ONE summer they carried May Vinton to a quiet place by the sea. From
the windows of her room she could watch the unceasing roll of the
waves, she could mark the incoming and outgoing tide; she grew to love
the sea and did not seem to miss the coming and going of friends which
she enjoyed so much in her own home. But she missed opportunities for
helping others. At least she did at first, but she was not long in
finding some one who needed her. It was the boy from the fisherman's
little cottage whose acquaintance she first made. He came every morning
with fish for her breakfast, and May, calling to him as he passed her
window with his basket, soon found out that he lived in the little
low-roofed building which she could just see quite a long way down
the shore; and she found out that there were several children in the
family and that the father went out every day in a boat after fish.
She gathered that while they were not suffering for food and clothes,
they were still quite poor, and that the children had never been to
school and were very ignorant of the knowledge gained from books. The
boy could tell her all about the fishing business, about the ways of
the old ocean, he knew where to look for the prettiest shells and the
finest seaweed. He could tell what the winds and the shifting clouds
portended as to the weather, but not a letter of the alphabet did he
know.
[Illustration: SHE COULD WATCH THE WAVES FROM HER WINDOW.]
"Would you like to learn to read?" asked May.
The little fellow was not sure, but he did want to hear a story, and
so she began that way, interesting the boy in a story. He soon became
a regular visitor. Leaning upon the window-sill he would listen to his
new friend as she talked, telling him of things outside the little
world which he knew. At length she said, "To-morrow will be Sunday;
suppose you bring your sister and brother for a little while in the
afternoon and we will have a little Sunday-school."
"Sunday-school! What's that?"
"Come and see."
"Can I bring Tommy Britt?"
"You may bring four besides yourself."
And so Miss Vinton began a little Sunday-school down there by the sea
with five scholars. You who have so often heard the sweet old story of
a Saviour's love cannot imagine what it was to these ignorant children
to hear it for the first time. You to whom the words of the prayer
which Christ taught us have been familiar from your babyhood, cannot
know how strange were the thoughts and words of that prayer, nor what a
hold upon their imaginations the idea of asking anything of an unseen
being took.
The summer months passed away. Miss Vinton took leave of her little
class and went back to her own home. She said sadly, "They are so
ignorant! It was so little that I could do for them; and I am afraid
they will forget it all."
[Illustration: THE WIFE AND CHILDREN BEGAN TO BE ANXIOUS.]
Did they forget? One November morning the fisherman went out in his
boat as usual; later in the day the clouds gathered as for a storm,
and the wife and children began to be anxious. As the afternoon hours
waned the sky grew darker, and the wind howled about the little
cottage. It was already past the hour when the father might have been
expected, and poor Mrs. Byrnes soothed the fretful baby and turned her
eyes anxiously towards the window which looked seaward. The children
peered out into the gathering darkness, but no sail was in sight;
indeed it soon became so dark that they could not see far from the
house. Little Nell placed a lamp in the window and Bob replenished the
fire. Then he slipped away. A bit of the conversation which the younger
ones had carried on as they stood gazing out over the waters, had given
him an idea.
"Don't you know," said Nell, "how Miss Vinton said 'the sea is His and
He made it?'"
"Yes; and you know she told us the pretty story of how the people were
afraid and Jesus said to the waves, 'be still.' I liked that story!"
said the little brother.
"I wish He would say so to the waves now," returned Nell.
"Maybe He would if he were here," was the reply. "Maybe He would. I
wish he was here."
Bob hearing this remembered more of the teachings of the young lady of
whom they had all been so fond, and as soon as he could, he slipped
away and went up into the loft where the children slept. There in the
darkness and chill he knelt down and asked Jesus to make the winds and
waves "be still." Repeating this, his first prayer, again and again, he
at length arose with a calm in his heart. Going down stairs his mother
said: "Seems to me the wind does not blow quite so hard."
Bob smiled and whispered, "I shouldn't wonder if He heard! I didn't
know as he would hear _me_, but Miss Vinton said He would."
He piled on more fuel, saying aloud, "Father will be here soon, and we
must have it warm and have supper ready. Mother, don't you think we
ought to set the table?"
"O yes, I suppose so. But I thought if your father never comes home, we
would not want any supper," said the poor woman, in a despairing tone.
"I know; but don't you think the wind has gone down considerably?"
It seemed ages to the waiting group, but it was not more than an hour
when the voice of the fisherman was heard, and Bob throwing open the
door welcomed the father.
"I tell you," said the dripping man, "I began to think I should never
see the shore again! The storm was awful, but about an hour ago, it
began to let up a little. The clouds broke away too, and then I saw
Nell's light there, and I tell you we just steered for that!"
"About an hour ago," repeated Bob to himself. "That was when I was up
there asking Jesus to say 'be still.' I guess he did hear!"