AFTERWARD.
The soft, sweet summer-time had quite passed away. Bright autumn had
followed, with its glory of gorgeous leaves and piles of golden fruit.
November's fierce blast had begun to toss the leafless branches, and
Thanksgiving day was at hand.
Nearly three months had passed since our young friends had stood forth
to receive the seal of their discipleship. Three months of testing time
they had proved to be--months in which the true attitude of the souls of
those who had then presented their bodies as a living sacrifice might
become plain both to themselves and their friends.
No greater mistake can be made than for young people to suppose that the
recommendation of their Sunday-school teachers, their pastor, or even
their parents, is an assurance that they are really fit subjects for a
confession of Christ. All these, it is true, are watching them, both in
their actions and in the tempers which they thus exhibit, as those that
must give an account for their souls; but only God can see the
heart--only themselves can know whether they are sincere in their
purpose to love and serve him.
Young girls are very easily influenced. Often they come forward in the
church because a good many of their companions are coming and they do
not want to be left behind; sometimes because it makes them of temporary
importance; and sometimes simply because of the transient excitement,
without any thought of the solemn vows they are going to assume and the
new life which in the future they are to be expected to lead. And this
in spite of all the instructions given and the watchful care exercised
by pastor and friends. No wonder, then, that the first few months after
a public profession are anxious ones to all those who have had any part
in smoothing the way thereto for their young friends.
And yet, let no girl or boy be discouraged from taking a stand which is
both duty and privilege by these remarks. All that God demands of those
who confess Christ--or, as it is popularly incorrectly called, "make a
profession of religion"--is _sincerity_ of heart and purpose; _sincere_
sorrow, no matter how slight, for past sin; _sincere_ faith in the
sacrifice of Christ, to atone for and forgive sin; _sincere_ purpose of
obeying God's commandments for the future, with _sincere_ consciousness
of weakness added to _sincere_ trust in the all-sufficient strength of
the Holy Ghost. Every boy or girl old enough to think is capable of this
sincerity; and thus every one is bound to obey the express command of
his Saviour and confess him before men.
But, of course, if the confession be not sincere, in a very short time,
when the novelty and excitement have worn away, the interest in sacred
things will wear away also, and very soon something will be said or done
that will be a dreadful disgrace to the confession thus carelessly or
wickedly made.
Still another mistake is often made by young people, and this is one
calculated to do great mischief, as it is often made by those who are
sincerely desirous of serving God. For weeks preceding the open step
they have devoted a great deal of time to meetings, prayer, and
Bible-reading, and their interest in these things has almost put secular
ones out of their heads. But when that long-anticipated day is over,
they feel somehow that the end is reached, instead of looking on this
end as only the first step in a newer and better life. Other duties and
interests resume their relative importance. There are not so many
meetings to go to, Bible-reading becomes more hurried, prayers are less
fervent, and all at once the young communicant falls into some open sin
and is filled with grief and remorse.
Oh, if every boy and girl, every man and woman, who has been brought
into outward and inward communion with Christ, would only realize that
he or she is to go _onward_, never ceasing to pray and strive against
evil; ever pressing on for more and more of the Holy Spirit; striving
each day to be more and more like Christ,--then would be realized what
is meant by the words of the wise king: "The path of the just is as the
shining light that shineth more and more unto the perfect day."
"Don't you think it would be nice to have a Harvest Home Festival for
the Sunday-school on Thanksgiving?" said Etta Mountjoy to her brother
and sister one autumn afternoon.
"I never saw one," said Eunice, whose duties as housekeeper had kept her
rather closely confined at home for some years.
"Oh, I have. When I was at Altona last fall, the church was decorated
with grain and grasses and fruits, and even vegetables. It was just
lovely!"
"I should think it might be," said James; "and I don't see why we should
not have one if Mr. Morven has no objection. But it will be a good deal
of work to carry it through successfully, and I hate that sort of thing
when it's a failure."
"I don't mind work," said Etta. "I want something to do--something for
the church, I mean; and the girls do, too--something to take the place
of our readings and talks. Sometimes I wish it were not all over, but
there were something still to look forward to."
"Do you mean that you are sorry that you are really admitted to the
communion of the Church, and have openly placed yourself on the Lord's
side?"
"No! Of course not," said the girl, blushing. "But things are getting
flat. I want something new; you know I always did."
"Yes," said her brother; "we all know, Etta. But, seriously, I trust my
little sister will never be tired of the blessed service and fellowship
into which she has been so recently admitted. You know what is written
about those who put their hands to the plow and look back."
"Oh, I don't mean to look back; I don't want to. I'd rather belong to
the church and work for Christ than anything else in the world. What I
want is work. Don't you see?"
"Well, dear, if you think you can manage the work I'll find the money,
though I don't suppose it will cost a great deal."
So it came to pass that those bright autumn Saturday afternoons were
spent by Etta and her girls in the woods, where, with the aid of such
boys as could get away from their work, a store of scarlet, golden, and
variegated autumn leaves was laid in, with late ferns and hardy
brackens, curious bits of moss, seed-vessels, and dried grass being
added to the store. These were all taken to Mrs. Robertson's, whose
large garret was offered for their reception and preservation, and after
tea the girls ironed and varnished the leaves which could not be
detached from the boughs, and pressed the smaller ones between the
leaves of newspapers, which were collected for the purpose from
neighbors, the younger Sunday scholars who were not in the mill being
thus employed.
Then, on Wednesday evening, at Miss Eunice's "tea-party," which of
necessity was held indoors, now that darkness came early and the nights
were chill, the girls of the two classes covered pasteboard stars,
crosses, crowns, and monograms with leaves and mosses neatly stitched
on--bound rich yellow wheat stalks into sheaves, and made plumes and
tassels of dried grasses and seeds.
Merry chatter helped the work forward. Miss Eunice did not wish her
girls to look upon religion and the church's service as a thing of
gloom. She knew that God has "given us all things richly to enjoy," and
that the way to hallow pleasure and prevent its being hurtful is "in
_all_ our ways to acknowledge him."
Moreover, these social, familiar talks, when every one was off her
guard, afforded capital opportunities of studying character with a view
to affording to the young pilgrims such aid and advice as might be
useful to them in their heavenward journey.
Of all the young work-women, Tessa showed the most taste and ingenuity
in the grouping of leaves and arranging of ferns, and her beautiful
combinations constantly called forth the admiration of both companions
and teachers. The little Italian received their commendations very
meekly, but did not thereby escape exciting the jealousy of Bertie
Sanderson, who, on putting together some very fiery leaves without any
attempt at toning down, received from Miss Eunice a few gentle
suggestions concerning shadow, high lights, etc. "It's too mean," she
whispered to her nearest neighbor, as she took her seat, "that beggar
from the poor-house gets more notice than all the rest of us put
together."
Her companion stared, for she was one of those girls who had almost
made up her mind to become a Christian, but had remained undecided till
too late, because she had an idea that a person could not dare to join
the church till she was as holy as an angel.
"There's Katie Robertson, too," continued Bertie; "she'll be sure to be
praised, if her work's hideous. That's what it is to be a favorite."
"Why, Bertie," said the other, "you're real spiteful. I think Katie's
just the nicest girl. Anyway, I couldn't talk as you do if I had joined
the church."
"But you ought to have joined the church because it was your duty," said
Bertie, who could very clearly see the mote in her sister's eye, in
spite of the beam in her own. "You will be a Christian soon, won't you?
It's so nice."
"Not I. If religion don't make people better than you are, I don't want
anything to do with it; I'd rather stay as I am," was the sincere, if
not very polite, answer. And then Bertie's conscience awoke, and she
began to see what harm she was doing. She was very uneasy all the rest
of the evening, and still more so when, at its close, Miss Eunice asked
her to stop a few moments, as she had something to say to her.
Miss Eunice had overheard the conversation we have recorded, and had
noted the cross, spiteful expression of the girl's face, and had grieved
much as she saw her Saviour thus "wounded in the house of his friends."
She spoke seriously to Bertie so soon as they were alone, and found the
latter already repentant and quite willing to acknowledge her fault.
"But what am I to do, Miss Eunice? I _am_ jealous, and I _do_ feel
hateful sometimes. I don't want to feel so, but I can't help it. If I
didn't speak, I should feel it all the same."
"But, my dear, you have promised, in the most solemn way, to renounce
'the devil and all his works.' Pride, malice, envy, jealousy are
emphatically works of the devil."
"I know, Miss Eunice; and I thought it would be all taken away. The
minister in the city told us that Jesus is 'the Lamb of God, who taketh
away the sins of the world.' I thought if I came to him he would take
mine away."
"So he has, so he will. Try to understand me. When he hung upon the
cross he bore the penalty due to the sins of the whole world, and of
course to yours. In that sense he has already taken them away. But in
another sense, that of your daily life, your _character_, he will take
the evil of that away just as fast as you will let him."
"Let him? How do you mean? I am sure I want to be good."
"Yes, in a lump, altogether, you want to be good, very good; but without
any trouble or self-denial. You didn't want to keep from saying those
spiteful things about Tessa and Katie a little while ago, or he would
have helped you do it. You didn't want the jealous, envious feelings
taken out of your heart _just then_, or he would have taken them."
"How, Miss Eunice?"
"_Whatsoever_ you ask in prayer, believing, ye _shall_ receive," said
she.
"But do you mean I ought to have kneeled down to pray then, just that
moment, before all the girls?"
"It is not necessary always to kneel down when we pray; though it is
best to do so when we can. There are often times when our work would
suffer, or when we are so surrounded by others that it would be
impossible. But a few earnest words spoken in the silence of our own
hearts will always bring our strong, loving Saviour to our help; and we
may, _every time_, no matter what our temptations are, be 'more than
conquerors through him who hath loved us.'"
"Every time? Oh, Miss Eunice!"
"Yes, every time. You know we constantly ask the Lord 'to keep us each
day _without_ sin.' How can we utter such a prayer in faith if we don't
believe that it can be granted?"
"Yes; but temptations are so sudden, and take you just where you're the
weakest."
"I know. And therefore we should be fully armed beforehand. Bertie, did
you read your Bible and pray this morning?"
"No!" said the girl, flushing. "I always mean to; but it's so dark in
the mornings now, and mill-time comes so soon. It's just as much as I
can do to get there in time, any way."
"Yet you find time for your breakfast?"
"I couldn't live without eating."
"Nor can you live spiritually without feeding daily upon Christ, through
the study of his Word and prayer. I would sooner go without my breakfast
than without my early communion with him. Bertie, there are 'no gains
without pains.' If you are really desirous, as I believe you are, to
overcome your own evil habits and tendencies, and grow to be like
Christ, you _must_ begin every day with prayer for his help; you must
watch yourself and your surroundings, and in the moment of temptation
you must turn instantly to him who says that he is 'a very present help
in trouble,' and who has promised to 'supply all our need according to
his riches in glory.'"
Poor Bertie! A hard fight was before her. Fourteen years of unresisted
pride, jealousy, and ill-will had formed habits that were hard to
break--fourteen years of caring for no one's pleasure but her own. In
brief, fourteen years of worshiping herself had helped to form a
character which would need a good deal of chiseling before it should
grow into an image of Christ. But he had undertaken the work. Miss
Eunice had shown her how to avail herself of his offered help, and as
she took her teacher's advice, we may be sure that in the end she gained
the victory.