THE WAY MADE PLAIN.
IT was a beautiful Sabbath afternoon; just warm enough to make people
feel still and pleasant. The soft summer sunshine lay smiling on all
the world, and the soft summer breeze rustled the leaves of the trees,
and stole gently in at open windows. In the front room of the Deckers,
the family was gathered, all save Mr. Decker. He could be heard in his
bedroom stepping about occasionally, and great was his wife's fear
lest he was preparing to go down town and put himself in the place of
temptation at his old lounging place. Sunday could not be said to be a
day of rest to Mrs. Decker. It had been the day of her greatest trials,
so far. Norm was in his clean shirt and collar, which had been done up
again by Nettie's careful hands and which shone beautifully. He was
also in his shirt sleeves; that the mother was glad to see; _he_ was
not going out just yet, anyway. Mrs. Decker had honored the day with a
clean calico dress, and had shyly and with an almost shamefaced air,
pinned into it a little cambric ruffle which Nettie had presented her,
with the remark that it was just like the one Mrs. Burt wore, and that
Jerry said she looked like Mrs. Burt a little, only he thought she was
the best-looking of the two. Mrs. Decker had laughed, and then sighed;
and said it made dreadful little difference to her how she looked. But
the sigh meant that the days were not so very far distant when Mr.
Decker used to tell her she was a handsome woman; and she used to smile
over it, and call him a foolish man without any taste; but nevertheless
used to like it very much, and make herself look as well as she could
for his sake.
She hadn't done it lately, but whose fault was that, she should like to
know? However, she pinned the ruffle in, and whether Mr. Decker noticed
it or not, she certainly looked wonderfully better. Norm noticed it,
but of course he would not have said so for the world. Nettie in her
blue and white gingham which had been washed and ironed since the
flower party, and which had faded a little and shrunken a little,
still looked neat and trim, and had the little girls one on either
side of her, telling them a story in low tones; not so low but that
the words floated over to the window where Norm was pretending not to
listen: "And so," said the voice, "Daniel let himself be put into a den
of dreadful fierce lions, rather than give up praying."
"Did they frow him in?" this question from little Sate, horror in every
letter of the words.
"Yes, they did; and shut the door tight."
"I wouldn't have been," said fierce Susie; "I would have bitten, and
scratched and kicked just awful!"
"Why didn't Daniel shut up the window just as _tight_, and not let
anybody know it when he said his prayers?"
Oh little Sate! how many older and wiser ones than you have tried to
slip around conscience corners in some such way.
"I don't know all the reasons," said Nettie, after a thoughtful pause,
"but I suppose one was, because he wouldn't act in a way to make people
believe he had given up praying. He wanted to show them that he meant
to pray, whether they forbade it or not."
"Go on," said Susie, sharply, "I want to know how he felt when the
lions bit him."
"They didn't bite him; God wouldn't let them touch him. They crouched
down and kept as _still_, all night; and in the morning when the king
came to look, there was Daniel, safe!"
"Oh my!" said Sate, drawing a long, quivering sigh of relief; "wasn't
that just splendid!"
"How do you know it is true?" said skeptical Susie, looking as though
she was prepared not to believe anything.
"I know it because God said it, Susie; he put it in the Bible."
"I didn't ever hear him say it," said Susie with a frown. A laugh
from Norm at that moment gave Nettie her first knowledge of him as a
listener. Her cheeks grew red, and she would have liked to slip away
into a more quiet corner but Sate was in haste to hear just what the
king said, and what Daniel said, and all about it, and the story went
on steadily, Daniel's character for true bravery shining out all the
more strongly, perhaps, because Nettie suspected herself of being a
coward, and not liking Norm to laugh at her Bible stories. As for Norm,
he knew he was a coward; he knew he had done in his life dozens of
things to make his mother cry; not because he was so anxious to do
them, nor because he feared a den of lions if he refused, but simply
because some of the fellows would laugh at him if he did.
That Sabbath day had been a memorable one to the Decker family in some
respects; at least to part of it. Nettie had taken the little girls
with her to Sabbath-school, and then to church. Mrs. Smith had given
her a cordial invitation to sit in their seat, but it was not a very
large seat, and when Job and his wife, and Sarah Ann and Jerry were all
there, as they were apt to be, there was just room for Nettie without
the little girls; so she went with them to the seat directly under the
choir gallery where very few sat. It was comfortable enough; she could
see the minister distinctly, and though she had to stretch out her neck
to see the choir, she could hear their sweet voices; and surely that
was enough. All went smoothly until the sermon was concluded. Sate sat
quite still, and if she did not listen to the sermon, listened to her
own thoughts and troubled no one.
But when the anthem began, Sate roused herself. That wonderful voice
which seemed to fill every corner of the church! She knew the voice;
it belonged to her dear teacher. She stretched out her little neck, and
could catch a glimpse of her, standing alone, the rest of the choir
sitting back, out of sight. And what was that she was saying, over and
over? "Come unto Me, unto Me, unto Me"--the words were repeated in the
softest of cadences--"all ye who are weary and heavy laden and I will
give you rest." Sate did not understand those words, certainly her
little feet were not weary, but there was a sweetness about the word
"rest" as it floated out on the still air, which made her seem to want
to go, she knew not whither. Then came the refrain: "Come unto Me, unto
Me," swelling and rolling until it filled all the aisles, and dying
away at last in the tenderest of pleading sounds. Sate's heart beat
fast, and the color came and went on her baby face in a way which would
have startled Nettie had she not been too intent on her own exquisite
delight in the music, to remember the motionless little girl at her
left.
"Take my yoke upon you, and learn of Me, learn of Me," called the sweet
voice, and Sate, understanding the last of it felt that she wanted to
learn, and of that One above all others. "For I am meek and lowly
of heart"--she did not know what the words meant, but she was drawn,
drawn. Then, listening, breathless, half resolved, came again that
wondrous pleading, "Come unto Me, unto Me, unto Me." Softly the little
feet slid down to the carpeted floor, softly they stepped on the green
and gray mosses which gave back no sound; softly they moved down the
aisle as though they carried a spirit with them, and when Nettie,
hearing no sound, yet turned suddenly as people will, to look after her
charge, little Sate was gone! Where? Nettie did not know, could not
conjecture. No sight of her in the aisle, not under the seat, not in
the great church anywhere. The door was open into the hall, and poor
little tired Sate must have slipped away into the sunshine outside.
Well, no harm could come to her there; she would surely wait for them,
or, failing in that, the road home was direct enough, and nothing to
trouble her; but how strange in little Sate to do it! If it had been
Susie, resolute, independent Susie always sufficient to herself and a
little more ready to do as she pleased than any other way! But Susie
sat up prim and dignified on Nettie's right; not very conscious of the
music, and willing enough to have the service over, but conscious
that she had on her new shoes, and a white dress, and a white bonnet,
and looked very well indeed. Meantime, little Sate was not out in the
sunshine. She had not thought of sunshine; she had been called; it was
not possible for her sweet little heart to get away from the feeling
that some one was calling her, and that she wanted to go. What better
was there to do than follow the voice? So she followed it, out into the
hall, up the gallery stairs, still softly--the new shoes made no sound
on the carpet--through the door which stood ajar, quite to the singer's
side, there slipped this quiet little woman who had left her white
bonnet by Nettie, and stood with her golden head rippling with the
sunlight which fell upon it. There was a rustle in the choir gallery,
a soft stir over the church, the sort of sound which people make when
they are moved by some deep feeling which they hardly understand; there
was a smile on some faces, but it was the kind of smile which might be
given to a baby angel if it had strayed away from heaven to look at
something bright down here. The tenor singer would have drawn away the
small form from the soloist, but she put forth a protecting hand
and circled the child, and sang on, her voice taking sweeter tone, if
possible, and dying away in such tenderness as made the smiles on some
faces turn to tears, and made the echo linger with them of that last
tremulous "Come unto Me."
[Illustration: LITTLE SATE IN THE CHOIR GALLERY.]
But little Sate, when she reached the choir gallery, saw something
which startled her out of her sweet resolute calm. Away on the side, up
there, where few people were, sat her own father; and rolling down his
cheeks were tears. Sate had never seen her father cry before. What was
the matter? Had she been naughty, and was it making him feel bad? She
stole a startled glance at the face of her teacher, whose arm was still
around her and had drawn her toward the seat into which she dropped,
when the song was over. No, _her_ face was quiet and sweet; not
grieved, as Sate was sure it would be, if she had been naughty. Neither
did the people look cross at her; many of them had bowed their heads in
prayer, but some were sitting erect, looking at her and smiling; surely
she had made no noise. Why should her father cry? She looked at him; he
had shaded his face with his hand. Was he crying still? Little Sate
thought it over, all in a moment of time, then suddenly she slipped
away from the encircling arm, moved softly across the intervening
space, into the side gallery, and was at her father's side, with her
small hand on his sleeve. He stooped and took her in his arms, and the
tears were still in his eyes; but he kissed her, and _kissed_ her, as
little Sate had never been kissed before; she nestled in his arms and
felt safe and comforted.
The prayer was over, the benediction given, and the worshipers moved
down the aisles. Sate rode comfortably in her father's arms, down
stairs, out into the hall, outside, in the sunshine, waiting for Nettie
and for her white sunbonnet. Presently Nettie came, hurried, flushed,
despite her judgment, anxious as to where the bonnetless little girl
could have vanished. "Why, Sate," she began, but the rest of the
sentence died in astonished silence on her lips, for Sate held her
father's hand and looked content.
They walked home together, the father and his youngest baby, saying
nothing, for Sate was one of those wise-eyed little children who
have spells of sweet silence come over them, and Nettie, with Susie,
walked behind, the elder sister speculating: "Where did little Sate
find father? Did he pick her up on the street somewhere, and would he
be angry, and not let Nettie take her to church any more? Or did he,
passing, spy her in the churchyard and come in for her?"
Nettie did not know, and Sate did not tell; principally because she
did not understand that there was anything to tell. So while the
people in their homes talked and laughed about the small white waif
who had slipped into the choir, the people in this home were entirely
silent about it, and the mother did not know that anything strange
had happened. It is true, Susie began to inquire reprovingly, but was
hushed by Nettie's warning whisper; certainly Nettie was gaining a
wonderful control over the self-sufficient Susie. The child respected
her almost enough to follow her lead unquestioningly, which was a great
deal for Susie to do.
So they sat together that sweet Sabbath afternoon, Nettie telling her
Bible stories, and wondering how she should plan. What did Norm intend
to do a little later in the day? What was there she could do to keep
him from lounging down street? Why was her father staying so long in
the choked-up bedroom? What was the matter with her father these days,
and how long was anything going to last? Why did she feel, someway,
as though she stood on the very edge of something which startled and
almost frightened her? Was it because she was afraid her father would
not let her take Sate and Susie to church any more?
With all these thoughts floating through her mind, it was rather
hard to keep herself closely confined to Daniel and his experiences.
Suddenly the bedroom door opened and her father came out. Everybody
glanced up, though perhaps nobody could have told why. There was
a peculiar look on his face. Mrs. Decker noticed it and did not
understand it, and felt her heart beat in great thuds against the back
of her chair. Little Sate noticed it, and went over to him and slipped
her hand inside his. He sat down in the state chair which Nettie and
her mother had both contrived to have left vacant, and took Sate in his
arms. This of itself was unusual, but after that, there was silence,
Sate nestling safely in the protective arms and seeming satisfied with
all the world. Nettie felt her face flush, and her bosom heave as if
the tears were coming, but she could not have told why she wanted
to cry Norm seemed oppressed with the stillness, and broke it by
whistling softly; also he had a small stick and was whittling; it was
the only thing he could think of to do just now. It was too early to go
out; the boys would not be through with their boarding-house dinners
yet. Suddenly Mr. Decker broke in on the almost silence. "Hannah,"
he said, then he cleared his voice, and was still again, "and you
children," he added, after a moment, "I've got something to tell you
if I knew how. Something that I guess you will be glad to hear. I've
turned over a new leaf at last. I've turned it, off and on, in my mind
a good many times lately, though I don't know as any of you knew it.
I've been thinking about this thing, well, as soon as Nannie there came
home, at least; but I haven't understood it very well, and I s'pose
I don't now; but I understand it enough to have made up my mind; and
that's more than half the battle. The long and short of it is, I have
given myself to the Lord, or he has got hold of me, somehow; it isn't
much of a gift, that's a fact, but the queer thing about it is, he
seems to think it worth taking. I told him last night that if he would
show a poor stick like me how to do it, why, I'd do my part without
fail; and this morning he not only showed the way plain enough, but he
sent my little girl to help me along."
The father's voice broke then, and a tear trembled in his eye. Sate had
held her little head erect and looked steadily at him as soon as he
began to talk, wonder and interest, and some sort of still excitement
in her face as she listened. At his first pause she broke forth:
"Did He mean you, papa, when He said 'Come unto Me'? Was He calling
you, all the time? and did you tell Him you would?"
"Yes," he said, bending and kissing the earnest face, "He meant me, and
He's been calling me loud, this good while; but I never got started
till to-day. Now I'm going along with Him the rest of the way."
"I'm so glad," said little Sate, nestling contentedly back, "I'm so
glad, papa; I'm going too."