THE KING AND HIS WEAPONS.
Rosa and Harty were scarcely out of the church door before he began,
"Oh! Rosa, did you see how grand Madam Maxwell looked, when she
moved for you to take the end of the pew? It was as much as to say,
'I suppose, little miss, you think you ought to sit here, but you are
very presuming.' I would have taken it if I had been in your place.
It made me mad to see her settle herself so satisfied, when you
refused."
"Fie, Harty!" answered Rosa; "Mrs. Maxwell is a great deal older than
I am, and it is far more suitable that she should have the most
comfortable seat. I should be sorry if my coming home interfered
with her in any way. She has been most faithful in taking charge of
the house since--since--" since our dear mother died, Rosa would have
added, but her eyes filled and her voice failed her. The familiar
scene in the church had brought her lost mother freshly before her,
and she well remembered when they last trod that same path together.
After a few moments she recovered herself, and said, "When I last
passed this spot, Harty, our dear mother was with me. She had been
talking very sweetly to me, as we walked, of the blessing we had in
being able to go out that pleasant morning, and worship God with His
people, while so many poor invalids must remain at home, and even
dear father could not be with us. Just here, I asked her a question
which had long been in my mind. I had always noticed that as soon as
she entered the pew, she knelt down for a few minutes. I wondered
what that was for, as I could not find anything about it in the
Prayer Book. 'Mother,' said I, 'what do you say when you kneel down
before church begins?' 'I make a short prayer,' she answered, 'that
I may remember that I am in God's house, and that He will teach me to
worship Him aright. Many people,' she continued, 'who come early to
church, quite forget that they are in the house of God as much before
the service begins as afterwards, and spend the time until the
clergyman comes in, in looking about and observing their neighbours,
until their minds are quite unfit to join in any solemn duty. I
think the habit of asking the blessing of God on the prayers you are
about to offer, and the truths you are about to hear, is a great help
in reminding you immediately that you are with the Lord in His holy
temple.' 'Won't you teach me a little prayer to say, that I may do
as you do?' I asked. 'Yes, darling,' she answered, with one of her
sweet, loving smiles; and as we walked by this hedge, which was just
planted then, she taught me these words, which I have said, many,
many times since our dear mother was taken by her Heavenly Father to
a better world:--
"'Lord, make me remember that I am in Thy house. Keep me from
dullness and wandering thoughts. Hear my prayers to-day, and bless
to my soul the truths I shall hear, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.'"
Harty listened with interest to every word that Rosa tittered: he
often wanted to hear some one talk of his mother, but it was too sad
a subject for his father to speak freely upon, and Lucy could hardly
remember her.
Rosa gladly perceived that he was interested, and added, "I will
write out the little prayer for you, Harty; I know you will like to
keep it, and use it, for our dear mother's sake."
Harty looked embarrassed, but he did not refuse his sister's offer.
She immediately changed the subject by saying, "Poor little Lucy will
be glad to see us by this time. I hope she can go out this
afternoon. I like to have her with us."
Harty wondered that Rosa should wish for the society of such a child
as Lucy; but his respect for her involuntarily rose when he found
that Rosa spoke affectionately of her.
As they drew near the house, they caught a glimpse of Lucy looking
sorrowfully from her window. She did not run to meet them, as they
expected, but old Betsy came out saying, "Oh! only think of it! Miss
Lucy has got the small-pox, I know she has. There's been a man here
that must have it, for he lives down by Bridget O'Brady's, where they
are dirty enough to make them all ill."
Rosa was startled for a moment, but she answered calmly, "But Lucy
has been vaccinated, Betsy; she would not take the small-pox even if
the man really had it."
"I don't believe nothin' at all in _vaxnation_," said Betsy; "it
don't stand to reason. I telled Miss Lucy she'd ketched the
small-pox, and I believe she has."
"Poor child!" said Rosa; and she ran hastily up stairs. Harty did
not follow, for although he laughed at Lucy's timidity, he was a bit
of a coward about some things himself; and old Betsy's words had
alarmed him not a little.
"Let me in, Lucy," said Rosa's sweet voice entreatingly; "I could not
take the small-pox if you had it."
Lucy gladly unfastened the door. Rosa took the trembling girl in her
lap. For a few moments Lucy sobbed violently, and not a word was
spoken; at length Rosa said, tenderly, "Dear Lucy, there is no danger
of what you dread so much. Here, let me look at those little arms:
there is the scar where you wore vaccinated when you were a baby,
that you might never take the small-pox. Your kind father took good
care that his little Lucy should not have her smooth face all pitted."
"Can't I have it?" asked Lucy, the tears still in her eyes.
"No! certainly not!" was the reply.
"But, dearest," continued Rosa, "you may be exposed to other diseases
quite as dangerous. I wish you could learn to trust the Heavenly
Father, who loves you more dearly even than our own papa; then you
would not be afraid of anything. Shall I tell you what I heard uncle
Gillette saying to one of the little girls at school, who was afraid
of lightning."
"Oh! do," said Lucy; "I am so frightened when it thunders."
Lucy nestled closer in her sister's lap, and Rosa began.
"There was once a mighty king who was so terrible in war that all his
enemies were afraid of him; the very sound of his name made them
tremble. His arm was so strong that the horse and its rider would
sink under one blow of his battle-axe; and when he struck with his
sharp sword, his enemies fell dead at his feet. This mighty king had
a little fair-haired daughter, who watched him as he prepared for the
battle. She saw him put on his helmet, and laughed as the plumes
nodded above his brow. She saw the stately battle-axe brought forth;
she saw him take his keen sword in his hand; he tried its edge, then
waved it about his head in the sunlight. She laughed as it glanced
sparkling through the air; and even while it was upheld she ran
towards her father to take a parting kiss. Why was not the little
child afraid of the mighty king with the fierce weapons? Because he
was her father; she knew that he loved her, loved her as his own
life. She knew that those dangerous weapons would never be used
against her unless to save her from worse peril. Do you understand
what uncle Gillette meant by this story?"
"Not exactly," said Lucy; "won't you tell me?"
"He meant," said Rosa, "that God is like that mighty king. Sickness,
lightning, danger, trial, death, are all His weapons; but we need not
fear them if we are truly His children. When the sharp lightning
flashes in the sky, we can look calmly at its beauty, for it is in
our Father's hand. Sickness may be around us, but our Father can
keep us safe. Death may come, but it will only be to send us to our
Father's arms."
"But I am not His child," half sobbed Lucy.
"His child you are, my dear little sister: His loving, obedient
child, I hope you will be."
At this moment the dinner-bell rang. Rosa waited till Lucy could
wash away the traces of her tears and smooth her hair, and then they
went down stairs together. Mrs. Maxwell looked up with a smile as
Rosa came in; her thoughtful deference was beginning to have its
effect.
"Hurrah! for the small-pox!" shouted Harty, as Lucy came in. He had
heard from his father that the danger was imaginary, and, forgetting
his own fears, he quite despised Lucy for her fright.
"Come here, my little patient," said the doctor to the blushing
child. "I don't wonder my pet was frightened: old Betsy ought to be
ashamed for being so foolish. Poor Owen M'Grath could injure no one;
his sorrow is his worst disease. You see I made out the name in your
spelling, and I am obliged to my little girl for trying to write the
message so exactly. Owen had as neat a little home as you could wish
to see, but it is a sad, sad place now. His poor wife has long been
ill with consumption; she died this noon, and there is no one to take
charge of his little baby but his daughter, who is only as old as you
are, Lucy."
"Can we not do something for them, father?" asked Rosa.
"How like her mother," thought the doctor. "Yes, dear child," he
replied; "I will take you to see them to-morrow."
"May I go too?" asked Harty, eagerly.
The father smiled and nodded his head. "We will not leave little
Lucy behind, either," he added, to her great delight; "that is, if
she is well enough. My pet looks a little pale yet. You did well,
Mrs. Maxwell, not to let her go out this morning."
Mrs. Maxwell gave a glance at Lucy, which made her drop her eyes.
"I shall not be at home to hear your catechism this evening, Lucy,"
said Mrs. Maxwell, as she left the dinner-table; "I am going to see a
sick friend after church, as Miss Rosa can take my place at tea-time."
"Willingly," said Rosa, "and hear the catechism too," she added,
internally.