HOME LIFE.
"Every day and every hour,
Every gift and every power,
Consecrate to Him alone
Who hath claimed you for His own."
MORE than two years have passed since the death of little Minnie
Macleod. Life at Benvourd has gone quietly on. Little duties, little
cares, and what some would call little pleasures, made up the daily
routine of the lives of most of the inhabitants of the neighbourhood.
And yet both in nature and the souls of the inmates of the glen there
was growth. Not very visible, perhaps, to an unobservant eye, still
the young trees in the pass were reaching upwards, and, all unseen,
their roots were striking deeper down, enabling them the better to bear
unharmed the wild winter blasts that from time to time swept over them.
The river also, though almost imperceptibly, was deepened, the large
boulder stones in its channel were getting more firmly fixed in their
places than of yore. And in the souls of many of the dwellers there,
the words of gospel truth, sown on the September day we have written
of, at the field-meeting, were springing up, "first the blade, then the
ear," one day to ripen into full corn.
And so it was in Nora's soul: from strength to strength she was going
on, ripening gradually in the wisdom which cometh from above, expanding
into a noble Christian character—a comfort in her home, and amongst the
poor proving a true counsellor and friend.
Snow was on the ground, and a keen, frosty wind was blowing, when one
morning she came into the drawing-room at Benvourd, equipped for a
walk, fur cuffs on her arms, fur around her neck, and a leather bag in
her hand. Very pretty she looked as she peeped in.
"Any messages, auntie?" she said. "I'm off to see old nurse and some,
of the poor bodies; and I'll look into the school on my way back, and
see how the children are getting on with their work."
"All right, dear," was the reply; "only, do not get cold. And take
Cherry with you for company."
"How bright and happy Nora looks," Mrs. Macleod remarked to her
husband, as he entered the room shortly after the young girl had set
off on her walk.
"Yes," he said; "and yet I had a letter this morning from Mrs. Ross,
asking if I did not think it was a mistake to keep Nora moped up
here all the winter, when she should be mixing in society and seeing
something of the world. Of course an invitation to spend the winter
with them follows; and, if you agree with me, I have resolved to let
Nora choose for herself."
"Surely she does not look either dull or moped. But if she wishes a
change, she shall have it."
In the meantime Nora was tripping down the pass with a glad heart.
Never, she thought, had she seen the whole country more beautiful than
it looked that day: the snow-crowned hills glistening in the sunlight,
and the leafless trees, now sprinkled with snow, glittering like
diamonds as the merry little sunbeams played on them, and the river,
swollen with the melting snow, rolling swiftly along, making music
through the lonely pass. Moping, indeed! The firm step and bright,
sparkling eye of the girl told the falsity of that supposition.
Warmly was she welcomed by old nurse. Not long had she been in
discovering the change that had taken place in her darling's heart; and
many a time now, as she stroked back the golden brown locks off the
broad brow, she loved to think that a fairer diadem than that of this
world would one day rest there.
On the morning we write of, a more than usually hearty welcome greeted
Nora.
"Come in, come in, my lambkin; I'm wantin' sore to see ye. Look ye
here; I've had news o' my puir misguided laddie. He's livin', Miss
Nora, sore broke down, they write, in mind an' body, but ower prood to
say a word to his auld grannie, wha loes him dearly yet, in spite o' a'
his faults."
"How got I the news, you ask? Weel, ye see, it's this Duncan Finlay;
ye'll mind o' him?—Jean Finlay's son, doon the glen. Weel, he's been in
furrin pairts, a sailor lad; an' in the ship comin' hame, wha should
he see but Johnny—my Johnny—workin' his passage hame (for it seems
he's been i' the Indies, puir laddie); and when he saw Duncan, he made
him promise he'd no tell ony o' his folk where he was, or what he was
daein'."
"An' at first Duncan had kind o' agreed to that; but when they were
nearin' England, Johnny fell sick, an' Duncan has been rale kind to
him, got him intil lodgin's, an' tended him like a brither. But my
puir laddie's gettin' nee better; an' noo Duncan feels he canna' keep
silence ony langer, an' so he wrote to his mither to tell her a'
this—And oh, Miss Nora, he says, for a' Johnny appears hardened-like to
his hame, he thinks his heart turns fondly to his auld grannie still:
for in his sleep, he ca's for me, an' speaks aboot the auld hills an'
the bonny pass, whiles fancyin' he's helpin the gentry to fish i' the
river, or gangin' wi' them as he's dune mony a time ower the muirs
when they're shootin' the grouse. An' aince, missie, only think Duncan
writes—" and as she spoke, tears ran down the old woman's cheeks—"he
thocht he was in the kirk, an' began singin' oot the words o' the
psalm, 'The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want.'"
"'Deed, Miss Nora, my heart's fair like to break, when I think o' my
bairn lyin' in yon great city, among strangers noo; for Duncan has to
leave to join his ship again. An' since it's the Lord's will, I canna
get to him, I've been thinkin', if only you would write to Maister
Ronald, he'd seek him oot and comfort him a bit. See, here's the
address I've gotten frae Duncan."
Nora looked at it. "Oh yes, nurse," she said; "I'll write at once to
Ronald; I know he and my cousin, Mr. Arbuthnot, often visit among the
lodging-houses in London; and Ronald will be so pleased if he can
help poor Johnny in any way. Keep up your spirits, nurse; perhaps the
illness may be God's way of drawing poor Johnny to himself."
"Ay, ay," was the old woman's reply. "I'm trustin' in him, missie; the
Good Shepherd goes into the wilderness after his errin' sheep, an'
sometimes, even against their will, carries them home to the fold in
his ain lovin' arms. And ye'll write soon, missie, an' tell me whenever
ye hear?"
"That I will," said Nora, rising; "but I must run off now, for I have
one or two sick people to see down the glen, and auntie told me not to
linger too long."
And calling Cherry to come away from the cosy fire, she set off, having
cheered up by her bright looks and loving words the heart of the old
woman.
Through the pass she wound her way, now running a bit with Cherry, now
pausing to look at the river as it danced along, or to note the little
birds as they hopped about from spray to spray, picking at the bright
berries that yet remained.
Then turning out of the pass, she crossed the highroad, and entered a
small cottage in a field, where dwelt a sick child, nigh unto death;
but at the sight of the bright young face, she looked up with a smile.
Nora produced some little delicacy out of the leather bag, to tempt the
failing appetite; then seating herself beside the bed, began, at the
child's request, to "sing to her something about heaven."
In the rich, sweet voice with which God had endowed her, she sang of
the land where hunger and thirst, pain and sickness are felt no more,
and where—
"Christ's presence fills each heart with joy,
Tunes every mouth to sing."
And the sweet singing soothed the restless child, and brought a smile
of peace to her lips; and when, with a word of prayer, the visit ended,
and Nora was out again on the snow-covered earth, the child lay and
thought of her bright young visitor and of the happy land of which she
had sung.
One or two more visits of love, and then Nora turned into the village
school, the face of the teacher lighting up as she entered. She had a
kind, merry word for all, praised some and gently chid others; then sat
right down among the workers, and told them a story over which eyes
that were beginning to look weary sparkled again, and to which the
teacher herself listened as eagerly as the little ones. Then followed
a simple hymn about the "Happy Land," in which the voices of even the
very little ones chimed in sweetly.
And once again Nora was off, having left a good influence behind her.
She had had a happy day and an adventure as well; for just as she was
leaving the pass, who should she meet but two young girls, nieces
of their neighbour, Mrs. Forbes, who, along with their governess,
were going to Benvourd with an invitation for her to spend a week
at Craiglora, to meet some friends from England who had arrived
unexpectedly.
The girls had come so far in the carriage, and were to walk through the
pass to Benvourd, but had contrived to take a wrong turn, and being
strangers to that part of the country, were wandering about in great
perplexity when they met Nora and her dog.
"No doubt," said one of them, "if you had not met us, we would have
been benighted, and, perhaps, perished in the snow!"
Nora had laughed at that idea, but made a good joke about the
travellers who had lost their way in the Highland pass.
They did not return with her to Benvourd, as they had lost so much
time, and were to await the carriage again at a house not far from the
pass.
So Nora returned as she had gone out—alone. She looked so bright and
merry, as in her eager way she related the day's work, that her uncle
and aunt smiled to each other as they thought of Mrs. Ross's idea that
she was "moped" in her Highland home. All were much interested as she
related that nurse had at last heard of her wandering grandson; and
tears of sympathy filled Mrs. Macleod's eyes when she told of the dying
child who had asked her to sing about heaven, and her thoughts turned
to her little daughter so early called to glory.
In the evening Mr. Macleod gave Nora Mrs. Ross's letter, and told her,
he and her aunt gave her full liberty to accept the invitation, if she
felt at all inclined to do so.
"We will miss our bright sunbeam," he said, "but only desire that in
this matter you should please yourself."
Nora read the letter, laughing over the idea of her moping. "Why,
uncle, what does she mean? I am as happy as I can possibly be; and I
have so many things to interest me, and people to love, I could not
manage to be dull."
Then she said seriously, "Uncle if I am to answer this invitation as
I wish, I would really rather not go—at the present, at all events.
I know I would have many temptations there to which I am not exposed
here; and although I believe Jesus would enable me to resist them,
still—" and she lowered her eyes as she spoke—"I am only a beginner
yet in the Christian life, and I am fearful I might not prove a loyal
banner-bearer in that household. No, uncle; if you and auntie will keep
me yet a bit, I would rather not go; though I do wish to go to Mrs.
Forbes' if I may. I do so love the dear old lady; and the girls are so
nice also. Dull, indeed I only wish Clara were one half as happy a girl
as I am! Uncle, I do think people can't be really happy till they have
learned to love Jesus. I am sure, when I think of what I was two years
ago and what I am now, I can sing truly—"
"'Oh happy day, that fixed my choice
On thee, my Saviour and my God!'"
Her uncle drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly.
"Thank God you can say that, Nora. I do believe your dear mother's
prayers are answered for you, that you might be led to seek after the
wisdom that is better far than gold and rubies."