MRS. MOWBRAY.
"How is that Carpenter girl doing?" Mrs. Mowbray inquired one day of Miss
Blodgett, as they met in one of the passages.
"I have been wanting to speak to you about her, madame. She knows all I
can teach her in that class."
"Does she! Her aunt told me she had had no advantages. Does she study?"
"I fancy she has no need to study much where she is. She has been
further."
"How does she behave?"
"Perfectly well. She does not look to me happy."
"Not happy! Is her cousin kind to her? She is cousin to that pretty
Busby, you know."
"I think she hardly speaks to her. Not here, I mean."
Mrs. Mowbray passed on. But that very afternoon, when school was breaking
up, Miss Blodgett asked Rotha to wait a few minutes. The girls were all
gone in a trice; Miss Blodgett herself followed; and Rotha was left
alone. She waited a little while. Then the door opened and the figure
which had such a fascination for her appeared. The face looked gentler
and kinder than she had seen it before; this was not school time. Mrs.
Mowbray came in and sat down by Rotha, after giving her her hand.
"Are you quite well, my dear?" was her instant question after the
greeting. "You are hoarse."
Rotha said she had caught a little cold.
"How did you do that?"
"I think it was sitting in a cold room."
"Were you obliged to sit in a cold room?"
Rotha hesitated. "It was pleasanter there," she said with some
embarrassment.
"You never should sit in a cold room. What did you want to be in a cold
room for?"
Rotha hesitated again. "I wanted to be alone."
"Studying?"
"Not my lessons,"--said Rotha doubtfully.
"Not your lessons? If you and I were a little better acquainted, I should
ask for a little more confidence. But I will not be unreasonable."
Rotha glanced again at the sweet face, so kindly now with all its
penetrating acuteness and habit of authority; so sweet with its smile;
and confidence sprang forth at the instant, together with the longing for
help. Did not this look like a friend's face? Where else was she to find
one? Reserve gave way.
"I was studying my duty," she said softly.
"Your duty, my dear? Was the difficulty about knowing it, or about doing
it?"
"I think--about doing it."
"Is it difficult?"
"Yes," said Rotha from the bottom of her heart.
Mrs. Mowbray read the troubled brow, the ingenuous mouth, the oppressed
manner; and her soul went forth in sympathy to her little perplexed human
sister. But her next words were a departure, and in a different tone.
"You have never been to school before, your aunt tells me?"
"No, ma'am," said Rotha, disappointed somehow.
"Are you getting along pleasantly?"
"Not very pleasantly," Rotha allowed, after a pause.
"Does Miss Blodgett give you too hard work to do?"
"O no, ma'am!" Rotha said with a spark more of spirit. "I have not
anything to do. I know it all already."
"You do! Where did you learn it?"
"Mother used to teach me--and then a friend used to teach me."
"What, my dear? It is important that I should know."
"Mother taught me history, and geography, and grammar, and little things.
Then a gentleman taught me more history, and arithmetic, and algebra, and
Latin, and natural history--"
"The gentleman was the friend you spoke of?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you like to study, Rotha?"
"O yes, ma'am! when it _is_ study, and I can understand it."
"I suppose your aunt did not know about all this home study?"
"She knew nothing about me," said Rotha.
"Then where has your home been, my dear?"
"Here,--for two years past. Before that, it was in the country."
Mrs. Mowbray was silent a bit.
"My dear, I think the first thing you should do should be, to take care
of that cold. Will you?"
"I do not know how, ma'am," said Rotha, for the first time lifting her
eyes with something like a smile to the lady's face.
"Does Mrs. Busby know that you have taken cold?"
"I do not know, ma'am."
"Will you take some medicine, if I give you some?"
"If you please, ma'am."
Mrs. Mowbray sent a servant for a certain box, and proceeded to choose
out a vial which she gave to Rotha, instructing her how to use it.
"And then, some time when we know each other better," she went on,
"perhaps you will tell me about that difficulty of duty, and let me see
if I can help you."
"O thank you, ma'am!" was spoken so earnestly that Mrs. Mowbray saw the
matter must be much on the young girl's heart.
That same evening did Mrs. Mowbray make a call on Mrs. Busby.
She came in with her gracious, sweet, dignified manner, which always put
everybody upon his best behaviour in her presence; as gracious as if she
had come for the sole pleasure of a talk with Mrs. Busby; as sweet as if
she had had no other object in coming but to give her and her family
pleasure. And so she talked. She talked public news and political
questions with Mr. Busby, with full intelligence, but with admirable
modesty; she bewitched him out of his silence and dryness into being
social and conversible; she delighted him with his own unwonted
performance. With Mrs. Busby she talked Antoinette, for whom she had at
the same time brought a charming little book, which compliment flattered
the whole family. She talked Antoinette and Antoinette's interests, but
not Antoinette alone; with a blessed kind of grace she brought in among
the other things relations and anecdotes the drift and bearing of which
was away from vanity and toward soul health; stories which took her
hearers for the moment at least out of the daily and the trivial and the
common, into the lofty and the noble and the everlasting. Even Mr. Busby
forgot his papers and cases and waked up to human interests and social
gentleness; and even Mrs. Busby let the lines of her lips relax, and her
eyes glistened with something warmer than a steely reflection. Antoinette
bloomed with smiles. Rotha was not in the room.
And not till she was drawing up her fur around her, preparatory to
departure, did Mrs. Mowbray refer to the fourth member of the family.
Then she said,
"How is your niece, Mrs. Busby? Miss Carpenter?"
"Quite well," Mrs. Busby answered graciously. "I believe she is at her
books."
"How does she like going to school?"
"I am afraid I can hardly say. Netta, how does Rotha enjoy her school
life?"
"I don't know," said Antoinette. "She doesn't enjoy anything, I should
say."
The tone of neither question nor answer escaped the watchful observation
of the visiter.
"I think you said she had had no advantages?"
"None whatever, I should say; not what we would call advantages. I
suppose she has learned a few common things."
"She is an orphan?"
Mrs. Busby assented. "Lost her mother last summer."
"I should like to have her more under my own eye than is possible as she
is now; a mere day scholar. What do you say to letting her become a
member of my family? Of course," added Mrs. Mowbray graciously, "I should
not propose to you to charge yourself with any additional burden on her
account. As she is an orphan, I should make no difference because of
receiving her into my family. I have a professional ambition to gratify,
and I like to be able to carry out my plans in every detail. I could do
better for Antoinette, if you would let me have _her_ altogether; but I
suppose that is not to be thought of."
Mrs. Busby wore an air of deliberation. Mr. Busby was understood to
mutter something about "very handsome."
"Will you let me have Antoinette?" said the lady smiling. "I think it
would do her no harm."
"Antoinette must content herself at home," Antoinette's mother replied.
"I am accustomed to having her under my own wing."
"And that is a privilege you would not yield to any one else. I
understand. Well, what do you say about Miss Carpenter?"
Mrs. Busby looked at her husband. Long experience enabled him to guess at
what he was desired to say.
"My dear--since Mrs. Mowbray is so kind--it would be a great thing for
Rotha the best thing that could happen to her--"
Mrs. Busby turned her eyes to her visiter.
"Since you are so good, Mrs. Mowbray--it is more than I could ask you to
do--"
"I shall be very glad to do it. I am nothing if not professional, you
know," Mrs. Mowbray said rising and drawing her fur together again. "Then
that is settled."-- And with gracious deference and sweetness of manner
she took her leave.
"That's what I call a good riddance!" exclaimed Antoinette when she was
free to express her opinion.
"You will find it a happy relief," added Mr. Busby. "And not a little
saving, too."
Mrs. Busby was silent. With all the relief and the saving, there was yet
something in the plan which did not suit her. Nevertheless, the relief,
and the saving, were undoubted facts; and she held her tongue.
"Mamma, what are you going to do about Rotha's dresses?"
"I will see, when she comes to me with a proper apology."
Of all this nothing was told to Rotha. So she was a little surprised,
when next morning Mrs. Mowbray came into the schoolroom and desired to
see her after school. But then Mrs. Mowbray's first words were about her
cold.
"My dear, you are very hoarse! You can hardly speak. And you feel
miserably, I see. I shall sequester you at once. Come with me."
Wondering but obedient, Rotha followed. What was going to happen now? Up
stairs, along a ball, up another flight of stairs, past the great
schoolrooms, now empty, through a small bedroom, through a large one,
along another passage. At last a door is opened, into what, as Rotha
enters it, seems to her a domestic paradise. The air deliciously warm and
sweet, the walls full of engravings or other pictures, tables heaped with
books, a luxuriously appointed bed and dressing tables, (what to Rotha's
eyes was enormous luxury)--finally a couch, where she was made to lie
down and covered over with a brilliant affghan. Rotha was transported
into the strangest of new worlds. Her new friend arranged the pillow
under her head, gave her some tasteless medicine; that was a wonderful
innovation too, for all Rotha's small experience had been of nauseous
rhubarb and magnesia or stinging salts; and finally commanded her to lie
still and go to sleep.
"But aunt Serena--?" Rotha managed to whisper.
"She has made you over to me. You are going to live in my house for the
present, where you can carry on your studies better than you could at
home, and I can attend to you better. Here you have been losing a month,
because I did not know what you properly required. Are you willing to be
my child, Rotha?--instead of Mrs. Busby's?--for a time?"
The flash of joy in Rotha's eyes was so eloquent and so bright, that Mrs.
Mowbray stooped down and kissed her.
"I never was Mrs. Busby's child,"--the girl must make so much protest.
"Well, no matter; you are not her child now. Lie still, and go to sleep
if you can."
Could she? Not at once. Is it possible to tell the sort of Elysium in
which the child was lapped? Softness and warmth and ease and rest, and
_hiding_, and such beauty and such luxury! Mrs. Mowbray left the room
presently; and Rotha lay still under her affghan, looking from one to
another point of delight in the room, wondering at this suddenly entered
fairyland, comforted inexpressibly by the assurance that she was taken
out of her aunt's house and presence, happy in the promise of the new
guardianship into which she had come. What pretty pictures were on the
walls, all around her, over her head; here was a lady, there a lovely
little girl; here a landscape; there a large print shewing a horse which
a smith is just about shoeing, and a little foal standing by. And so her
eye wandered, from one to another, every one having its peculiar interest
for Rotha. Then the books. How the books were piled up, on the floor, on
the dressing-table, on benches, on the mantelpiece; there was a kind of
overflow and breaking wave of literary riches which seemed to have
scattered its surplus about this room. And there were trinkets too, and
pretty useful trifles, and pretty things of use that were not trifles.
Rotha had always lived in a very plain way; her father's house had shewed
no far-off indication of this sort of life. Neither had her aunt's house.
Plenty of means was not wanting there; the house had money enough; what
it lacked was the life. No love of the beautiful; no habit of elegant
surroundings; no literary taste that had any tide or flow whatsoever,
much less overflow. No art, and no associations. Everything here had
meaning, and indications of life, or associations with it; with mental
life especially. What exactly it was that charmed her, Rotha could not
have told; she could not have put all this into words; yet she felt all
this. The girl had come into a new atmosphere, where for the first time
her soul seemed to draw free breath. It was, by its affinities, her
native air. Certainly in the company of Mr. Southwode all this higher
part of her nature had been fed and fostered, and with him too she was at
home; but she had seen him only in Mrs. Marble's house or in the lodgings
at Fort Washington.
It was long before Rotha could sleep. She waked as the day was declining
and the room growing dusky. A maid came in and lit the fire, which
presently sparkled and snapped and sent forth jets of flame which lit up
the room with a red illumination. Rotha recognized, she thought, the sort
of coal which Mr. Digby had sent in for her mother, and hailed the sight;
but she was mistaken, a little; it was kennal coal, not Liverpool. It
snapped and shone, and the light danced over pictures and books and
curtains; and Rotha wondered what would come next.
What came next was Miss Blodgett, followed by the maid bearing a tray.
The tray was placed on a stand by the couch, and Rotha was informed that
this was her dinner. Mrs. Mowbray wished her to keep quite quiet and live
very simply until this cold was broken up. Rotha raised herself on her
couch and looked in astonishment at what was before her. A hot mutton
chop, a roll, a cup of tea, and some mashed potatoe. A napkin was spread
over the tray; and there was a little silver salt cellar, and a glass of
water, and a plate of rice pudding. Ah, surely Rotha was in fairyland;
and never was there so beneficent and so magnificent a fairy in human
shape. Miss Blodgett saw her arranged to her mind, and left her to take
her dinner in peace and at leisure; which Rotha did, almost ready to cry
for sheer pleasure. When had dinner been so good to her? Everything was
so hot and so nice and so prettily served. Rotha lay down again feeling
half cured already.
However, such well-grounded colds as she had taken are not disposed of in
a minute; and Rotha's kept her shut up for yet several days more. Wonders
went on multiplying; for a little cot bed was brought into the room,
(which Rotha found was Mrs. Mowbray's own) and made up there for her
occupancy; and there actually she slept those nights. And Mrs. Mowbray
nursed her; gave her medicine, by night and by day; sent her dainty
meals, and allowed her to amuse herself with anything she could find.
Rotha found a book suited to her pleasure, and had a luxurious time of
it. Towards the end of the second day, Mrs. Mowbray came into the room; a
little while before dinner.
"How do you do?" she said, standing and surveying her patient.
"Very well, ma'am; almost quite well."
"You will be glad to be let out of prison?"
"It is a very pleasant prison."
"I do not think any prison is pleasant. What book have you got there?
Mrs. Sherwood. Do you like it?"
"O _very_ much, ma'am!"
"My dear, your aunt has sent your trunk, at my request; and Miss Blodgett
has unpacked it to get at the things you were wanting. But there is only
one warm dress in it. Is that your whole ward robe?"
"What dress is that? what sort, I mean?"
"Grey merino, I believe."
"It is not mine," said Rotha flushing. "It is Antoinette's. They tried it
on, but it did not fit me. I told aunt Serena I would rather wear my own
old one."
"That is the one you are wearing now?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"My dear, is that your whole supply for the winter?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I observe you have a nice supply of under wear."
"Yes, ma'am. That was got for me by somebody else; not my aunt."
"Have you other relations then, besides Mrs. Busby?"
"No, ma'am. But I have a friend."
"May I know more, since you have begun to confide in me? Who is this
friend?"
"It is the friend mother trusted me to, when she--when she--"
"Yes, I understand," said Mrs. Mowbray gently. "Why does not this friend
take care of you then, instead of leaving you to your aunt?"
"O he does take care of me," cried Rotha; "but he is in England; he is
not here. He had to go home because his father was very ill--dying, I
suppose."
"_He?_" repeated Mrs. Mowbray. "A gentleman?"
"Yes, ma'am. He was the only friend that took care of mother. He got
those things for me."
"What is his name, my dear?"
"Mr. Digby. I mean, Mr. Southwode. I always used to call him Mr. Digby."
"Digby Southwode!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "But he is a _young_ gentleman."
"O yes," said Rotha. "He is not old. He was called away, back to England
suddenly, and aunt Serena hindered my knowing, and hindered him somehow
from seeing me at all to say a word to me before he went. And I never can
forgive her for it,--never, never!"
"Hush, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray softly. "Your aunt may have thought
she had good reasons. How came you under your aunt's care then?"
"Mr. Digby took me to her," said Rotha, her eyes filling, while they
sparkled at the same time. "He said it was best for me to be there, under
her care, as he had no home where he could take me. But if he had known,
he never would have left me with her. I know he would not. He would have
taken care of me some other way."
"What has Mr. Southwode done for you, that you should have such trust in
him?"
But Rotha somehow did not want to go into this subject in detail.
"He did everything for us that a friend could do; he taught me, and he
took care of mother; and mother left me in his charge."
"Where was Mrs. Busby?"
"Just where she is now. She did not know we were here."
"Why was that?"
Rotha hesitated. "Mother did not like to tell her," she said, somewhat
obscurely.
"And she left you in this gentleman's care."
"Yes."
"And he put you under your aunt's care."
"Yes, for the present. But I was to tell him if anything went wrong; and
I have never been able to speak a word to him since. Nor to write,
because he had not given me his address."
"Mr. Southwode is an Englishman. It is probable, if his father is dead,
that he will make his home in England for the future."
Rotha was silent. She thought Mr. Digby would not forget her, or fail in
his promises; but she kept her views to herself.
"He did very properly in committing you to your aunt's care; and now I am
very glad I have got you," Mrs. Mowbray went on cheerily. "Now we will
try and get all those questions straightened out, that were troubling
you. What was it? a question of duty, you said, didn't you?"
Mrs. Mowbray was arranging her heterogeneous masses of books in something
like external order; she put a little volume into Rotha's hand as she
said the last words. It was a very small New Testament; very small, yet
in the clear English printing which made it delightfully legible. "That
is the best thing to solve questions of duty with," she went on. "Keep
it, my dear."
"O thank you, ma'am!" cried Rotha, a bright colour of pleasure rushing
into her cheeks. "O thank you, ma'am! How beautiful! and how nice! But
here is where I found my question," she added sorrowfully.
"I dare say. It is the old story--'When the commandment came, sin
revived, and I died.' What was the point this time?"
"Just that point I spoke of, about aunt Serena. I do not forgive her; and
in the fifth chapter of Matthew,--here it is: 'If thou bring thy gift to
the altar--'"
"I know," Mrs. Mowbray broke in, very busy seemingly with her books and
not looking at Rotha. "Why cannot you forgive her?"
"Because I am so wrong, I suppose," Rotha answered humbly.
"Yes, but what has she done?"
"I told you, ma'am. She kept me from seeing Mr. Southwode before he went
away. She never even told me he had been at the house, nor that he was
gone. I found it out. She meant I should not see him."
"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "that does not seem to me a very heinous
offence."
"It was the very worst thing she could do; the cruelest, and the worst."
"She might have thought she had good reasons."
"She did not think that. She knew better. I think she wanted me all in
her power."
"Never think evil of people, if it is possible to think good," Mrs.
Mowbray continued. "Always find a pleasant reason for the things people
do, if it is possible to find one. It is quite as likely to be true, and
it leaves you a great deal more comfortable."
"You cannot always do that," said Rotha.
"And this is one of the times? Well, what are you going to do about it?
Can't you forgive your aunt, even if you think the worst?"
"It would be very easy to forgive her, if I could think differently,"
said Rotha.
"It occurs to me--Those words you began to quote,--they run, I think, 'If
thy brother hath ought _against_ thee.' Is that the case here?"
"Yes, ma'am, because I charged her with what she had done; and she did
not excuse herself; and I thought I had a right to be angry--very angry;
but when I came to those words in my reading, I remembered that though I
had so much against her, she had a little against me; because I had not
spoken just right. And then I knew I ought to confess it and make an
apology; and I was so angry I could not."
"And do you feel so now?" Mrs. Mowbray asked after a slight pause.
"Just the same."
"Do you think you are a Christian, Rotha?"
"No, ma'am. I know--a Christian does His commandments," the girl answered
low.
"Do you want to be a Christian?"
"Yes, ma'am, if I could; but how can I?"
"You cannot, while your will goes against God's will."
"Can I help my will?" said Rotha, bringing up her old question.
"There is the dinner-bell," said Mrs. Mowbray. "If I can get a little
time this evening, I will try to shew you the answer to your question. I
must go now, my dear. Read your New Testament."
Rotha curled herself up on her couch, and by the light of the kennal coal
did read her Testament; full of delight that it was hers, and full of
comfort in the hope that after all there would be a way for her out of
her difficulties.
Then came her dinner. Such a nice dinner it was; and served with a
delicacy and order which charmed Rotha. She eat it alone, but missing
nothing; having a sense of shelter and hiding from all roughnesses of
people and things, that was infinitely soothing. She eat her dinner, and
hoped for Mrs. Mowbray's return. Waiting however in vain. Mrs. Mowbray
came not. The room was bright; the fire burned; the cheerful shine was
upon everything; Rotha was full of comfort in things external; if she
only could settle and quiet this question in her heart. Yes, this
question was everything. Were she but a child of God, secure and
established,--yes, not that only, but pure and good,--like Mr. Digby;
then, all would be right. Then she would be happy. With that question
unsettled, Rotha did not feel that even Mrs. Mowbray could make her so.
Late in the evening Mrs. Mowbray came. Her arms were full of packages.
"I could not get free before," she said, as she shut the door behind her.
"I had an errand--and then company kept me. Well, my dear! have you had a
pleasant evening, all alone?"
"I like to be alone sometimes," Rotha replied a little evasively.
"Do you! Now I like company; unless I have something to do. Perhaps that
was your case, eh?"
"Yes, ma'am, it was."
"And did you accomplish it?--what you had to do."
"No, ma'am."
"You must take me into your counsels. See here--how do you like that?"
She had drawn up a chair to the side of Rotha's couch, and opening one of
the packages on her lap, transferred it to Rotha's. It was the fashion
then for young people to wear woollen stuffs of bright plaid patterns;
and this was a piece of chocolate and black with a thread of gold colour;
soft and beautiful and rich tinted. "How do you like that?" Mrs. Mowbray
repeated; and Rotha answered that she thought it very beautiful.
"Don't you think that would make you a nice school dress? and here--how
would this do for company days?"
As she spoke, she laid upon the chocolate plaid another package,
containing a dark brown poplin, heavy and lustrous. Poor Rotha looked up
bewildered to the lady's face, which was beaming and triumphant.
"Like it?" she said gleefully. "I couldn't tell your taste, you know. I
had to go by my own Don't you think that would become you?"
"_Me?_" said Rotha.
"Yes. You see, we cannot wait for your aunt's slow motions, and you must
be clothed. Do you like it, my dear?"
"I like it _very_ much--of course--they are most beautiful; but--will
aunt Serena give you the money, Mrs. Mowbray?"
"I shall not ask her," said Mrs. Mowbray laughing. "You need not say
anything about it, to her or anybody else. It is our affair. Now here is
a warm skirt, my dear; I want to keep you warm while you are in my house,
and you are not sufficiently armed against the cold weather. I don't want
to have you catching any more colds. You see, this is for my interest.
Now with that you will be as warm as a toast."
It was a beautiful petticoat of scarlet cloth; soft and thick. Rotha
looked at the pile of things lying on her lap, and was absolutely dumb.
Mrs. Mowbray bent forward and kissed her cheek.
"I think you will be well enough to go out by Saturday--and I will let
Miss Jewett go with you to a dress-maker and have these things made up at
once. Is there any particular dress-maker who is accustomed to work for
you?"
"No," Rotha said first, and then immediately added--"Yes! I forgot; the
one who made my summer dresses, that I had in the summer." _That Mr.
Southwode got for me_, she had been about to say; but she checked herself.
Some fine instinct made her perceive that the mention of that gentleman's
name was not received with absolute favour. She thought Mrs. Mowbray did
not approve of Mr. Southwode.
"And now, my dear," said that lady, as she swept away the packages of
goods from Rotha's lap, "what about your question of conscience?"
"It remains a question, ma'am."
"Not settled yet? What makes the difficulty?"
"I told you, ma'am. I did not speak quite as I ought to my aunt, one or
two times, and so--she has something against me; and I cannot pray."
"Cannot pray, my dear! that is dreadful. I should die if I could not
pray. The Bible says, pray always."
"But it says, here, 'if thy brother hath ought against thee, leave there
thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy
brother, and then come and offer thy gift.'"
"Let me see that place," said Mrs. Mowbray. She sat down beside Rotha and
took the little Testament out of her hand, and considered the passage.
"Well, my dear," she said at last,--"and so you think these words forbid
you to pray?"
"Do they not?" said Rotha, "until I could reconcile myself to aunt
Serena? or at least try."
"What is the matter between you and your aunt?"
"I do not know. I cannot tell what makes her do so."
"Do what?"
"Hide me from the only friend I have got."
"You mean that gentleman? My dear, she may have had very good reasons for
that?"
"She could not have good reasons for it," said Rotha flushing.
"My dear, old people often see things that young people do not see, and
cannot judge of."
"You do not know Mr. Southwode, ma'am. Anyhow, I do not feel as if I
could ever forgive her."
"That makes it difficult for you to go and ask her pardon, hey?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What are you going to do?"
"I do not know," said Rotha sadly.
"It is too late for us to talk longer to-night. I will shew you a Bible
to-morrow--stop, there is no time like the present--"
Mrs. Mowbray rose and went to a table from which she brought a little
volume. "This will do better," she said. "I have a Bible in which all
this, in this book, is arranged in reference columns; but this is more
convenient. You can use this with your own Bible, or any Bible. I am
going to give you this, my dear." And she fetched a pen as she spoke and
entered Rotha's name on the title page, with the date of day and month
and year. Then she went on--"Now see, Rotha; here is what will give light
on your question. Here are references from every verse in the Bible to
other parts and other verses which explain or illustrate it. Find your
place,--what is it?--Mat. v. 24, is it?--here; now see, here are
references to other passages, and from them you will find references to
still others. Take this to-morrow and study it out, and pray, my dear.
You cannot get along without praying."