DORRIE'S AMBITION.
You think that the progress in the Morgan family has been unusual;
that the fruit has been more than the earnest Christian has a right to
expect? Have you ever tried it—ever given one year of patient endeavour
and constant prayer to the work which lay all around you? If not, how
can you possibly know what the results of such a year might be?
I do not say that Louise Morgan had faith equal even to a grain of
mustard seed; if she had, she would have seen greater mountains
than these removed. I have told you frequently of her discouraged
questioning, "Why?" but such faith as she had the Lord honoured, and as
much real prayer as she was able to send up into the golden vials he
kept before him.
I desire you to distinctly understand that from the hour when Mrs.
Morgan kneeled before the little rocker in Louise's room and gave
herself unconditionally to God she was a different woman. I am not
in sympathy with those who say that conversion makes no radical
change in character; that a person who is selfish or passionate or
penurious before conversion is selfish or passionate or penurious after
conversion in the same degree. Conversion is change of heart; and a
heart given up to the reign of Christ, the supreme desire being to
please him, will, at the outset, be a very different heart from one
that was given up to the reign of self.
Mrs. Morgan's changed heart showed in her life; showed promptly and
decisively. On that very next evening, after tea, with Nellie among
the pillows in the rocking-chair that had been brought from Louise's
room for her use, the mother said: "Now, Lewis, I have made up my mind
that I want family prayers in this house after this, and on Nellie's
account we will have them right after tea, if it is just as well for
you.—Dorothy, get mother's Bible. Sing a hymn, if you like, before
reading. I like singing, if I can't help; and your father used to be
a good singer when he was young." Farmer Morgan made no remark upon
this change in the family arrangements. If he was surprised, he gave no
sign. It is probable that she had been talking with him about it—his
wife was a straightforward woman—but Lewis's voice was very unsteady as
he commenced the solemn hymn:—
"Now I resolve with all my heart,
With all my powers, to serve the Lord."
It seemed to him almost too wonderful and blessed a thing to be true,
that those words should actually embody the resolve of his mother's
heart! Besides, he had another reason for unsteadiness of voice: in his
heart was an absorbing desire to have his father understand and adopt
that language. I have not had a chance to say much about Lewis Morgan
during these latter days; but I can give you the history of his life in
brief. He had reached that point where the history of each day was in
the morning, "Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" and in the evening a
note of triumph,—
"How sweet the work has been!
'Tis joy, not duty,
To speak this beauty:
My soul mounts on the wing!"
And then the consecration,—
"Lord, if I may,
I'll serve another day."
And when a Christian reaches such a plane as that, it is what a blessed
saint of God describes as "the graded road."
How I would like to linger over those autumn days, to tell how rich
they were; what a spirit pervaded the home that had never been there
before; how mother and daughters drew together; how they established
one afternoon a little female prayer-meeting, where mother, and Louise,
and Dorothy, and little Nellie prayed in turn for John, such prayer
as reached after him and drew him steadily though he knew it not; how
in that meeting they prayed constantly, persistently, with a measure
of faith, for the head of the household, and watched eagerly for sign
of life in his still soul, but as yet saw none; how they enjoyed the
rides to church, and to prayer-meeting on Wednesday evening; how Mother
Morgan, who had never been used to going anywhere of an evening,
astonished them all by making ready as a matter of course, answering
Dorothy's wondering look by the sentence: "Of course I am going,
child; I need all the help I can get." All these, and so many more
experiences, I would like to give you in detail; but time will not wait
for me—the days fly past.
They bring us to a certain evening, cold without, but very pleasant
upstairs in Louise's room, whore Dorothy was lingering with her brother
and sister, having a confidential chat, as she was now so fond of
doing. They had grown to be wonderfully in sympathy, these three.
"Dorrie," Lewis said, "what do you think about a district
prayer-meeting this winter? Don't you believe we could sustain one?"
Dorrie flashed a pair of glad eyes on her brother.
"Of course we could; there are enough in our family to sustain it, with
Carey Martyn's help. Isn't Carey splendid, Lewis?" Dorothy sometimes
said this, or something equivalent, several times in a day. "Where
could we have one? At the school-house? How could we warm it? Could we
furnish wood, do you think? Of course we could, if father would think
so, and I guess he would."
Lewis laughed. "You take my breath away," he said pleasantly, and then
the three laughed into eager talk about the district prayer-meeting.
From that they went on to individual effort and individual cases.
"What about the Graham girls?" Lewis asked.
"Well, the Graham girls are progressing steadily. I'm wonderfully
interested in Delia.—Have you talked with Delia, Louise? Don't you
think she is an unusual girl?"
Then Lewis laughed again.
"You think each one of those girls is unusual, don't you, Dorrie? I
think I have heard you make a similar remark of half-a-dozen of them."
"Well, they are remarkable, every one of them, to me. I didn't know
they were such girls. They are getting on nicely with their grammar,
those Graham girls are, and are so interested in it. Mr. Butler thinks
they would have been fair scholars if they had had a chance."
"You would make a good teacher, Dorrie," Lewis said, his mind evidently
more on Dorrie than on the girls of whom she was talking.
Cheeks as well as eyes glowed now.
"Do you think so, Lewis—do you honestly think so? I would like it so
much. Since I commenced studying this last time I have thought about
it a good deal. At first I thought I could not prepare myself without
going away from home, but that was before I knew what a wonderful
teacher I had at home." This last sentence with a loving glance toward
Louise, and a caressing movement of her hand over the fair hair. At
that moment the clang of the old-fashioned knocker sounded through the
house. Dorrie arose promptly.
"I suppose that is Mr. Butler," she said, stopping a moment before
the glass to arrange her hair. "He was to come in this evening to
see about the German class. Shall I speak to him about the district
prayer-meeting? or you will come down presently, will you not?"
To this they assented, looking after her as she went from the room with
quick, eager tread.
"Speaking of changes," Lewis said, "how wonderfully that girl has
changed! I don't think I ever saw anything like it before. Don't you
think she develops very rapidly?"
"It is steady growth," Louise said. "But I am not sure that there is so
much actual change in her as there is development. She evidently had
plenty of energy always, but it was slumbering; she did not know what
to do with it. I think she was in the apathy of disappointment when we
first came home."
"She is certainly a remarkable girl," Lewis said, "and I never knew
it. I believed her to be more than ordinarily commonplace. Now it
seems to me that the influence she has gained over the young people
in a short time is really wonderful. I'm glad she has an ambition to
become a teacher. I believe she will be a good one. Louise, don't you
think Mr. Butler will be helpful to her in the matter of perfecting her
education?"
"I think he has been helpful in many ways, and will be," Louise said,
with smiling eyes.
Downstairs in the kitchen Mrs. Morgan sat before the table, certain
unused implements before her—namely, pen and ink and paper. She had
resolved to spend this evening in writing to John; not that she knew
where John was, only that she imagined that the great city, such a
little distance away, probably held him. She knew no address; she had
simply decided to send the message out, addressed to John Morgan, in
the forlorn hope that the chances of life might put it in his way.
True, it was extremely doubtful, but then what if it should happen! And
the mother's heart within her thrilled at the thought, and she bent
over the paper and carefully commenced her letter; she had wonderful
things to tell John!
Farmer Morgan dozed in his chair behind the stove. He opened his eyes
when the knocker clanged, and kept awake long enough to discover that
Dorothy appeared to answer it, then dozed off again.
"It is Mr. Butler," Dorothy said, appearing again to exchange the
candle for the lamp, which now belonged to the front room. "Louise and
Lewis will be down pretty soon. Will you come in, mother?"
"Not to-night; I am very busy."
Then the writing and the sleeping went on, Dorothy returning to the
brightness of the front room. Writing was slow and laborious work
to Mrs. Morgan; besides, this was an unusual letter, upon a subject
entirely new to her; she wanted to choose her words with special care.
Farmer Morgan, enjoying his many naps in the cozy corner, was unmindful
of the flight of time. Lewis and Louise in their room, enjoying the
delights of a quiet hour together, roused presently to the fact that
they were expected downstairs.
"That couldn't have been Mr. Butler," Lewis said, glancing up at the
clock. "Dorrie would have been after us before this time if it had."
"Perhaps they are busy over their German," Louise made answer. "But we
ought to go down, Lewis; father must be tired of waiting. Mr. Butler is
probably gone before this; I did not know it was so late."
But in the kitchen the writing and the dozing were still going on.
Mother Morgan, flushed with her unusual exercise, looked up as the
husband and wife entered.
"Where is Dorrie?" Lewis asked, speaking low, so as not to disturb his
father.
"She is in the front room with Mr. Butler," the mother said. "Mr.
Butler came in a few minutes ago; Dorothy said you were coming down to
see him."
"A few minutes ago!"
Lewis and Louise exchanged glances of puzzled surprise. It was an hour
and a half by the clock since they had been expected in the parlour,
and it was an hour past the usual bed-time. But the slow-moving pen
moved on, and so Lewis turned the knob of the parlour door. The two
occupants of the room were standing near the large, old-fashioned
fireplace, engaged in earnest conversation, the glow of lights and
shadows in the room revealing, on Dorothy's part, a flushed face and
shining eyes, and on the minister's an attitude that arrested Lewis's
steps, and caused an exclamation to escape his lips even before he was
aware; for he held in his two hands Dorothy's own, and the light in his
eyes and the flush on Dorothy's cheeks were not caused by the play of
the fire-light.
"Come in," he said, turning suddenly at the sound of the opening door,
but in no other way altering his position: "Dorothy and I were just
speaking of you, wishing for you; we want to ask your advice. I want
Mr. and Mrs. Morgan to give me a present. I incline to the opinion that
I had better ask for it to-night, but Dorothy counsels waiting until
to-morrow; what say you?"
"Dorothy!" said her brother, and he could not himself tell whether his
tone meant surprise, or doubt, or what. "I don't understand!"
And the red glow that instantly overspread Dorothy's face told that her
old feelings of embarrassment were taking rapid possession of her; she
could not explain.
"It is a simple matter." The minister's voice was unembarrassed and
dignified. "I have asked Dorothy to be my wife, and she has said 'Yes.'
There remains now the asking for her of the father and mother. I had
hoped that you would not be displeased at the news."
Then did Lewis Morgan recover the use of his wits. Amazed he was,
but plain English, as briefly and plainly put as that, was not to be
misunderstood. He waited to close the door after Louise, then went
forward in hearty fashion holding out a hand to each.
"I was very much astonished," he said; "I am sure I may be excused for
that. Who had imagined such a thing! But to say that it is not a glad
astonishment would not be true."
As for Louise—women, at least some women, know what to do even when
they are very much astonished, and Louise was not that—she went forward
and put both arms around Dorrie, and gave her tender, sisterly kisses,
on the flushed cheeks and glowing lips.
"I thought," said Lewis suddenly, a few minutes thereafter, the first
feelings of bewilderment having subsided, "I thought, Dorrie, that you
had an ambition to be a teacher."
"She has," said Mr. Butler, answering for her promptly and laughingly.
"I have engaged her; but the school is a private one, number of pupils
limited to one."