LOOKING BACK.
MRS. MURCHISON'S STORY.
My boy, Miles, seems to have come to a stop in his writing, and he
says I'm to add something here. If I do, the first thing I'm likely
to put down is, how thankful I am to have such children as mine!
I don't think I am what is called "fond and foolish" about my
children. That is to say, I don't think mine is a blind love,
able only to see good in them, and able to see nothing that is wrong.
The best and highest kind of love isn't a blind love—at least,
I should think not.
Miles has his faults, like other boys; and one fault shows pretty
clearly in this bit of our story which he has written. I mean, he has
the fault of thinking too much about himself. There is a lot about
"I—I," and "what I have done, and what I think," and "what people
think of me," and that's a pity always. The more we think about
ourselves, the less leisure we have to think about other people.
I wonder whether anybody reading my part of the story—I mean the part
I wrote myself —would perhaps say the same of me! I never thought of
that before; but things look so different from outside and inside,
and it may be so.
Well, anyhow, as I say, I'm not blind to my children's faults, and I'm
not blind to this fault of Miles'. But, all the same, I am thankful
to have my boy what he is. For I know that he is honest and
straightforward and true: that he is hardworking, and diligent,
and ready to do a kindness to anybody. And I know that Mr. Laurence
thinks a lot of my boy. He told Mrs. Kingscote the other day, that he
"would trust Miles with anything." That was nice for a mother to hear,
wasn't it?
As for my other children, Louey and Rosie, they are both as good and
affectionate as I could wish. Louey is more and more of a help to me
in the house, and Rosie bids fair to follow in her steps.
And my other little one—my sweet Bessie—it is all well with her,
I know, though a veil has come between, and I cannot see or touch her
more. Yet often I feel that she is even nearer to me than my dear ones
who seem so near; for the veil between is very thin, and she and I are
both in Christ's keeping. And oh, how safe she is? For the three elder
ones I am often anxious, picturing their future in this life, and
possible dangers and temptations. But for Bessie, all anxiety is over!
she is beyond danger and beyond temptation. If I could have her back
again, would I? Ah, that would be a hard question to answer, if put
to me! Hard to say "No," and yet how grieved she would be to have to
come! It would be like going from the Queen's palace to live in some
dark cellar. Oh no! I love her too well to wish it really, even while
nothing can ever fill that blank in my life.
Sometimes I think my husband was struck down too, that I might have
the more to fill my time and thoughts during the months following.
For a long while he improved so slowly, it could hardly be called
getting on at all; and though the doctor spoke of a measure of
recovery, I knew he never could be a strong man again. We didn't dare
at first to hope that he would ever get back his walking-power. And
though things were better than we feared, and he did in time gain
strength to move slowly with a stick, yet he has always been something
of an invalid, needing a lot of care, and not able to do much in the
way of work.
The lodging-house plan was a success. From the time we first began,
I never knew for the next three years what it was to have empty rooms
in spring, or summer, or autumn; and we were able to lay by for winter
months. Miles too earned more, and he brought all his earnings to me.
It is wonderful how, one way and another, we were helped.
But isn't that the way? If trouble comes, and we put our trust in God,
isn't help sure?
I don't mean just a careless indifferent sort of confidence that
things will get right somehow, but a real living trust in the Fatherly
love of God, and in the willingness of Christ our Lord always to hear
when we pray, and to do for us what we really need. That can never be
in vain. The help mayn't come exactly as we should choose; but one way
or another it will come.
THE END.
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
Edinburgh and London