“We walk by faith and not by sight.”
“Creatures of reason do not necessarily become
unreasonable when they consent to walk by faith; nor
do creatures of trust necessarily become faithless
when they are gladdened in a walk by sight.”
Judith sat in the bay-window with a book in her lap; a box of books
had come by express to Miss Judith G. Mackenzie the very day her
Cousin Don sailed for Genoa; they were books written for children;
they were all Judith’s own.
With the light of the sunset in her face, Judith sat reading Jean
Ingelow’s “Stories Told to a Child.”
“O mother, it is too splendid for anything,” she exclaimed; “when you
are rested I will read it to you.”
“Is your ironing all done?”
“Yes, mother.”
“And Aunt Affy’s bed made?”
“All made. Mrs. Kindare put up the cot herself and lent me two
blankets. It is a cunning room; Aunt Affy will like it; Mrs. Kindare
said she could spare the room better than not, and Aunt Affy may stay
a month, waiting until we can go home with her.”
“Put away your book, dear; and come and sit on the rug close to me. I
want to be all alone with my little girl once more before Aunt Affy
comes.”
Reluctantly Judith closed the book; she remembered afterward that she
thought she would rather finish the story than go and sit on the rug
and talk to her mother.
“Mother,” she began, as brightly as though a minute ago she had not
wished to finish the story first, “Don might have stayed with us all
winter and had that room to sleep in.”
“Yes, I thought of that. It would have made a difference in somebody’s
life.”
“Whose life?” Judith questioned.
“In his own,” replied her mother, “and other people’s. I did not
intend to speak my thought aloud.”
The sunset was in the room: it was over Judith, and over her mother.
“Was he sorry he did not come here?” Judith persisted.
“I think he was. He said we would have made him so comfortable. He
would have taken his meals with Mrs. Kindare.”
“Are you sorry, too?”
“No—not exactly. If it were a mistake, it will be taken care of—it is
very queer to trust God with our sins and not with our mistakes.”
“I made a ‘mistake’ that night he was here, mother; I did not mean to
make a sin.”
“Tell me, dear.”
“I thought I would never tell. I was afraid it would worry you. But I
cried after I went to bed. You will think me naughty and silly.”
“Do I ever?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” smiled Judith, “you always do every time I am.”
“I could not lie down in peaceful sleep to-night if I believed that my
little daughter kept a thought in her heart she would rather not tell
her mother.”
“But I shouldn’t keep silly thoughts in my heart.”
“That is what mothers are for—to hear all the silly things.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” decided Judith, bringing herself from a lounging
posture, upright, and yet not touching her mother’s knees; “that night
Lottie said there was a good way to find out what would happen to you
next—to wish for a thing and shut your eyes and open the Bible and put
your hand on a verse, and if it said _And it came to pass_ you would
certainly have it. We both did it, and she got her wish and I didn’t
get mine. My heart was heavy, for I was afraid you wouldn’t like it as
soon as I did it.”
“I do not like it. But I am glad you did it.”
“Why, _mother_!”
“Because I can talk to you about something I might never have thought
about.”
“I like _that_,” said Judith, comforted; “I hope Cousin Don’s mistake
will be good for him.”
“It is already. What do you want to know about yourself?”
“Things that will happen, grown-up things. I make castles about
grown-up things. When I make an air-castle I am never a little girl,
but a big girl, fifteen or eighteen, and that kind of things happen;
the kind of things that happen to girls in books. Is that silly?”
“No; it is only not wise. It spoils to-day, and to-day is too good to
be spoiled. God has made to-day for us, and we slight his gift by
passing it by and trying to find out the things that will happen to us
to-morrow. Suppose you would not read the children’s books Cousin Don
sent you, but coax him to give you grown-up books.”
“I couldn’t be so mean,” said Judith warmly.
“But questions do come to us, wonders about our grown-up time. Is it
not trusting God more to wait for His answers?”
“Oh, yes, I _am_ waiting—unless I can find a way—like that way—to find
out.”
“That is not God’s way; he never told us to find out his will that
way. When he said, ‘And it came to pass,’ it was about something that
had happened, not about something that will happen; and about someone
else, and not about you. The Bible was not written to tell us such
things.”
“But I didn’t know that really,” said Judith, miserable, and ready to
cry.
“That was a mistake, not a sin. We all make mistakes before we know
better. If you should do so again, it would be a sin, because now you
know better.”
“But people did cast lots in Bible times. Don’t you know about finding
out about another disciple to make up the twelve after Judas killed
himself? I read that to you this morning.”
“Yes, I remember that. Casting lots was one of God’s ways in old times
to discover his will. The lot was cast into the lap, and the disposal
thereof was of the Lord. They knew God was willing for them to
cast lots.”
“Yes,” said Judith, in her intelligent voice.
“And this, I just thought of it. That time about choosing another
disciple was the last time. After the Holy Spirit was given there was
no need; the Holy Spirit always reveals the will of God.”
Judith’s eyes grew dull; she could not understand; she felt dimly that
she had done wrong in not trusting God to tell her about her “wish” in
his own way.
“Whenever, in all your life to come, a question about your future
comes to you, a longing to know about something that may happen to
you, or may not happen—but I should not say that; I should say about
something God may will to give you, or may will to keep from you, say
this to yourself: I need not think about it; God knows all about it,
for he _makes_ it; he will tell me as soon as he wants me to know.”
“Yes,” said Judith, with a child’s confidence.
“After that, it would be not only ‘silly,’ but faithless to think
about it. Every day brings its own answer; your daily bread and God’s
daily will come together; his bread gives us strength to do his will.
Will mother’s little girl remember?”
“Yes,” said Judith gravely; “and when you see me forgetting you must
remind me. Will it be wrong if I say ‘daily will’ when I say ‘daily
bread’?”
“Not wrong,” answered her mother, smiling, “only that it comes in the
prayer before daily bread.”
“Does it?”
“Repeat it and see.”
Judith repeated: “Our Father, who art in heaven; Hallowed be thy name;
Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven; give
us this day our daily bread—Why, so it does. But I didn’t put them
together before.”
“The _will_ comes first. If we do his will, he will not forget the
things we long for every day. Love his will better than your own will
and wishes.”
“That’s hard,” said Judith, “I don’t know how.”
“That is what you are in the world for, _to learn how_.”
Judith arose and stood before the grate with sweet, grave, troubled
eyes.
The yellow hair, the innocent face, the blue dress, the loving touch
of lips and fingers, the growing into girlhood; how could she give
them up and go?
“O, mother, mother!” cried Judith, turning at the sound of a stifled
cry, “Are you worse? What shall I do?” then in a tone of quick,
astonished joy, “Oh, here’s Aunt Affy at the door!”