THE MOTHER’S RETURN.
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own
understanding.”—PROV. iii. 5.
“I am so glad that dear mother is coming back to-day!” cried little Mary
Benson; “it seemed as if the week would never be over.”
“Yes; if we had not been so busy knitting these cuffs for her, we should
have found the time weary indeed,” said Maria. “But how much pleased she
will be to have them; and what a surprise it will be to her when she did
not even know that we could knit!”
“It was very kind in Mrs. Peters to teach us. I hope that she will not
let out her secret: mother was to call at her house on her way back, to
leave the parcel of wool.”
[Illustration: MARIA AND MARY.]
“Poor mother! she will be weary enough with her long, tiresome walk.”
“She will forget all when she presses us to her heart,” cried little
Mary, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at the thought. “Oh, to think of
being in her dear arms again! How we shall rush into them!”
“If mother could have afforded to pay for the coach, she might have been
here by this time; but it seems as if she had never one sixpence to
spare,” sighed Maria. “I cannot help thinking,” added the little girl,
after a pause, turning listlessly over the pages of a book which she was
rather looking at than reading—“I cannot help thinking that the Almighty
cares less for us than He does for the rich and the great. If He is as
tender and loving as we are told that He is, how is it that we want for
so many things?”
“Oh, Maria, it is very sinful to think in that way! We must trust in the
Lord with all our heart; and not, in our naughty pride, fancy that we
know what is good for us better than He who is all wisdom as well as
love.”
“I should like to know why there are such differences in the world,”
said Maria.
“We must remember what the Saviour said to Peter: _What I do thou
knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter._ In another world we
shall see that all God does is right. Do you not recollect what the
clergyman told us in his sermon last Sunday—that if there were no
differences of station in this life, the rich would not be able to
exercise charity, nor the poor to exercise patience?”
“The task of the rich is much easier than that of the poor,” observed
Maria, with a discontented look.
“Perhaps not,” gently suggested Mary. “I do not think that the Bible
makes it appear so: we are so often warned of the dangers of riches; and
none of us can tell, if we had them, whether we should make a good use
of them. I like those lines which mother taught us to repeat—
‘The greatest evil we can fear
Is—to possess our portion here.’”
“We are little likely to suffer from that evil,” observed Maria, with a
bitter smile. “It does seem to me hard that mother—who is always so
religious, and patient, and good—should have to work so hard and yet
gain so little, while others have plenty without working at all. It
seems as if God were hiding His face from us.”
“Oh! _trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine
own understanding_. This is one of the verses which mother told me
quiets her mind whenever she is tempted to murmur at her lot. But is not
that mother crossing the field? Yes, yes! it is our own dear mother!”
And both of the children, with a cry of delight, flew to the door to
meet her, carrying their little present in their hands.
[Illustration: WATCHING FOR MOTHER.]
But what was the amazement of the girls at the reception which they met
with from their mother—from her whom they so tenderly loved and had been
so anxiously expecting! Mrs. Benson’s face was flushed, her manner
hurried. Not one kiss, not one welcome smile, not one kind word did she
give; but waving them away impatiently as they sprang forward to welcome
her, “Back, back!” she cried; “don’t touch me!”—and passing them in a
moment, she hastened up-stairs to her own room.
Neither of the children could at first utter a word. With open eyes and
lips apart, they stood as if transfixed, their surprise and
mortification were so great. Then slowly and sadly they retraced their
steps, and returned to the room which they had just quitted. Neither
spoke for a little while, till Maria, pettishly flinging down the cuff
which she had knitted, exclaimed,—
“Who would ever have thought that mother could be so unkind!”
“Unkind? Oh, never, never say such a word!” cried Mary, her own eyes
swimming with tears.
“She looked as if she would have pushed me back—me, her own child!—if I
had ventured a little nearer; and after not having seen us for so many
days! I cannot think what could make her treat us in such a manner!”
“Don’t think, but _trust_,” faltered her gentle sister. “We may be
certain that mother has good reasons of her own. She always loves us,
and acts for our good; and though we cannot just now understand what she
does, we may be sure, quite sure, that it is wise and kind.”
“Bless you, my child, for your loving trust!” exclaimed her mother, who
was at that moment entering the room, and who now pressed her little
daughter to her heart more warmly and more tenderly than ever, as though
to make up by increasing love for even five minutes’ apparent neglect.
“O mother, why would you not let us come near you?” exclaimed Maria, as
she, too, shared in the fond embrace.
“For your own sakes, my darlings; only for your own sakes. I had called
on Mrs. Peters, as I had promised, on my way; and not till I had entered
into her cottage did I know that her only son was then lying there
dangerously ill of the scarlet fever.”
“Poor Robin!” cried the little girls, full of sympathy for the trouble
of their neighbour. “Is not that fever terrible and infectious?”
“Most infectious, my children; and I own that I felt grieved and
frightened at having entered the house. I fear not for myself. Were it
not for you I should have offered to remain to help to nurse the poor
boy: but I dreaded lest I might be carrying here death in my very
clothes—that I might be bringing misery into my own happy home; and not
till I had laid aside my bonnet and large cloak did I dare to embrace my
children. You met me so eagerly at the door that I was obliged to call
out very hastily, or you would have been in my arms before I could stop
you; and I had no time for explanations then.”
“Mother had good reasons,” said Maria to herself: “how strange it was
that I ever could doubt her!”
“And how is poor Mrs. Peters?” inquired Mary, as her mother took a chair
near the fire, and her little daughters seated themselves at her feet.
“She is so fond of her son!—she could not live without him. How does she
bear this terrible trial?”
“Like a Christian,” replied her mother—“like one who knows that all
events are in the hands of an all-wise Being, who does not willingly
afflict His children. All her hopes and her fears are laid before Him in
prayer; and having used all human means to preserve her son, she now
rests humbly on the infinite mercy of the Lord, who ordereth all things
well. She has been given that trusting, confiding spirit which is so
pleasing in the sight of Heaven.”
“Ah, that is what I want!” murmured Maria, hiding her head on her
parent’s knee. “Mother, I have learned a lesson to-day from the pain
which it cost me to doubt _your_ love, and the shame that I feel now
that I ever could have done so. Mary deserved your first kiss, mother. I
can love, very greatly love; but she can both love and _trust_.”
Trust in the Lord with all thy heart
While sunshine glitters o’er thee;
Oh, choose in youth the better part,
When all is bright before thee!
Nor think thy pleasures will decrease:
’Tis Faith that here brings joy and peace,
And leads to heaven’s glory.
Trust in the Lord with all thy heart
When sorrows gather o’er thee;
When lone and desolate thou art,
And all is dark before thee.
’Tis Faith that can the mourner cheer;
’Tis Faith gives hope and patience here,
And leads to heaven’s glory.
[Illustration: [sheep at gate]]