THE BEATA CHARITY.
Gull had come to the cellar-master with a choice bit of news to tell. A
stranger had bought the land where the major's home and stood, and
buildings were to be put up there immediately. The long lonely spot was
soon a busy scene, as the architect, with plans in hand, was hurrying
about among the skilful workmen.
Whoever would, might hear where the new poorhouse was to stand, and
where the orphan home, and know that the little red cottage, just like
any other, was for a musical composer, who must have one large room
built with special care and according to all the most scientific
acoustic rules; for there he was to have a fine organ, which was now
being constructed in the most particular manner. "I want to call it all
'The Beata Charity,' for Beata was my mother's name," Johanson had said
to the pastor, who was now in his full confidence. They knew each other
as the Alf and Lars of the olden time. They knew each other now as
forgiven sinners, each striving in his own way to work for the glory of
the Master's kingdom. Each felt that he was indebted to the other. The
stable-boy's words, "The duties are the same whether you make the
promises or not," had lingered in the mind of the wanderer in the midst
of the lowest depths of sin, and had brought him home at last to try _to
make the promises firmly resolved to keep them_.
The methodical, authorized, ordained, instructed, conscientious priest
had learned from a repentant sinner to bow at the foot of the Cross, and
thank God for the Saviour who could forgive him his poor, blind, cold,
self-satisfied service of the past, and wake him to penitence and love,
and humble, grateful faithfulness in his sacred office.
Johanson's work in the poorhouse on his music-paper had been the solace
of those long, dark penitential hours. His alternations between deep
depression and dawning hope, and at last his full, deep conviction that
there was pardon for all in the abundant mercy of God through Christ,
had been expressed in the musical compositions that had made their way
over the length and breadth of the land.
Many of them were linked with old familiar sacred words; for others,
some master-poet must be warmed to write their language in glowing
verse.
"The white-haired pauper," as Johanson was called throughout the whole
country, had his satisfaction in his life-long incognito. He felt that
he had cast aside his old name and old privileges to be a worthless
wanderer, and had but returned to repent and be forgiven. He would,
himself forgotten and unknown, praise and serve as God had given him
ability.
The grand-uncle in America, so munificent for Alf's confirmation day,
had always cherished a hope of the prodigal's reformation. Only when in
desperate need had Alf applied to him, and had never been refused
assistance. Dying, the old man had left a will bequeathing his large
fortune to his grand-nephew, in the firm belief that Alf, having run his
wild career, would find his way to his native land, to lead a faithful
Christian life, and be the centre of wide benevolent enterprises.
The hopes and wishes and prayers of the uncle were fulfilled. The
white-haired pauper lived to see the results of his efforts, and to
know that many who starving had been fed, or sinning reclaimed, or
suffering ministered unto, were calling down blessings on his unworthy
head.
From the pastor and his wife and Elsa Alf had sympathy and aid in all
his undertakings, and their friendship was cemented by common work for
the common good.
The cellar-master did not live to have a place in the new poorhouse.
Gull had her own trial in the midst of the comforts of her old age, that
she must still keep the secret that the celebrated composer and wide
philanthropist was her beloved "major's" long-lost son.
THE END.