HEART TRIALS.
"Well, Kate," said Zenas, as he and his sister rode homeward
through the solemn moonlight and starlight, "You have burned your
boats and broken down the bridge. There is no going back."
"I hope not, Zenas," she replied, "but I feel very much the need
of going forward. I have only made the first step yet."
"Well, you've started on the right line, anyhow. It was a plucky
thing to do. I did not think it was in you. You are naturally so
shy. I wish I could do the same myself, but I haven't the
courage."
"Don't think of yourself, Zenas, nor of your comrades; but of the
loving Saviour who died for you and longs to save you."
"Upon my word, Kate, it made me feel more what a coward I am to
see you standing before the whole meeting than all the preaching I
ever heard."
"I felt that I ought, that I must," said Kate, "but after I rose I
forgot every one there and spoke because my heart was full. O
Zenas, just give up everything for Jesus; be willing to endure
anything for Jesus; and you'll feel a joy and gladness you never
felt before. Why, the very world seems changed, the stars and the
trees, and the moonlight on the river were never so beautiful; and
my heart is as light as a bird."
"I wish I could, Kate. I remember I used to feel something like
that about Brock. I could follow him anywhere. I could have died
for him."
"Well, that feeling is ennobling. But much nobler is it to enlist
under the Great Captain, the grandest teacher and leader the world
ever knew; and what is better far, the most loving Saviour and
Friend."
With such loving converse, the brother and sister beguiled the
homeward way. As Kate retired to her room a sweet peace flooded
her soul as the moonlight flooded with a heavenly radiance the
snowy world without. Zenas, on the contrary, was ill at ease, and
tossed restlessly, his soul disturbed with deep questionings of
the hereafter, during much of the night.
As Kate sat at the head of the table next morning, where her
mother had been wont to sit, some of her dead mother's holy calm
and peace seemed to rest upon her countenance. So thought her
father as he looked upon her.
"How like your mother you grow, child," ha said when all the rest
had left the table.
"Do I, father? I hope I shall grow like her in everything. I have
learned the secret of her noble life. I have found her best
friend," and she modestly recounted her recent experiences.
Little more then passed, but a few days afterwards, the Squire
took occasion, when he was alone with his daughter, to say, "I
hope you are not going to join those Methodists, Kate. I respect
religion as much as any one; but I think the Church of your father
ought to be good enough for you. You've always been a good girl. I
don't see the need of this fuss, as if you had been doing
something awful. Besides," he went on, a little hesitatingly, as
if he were not quite sure of his ground, "besides it will mar your
prospects in life, if you only knew it."
"I don't understand you, father," replied Kate, with an expression
of perplexity. "You have always thought too well of me. I know my
life has been very far from right in the eyes of God. I feel I
need pardon as much as the worst of sinners."
"Of course we're all sinners," went on the old man. "The Prayer
Book says that. But then Christ died to save sinners, you know;
and I'm sure you never did any thing very bad. But what I mean is
this: You must be aware that you have made a deep impression upon
Captain Villiers, and no blame to him either. He is an honourable
gentleman, and he has asked my permission to pay his addresses. I
asked him to wait till this cruel war is over, because while it
lasts a soldier's life is very uncertain, and I did not wish to
harrow up your feelings by cultivating affections which might be
blighted in their bloom. Nay, hear me out, child," he continued,
as Kate was about to reply," I did not intend to speak of this
now, but the Captain is a strict Churchman, and so were his
ancestors, he says, for three hundred years, and he would not, I
am sure, like one for whom he entertains such sentiments as he
does toward you, to cast in her lot with those ranting
Methodists."
Kate had at first blushed deeply, and then grew very pale. She
however listened to her father patiently, and then said quietly,
but with much firmness, "I respect Captain Villiers very highly,
father; and am very grateful for his kindness to us all, and
especially to Zenas when he was wounded. I feel, too, the honour
he has done me in entertaining the sentiments of which you speak.
But something more than respect is due to the man to whom I shall
entrust my life's keeping. Where my heart goes, there will go my
hand; there, and not elsewhere."
"Pooh! pooh, child. Girls are always romantic, and never know
their own mind. You will think better of it. I'm getting to be an
old man, Kate, and would not like to leave you unsettled in life
in these troublous times. You owe me your obedience as a daughter,
remember?"
"I owe you my love, my life, father, but I owe something to
myself, and more to God. I feel that my taste and disposition end
that of Captain Villiers are very different, and more different
than ever since the recent change in my religious feelings. It
would be at the peril of my soul, were I to encourage what you
wish."
"Nonsense, girl. You are growing fanatical. You never disobeyed me
before. You must not disobey me now."
Kate smiled a wan and flickering smile of dissent; but to say more
she felt would be fruitless. A heavy burden was laid upon her
young life. She knew the iron will that slumbered beneath her
father's kind exterior; but she felt in her soul a will as
resolute, and with a woman's queenly dignity she resolved to keep
that soul-realm free. In her outward conduct she was more dutiful
and attentive to her father's comfort than ever; but she felt
poignantly that for the first time in her life an injunction was
laid upon her by one who she so passionately loved which she could
not obey. She found much comfort in softly singing to herself in
that inviolate domain, the solitude of her own room, a recent
poem which she had clipped from the _York Gazette,_ and
which, in part, expressed her own emotions:--
"Jesus, I my cross have taken,
All to leave and follow Thee;
Naked, poor, despised, forsaken,
Thou, from hence, my all shalt be;
Perish every fond ambition,
All I've sought and hoped and known,
Yet how rich is my condition!
God and heaven are still my own!
"And while Thou shalt smile upon me,
God of wisdom, love, and might,
Foes may hate, and friends may shun me
Show Thy face and all is bright.
Go, then, earthly fame and treasure!
Come disaster, acorn, and pain!
In Thy service, pain is pleasure;
With Thy favour, loss is gain.
"Man may trouble and distress me,
Twill but drive me to Thy breast;
Life with trials hard may press me,
Heaven will bring me sweeter rest.
O 'tis not in grief to harm me,
While Thy love is left to me;
O 'twere not in joy to charm me,
Were that joy unmixed with Thee."