dressed doll, whose other garments were close at hand; a
few beads; a ring or two, which had been manufactured by Effie's little
fingers from the same stock, and deemed by their owner as good as
diamonds; her doll's necklace; some pictures profusely coloured in red,
blue, and yellow, together with all those miscellaneous bits of rubbish
which every mother has smiled at, when she turned out her little girl's
pocket after the young ones had gone to bed.
Mrs. Henderson placed her visitor a chair, and while making a remark
about the weather, gave a reproving glance at Effie, and then with a
quick motion of her hand threw the whole queer little collection to the
back of the fire. Poor Effie durst not speak; but she sobbed bitterly,
and followed her mother's movements with sorrowful and longing eyes.
Mrs. Elwood felt uncomfortable; but, hoping to act as a peace-maker,
said: "I trust my little friend has not been guilty of any serious
fault, for I have come on propose to take her home with me, if you can
spare her. I dare say my two little daughters are eagerly watching and
listening for our footsteps, and thinking every minute an hour until
mamma returns with Effie."
"I am sorry to disappoint them, Mrs. Elwood," replied the widow; "but I
cannot let Effie accept your kind invitation to-day. I am going to send
her to bed, to keep her out of mischief. I told her I should before
you came, and I cannot break my word, though I dare say she thought it
would be all right when she saw you. You can go, Effie," she continued,
pointing towards the staircase as she spoke. "Say 'good-afternoon' to
Mrs. Elwood."
The child placed her trembling hand in that of her friend, and in a low
voice, interrupted by sobs, thanked her for coming to ask her to tea.
Mrs. Elwood pressed her kind motherly lips to the little wet cheek, and
said she hoped Effie would be able to go another day, but she must not
say anything just at present, as Mrs. Henderson was displeased.
"I hope," said Mrs. Elwood, when Effie was out of hearing, "that my
little friend has committed no serious fault."
"Quite enough to deserve punishment," was the reply. "She fills her
pockets with all sorts of rubbish, and I am continually picking up some
of her trumpery about the house. I have told her before I would burn
all I might find, so to-day I made her gather up every bit, and I have
taken care they will not be strewn here and there again."
"But, my dear Mrs. Henderson, excuse my asking, had Effie a proper
place in which to put her little treasures?"
Mrs. Henderson seemed half-amused, half-scornful, at the very idea of
such a thing. "No, indeed," she replied; "I do not set aside a place
for mere rubbish. Effie must learn to do without such trash as that I
have burned."
"She will in time, let us hope; but all those shreds of silk, and odds
and ends, which are valueless to you and me, are very precious in the
eyes of a little girl. I can assure you my two children have just such
collections, but so far from destroying them, I am constantly applied
to for additional scraps to eke out their treasures. Of course I insist
on their being put away when done with; but the children have no excuse
for untidiness, because each has a drawer for her property. I presume
Effie's fault has been that of making your beautiful home look untidy
by strewing it with her odds and ends?"
Airs. Henderson made a gesture of assent. She had felt annoyed that
Mrs. Elwood should interfere even in such a gentle manner, and now,
though somewhat mollified by the deserved compliment paid her by the
lady, she did not regret when the visitor rose to take her leave.
There were sorrowful faces at home when Mrs. Elwood reached it, and
even the kind doctor's good-humoured countenance was overclouded when
he asked in vain for little pet Effie.
"It seems strange," said he, when his wife told him the cause of the
child's absence, "that so few people have patience and love enough to
deal with children. But poor Margaret Henderson is like many others;
she cannot forgive Him who has seen fit to afflict her; and because He
has taken away one blessing, she flings the rest after it, and will
have none. What froward children we are in the sight of our heavenly
Father."
Mrs. Henderson's cottage looked beautiful indeed that evening, but the
heart of its mistress was not at rest. She could see nothing but the
little sorrowful figure, with clasped hands and streaming eyes; and
that look, so like the dead father that she almost fancied she heard
his voice pleading that she would love their child, and be very tender
with her for his sake.
Conscience was busy with Margaret. It brought before her the many
blessings she had slighted because one was taken away, her own
unthankfulness of heart, her unloving ways with those about her.
Visions, too, of her own bright childhood filled the heart of the
lonely woman, and she contrasted it with Effie's, such as she had made
it. Her own had been all love from the first day that she, the youngest
lamb of the fold, could remember, to that on which, with a father's
blessing ringing in her ears, she had left her childhood's home for
the far distant roof of her sailor-husband. All her own coldness and
unkindness, the many times she had cast off the little clinging arms,
and turned her cheek away from the proffered kiss, the harsh words of
reproof which the slightest fault had been sufficient to call forth
upon her child, and the difference between Effie's home and out-door
looks, rose plainly before her.
And then, as she sat with the fire-light shining upon her pretty room,
she became sensible of the value of her comforts, as she had never been
before. God's long-suffering and goodness, too, were made apparent, and
the words, "Shall I receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall
I not receive evil?" came into her mind. "He has taken away ONE good
gift," she murmured; "oh, Frank! But He has left me all beside, and I
have thanked Him for nothing. Yet, instead of wishing, as I have often
done, that I had never owned the lost blessing, ought I not rather
to thank God that I have so sweet a memory of my short married life,
unmarred by the recollection of one unloving word?"
At this moment a little scene, witnessed years before, was vividly
recalled to the widow's mind. It had chanced that she had been
entrusted with the care of a much-spoiled child, when she was quite a
girl; and the little urchin being denied the possession of a watch, had
refused all the toys suitable to his age, which had been provided in
abundance. She recalled to mind how he had dashed aside the proffered
playthings, and even stamped upon them with his little feet, refusing
all her efforts to make him happy because the one thing was withheld.
"I have been like that child for all these long years," said Margaret
to herself, and the thought brought her upon her knees.
Kind Mrs. Elwood would have been rejoiced could she have seen how God
was answering the prayer which she, in the quiet of her chamber, was
offering for her friend, that she might receive light from above, and
that the eyes which were blind to His goodness might be opened, the
cold heart warmed by Divine grace, and the orphan child made happy in a
mother's love and sympathy.
Truly God's ways are not as our ways. During that lonely hour by her
still fireside, the dim twilight shutting out the external world,
Margaret Henderson was taught the lesson which for more than eight long
years she had been refusing to learn. When she rose from her knees,
it was with an humble desire to place herself in God's hands, and a
resolution to prove herself thankful for past and present mercies.
Naturally her first thought was of Effie, and of the lack of maternal
love which was due to the little one. She felt that she had often been
too harsh; but here arose her first difficulty. It was comparatively
easy to acknowledge her errors to God; but how change her conduct to
the little one without at least owning that hitherto she, and not
Effie, had been to blame for the gloom in their home and the cloud on
the child's brow.
With a new-born perception of the value of her little daughter's love,
Margaret Henderson felt a jealous dread of doing anything which might
lower her in Effie's eyes, and she therefore hesitated for some time
before she even determined on stealing quietly to the room to which the
child had been banished. She took no light in her hand; and when she
stood by the bed, nothing but the feeble ray from the new moon showed
the couch in dim outline, though she could not see the child.
There was no movement when she reached the bedside, and she was about
to steal softly away, feeling relieved at the thought that Effie had
forgotten her troubles in sleep, and resolving that, by God's blessing,
a new life should begin with the awaking. But first she bent to kiss
the little sleeper, and she was startled at the clammy coldness of the
cheek. She listened; she could not hear Effie breathe.
Then she gave utterance to an exceeding bitter cry. "She is dead; my
child, my darling!" For there, in the almost entire darkness, the
conviction rushed on her mind that, to punish her rebellious and
unthankful spirit, she had been permitted to become sensible of her
blessings, only that she might lose the greatest and most precious of
the many that were left to her. Who can describe the agony of that
moment? The mother believing the child dead, from whom she had parted
in anger, unreasonable anger, a few hours before!
Oh, the terrible torrent of remorse that passed through the widow's
mind, while, with trembling steps, she hurried to find a light, and
then returned to look on what she believed to be Effie's corpse. And
oh, what joy to see one blue eye unclose, and then to hear a faint
sigh! To know that she was spared a terrible trial, and a life-time of
bitter self-upbraidings!
The real truth was that Effie had swooned from the effects of fright.
She had lain awake all those long hours, feeling sad and miserable,
weary of solitude, and compelled still to bear it until sleep should
bring forgetfulness. At length the dim rays of the young moon had just
sufficed to show a dark figure stealing noiselessly towards her bed.
Her mother never came thus, she thought; and dreading some evil, the
poor child became senseless from very terror, her over-wrought nerves
being unable to withstand its effects.
When little Effie recovered her senses, she could scarcely think they
told her truly, for she was resting in her mother's arms; warm tears
were falling on her cheeks, and endearing words sounding in her ears.
It was the beginning of a new life of love and confidence between the
mother and her child, and Effie had in the end little cause to regret
her sorrowful Saturday afternoon, and her terror at sight of the dark
figure stealing towards her bed in the dim moonlight.
To Mrs. Elwood, the widow confided the experiences of that still
evening hour, when visions of unheeded mercy rose one after another
to her mental vision, "How wonderfully God deals with us," said she.
"Little did I think, when you came to ask my poor Effie to be your
guest, and found her in trouble about a few baby treasures, that the
words you then spoke would raise such a train of thought, and be, by
God's blessing, the means of opening my eyes to my unthankfulness.
"Yes," continued Mrs. Henderson; "I can now say the words I never
thought I should school my heart into agreeing with: 'The Lord gave,
and the Lord hath taken away; and blessed be the name of the Lord;'
yea, doubly blessed for all He still leaves me. May I be taught daily
to own His goodness and my own unworthiness, and, while thanking Him
for every gift, still own that I and all I have are in the Lord's
hands, 'Let Him do what seemeth Him good,' both with me and mine."
London: Pardon and Sons, Printers, Paternoster Row.
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