It may be well imagined, then, with what interest all the vi

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

Working in the Shade; or, Lowly Sowing Brings Glorious Reaping

by the Reverend Theodore P Wilson

________________________________________________________________

When he wrote "Frank Oldfield" some ten years before this book, and won

a literary prize with it, Wilson showed that he was an author who could

write a good story round a moral theme, and hold his readers' attention.

This is just such a book. You could look at it as no more than a very

hard-hitting sermon on the theme of Selfishness, but it is well-written

enough, with various episodes of selfishness leading to disaster, and

unselfishness leading heavenwards.

It is not a long book, and it will not take you long to read this book,

or listen to it. It is well-written, and it will surely make a good

impression upon you, and give you food for thought. NH

________________________________________________________________

WORKING IN THE SHADE; OR, LOWLY SOWING BRINGS GLORIOUS REAPING

BY THE REVEREND THEODORE P WILSON

CHAPTER ONE.

THE NEW-COMER.

Curiosity was on tiptoe in the small country-town of Franchope and the

neighbourhood when it was settled without a doubt that Riverton Park was

to be occupied once more.

Park House, which was the name of the mansion belonging to the Riverton

estate, was a fine, old, substantial structure, which stood upon a

rising ground, and looked out upon a richly undulating country, a

considerable portion of which belonged to the property.

The house was situated in the centre of an extensive park, whose groups

and avenues of venerable trees made it plain that persons of

consideration had long been holders of the estate. But for the last

twenty years Riverton Park had been a mystery and a desolation. No one

had occupied the house during that time, except an old man and his wife,

who pottered about the place, and just contrived to keep the buildings

from tumbling into ruin. The shutters were always closed, as though the

mansion were in a state of chronic mourning for a race of proprietors

now become extinct, except that now and then, in summer-time, a

niggardly amount of fresh air and sunshine was allowed to find its way

into the interior of the dwelling.

As for the grounds and the park, they were _overlooked_ in more senses

than one by a labourer and his sons, who lived in a hamlet called

Bridgepath, which was situated on the estate, about a mile from the

house, in the rear, and contained some five hundred people. John Willis

and his sons were paid by somebody to look after the gardens and drives;

and as they got their money regularly, and no one ever came to inspect

their work, they just gave a turn at the old place now and then at odd

times, and neither asked questions nor answered any, and allowed the

grass and weeds to have their own way, till the whole domain became

little better than an unsightly wilderness. Everybody said it was a

shame, but as no one had a right to interfere, the broad, white front of

Park House continued to look across the public road to Franchope through

its surroundings of noble trees, with a sort of pensive dignity, its

walls being more or less discoloured and scarred, while creepers

straggled across the windows, looking like so many wrinkles indicative

of decrepitude and decay.

But why did no one purchase it? Simply because its present owner, who

was abroad somewhere, had no intention of selling it. At last, however,

a change had come. Riverton Park was to be tenanted again. But by

whom? Not by its former occupier; that was ascertained beyond doubt by

those who had sufficient leisure and benevolence to find out other

people's business for the gratification of the general public. It was

not so clear who was to be the new-comer. Some said a retired

tradesman; others, a foreign princess; others, the proprietor of a

private lunatic asylum. These and other rumours were afloat, but none

of them came to an anchor.

It was on a quiet summer's evening in July that Mary Stansfield was

walking leisurely homeward along the highroad which passed through the

Riverton estate and skirted the park. Miss Stansfield was the orphan

child of an officer who had perished, with his wife and other children,

in the Indian Mutiny. She had been left behind in England, in the

family of a maiden aunt, her father's sister, who lived on her own

property, which was situated between the Riverton estate and the town of

Franchope. She had inherited from her father a small independence, and

from both parents the priceless legacy of a truly Christian example, and

the grace that rests on the child in answer to the prayers of faith and

love.

The world considered her position a highly-favoured one, for her aunt

would no doubt leave her her fortune and estate when she died; for she

had already as good as adopted her niece, from whom she received all the

attention and watchful tenderness which she needed continually, by

reason of age and manifold infirmities. But while our life has its

outer convex side, which magnifies its advantages before the world, it

has its inner concave side also, which reduces the outer circumstances

of prosperity into littleness, when "the heart knoweth its own

bitterness, and a stranger doth not intermeddle with its joy." So it

was with Mary Stansfield. She had a refined and luxurious home, and all

her wants supplied. She was practically mistress of the household, and

had many friends and acquaintances in the families of the neighbouring

gentry, several of whom had country seats within easy walk or drive of

her home. Yet there was a heavy cross in her lot, and its edges were

very sharp. In her aged aunt, with whom she lived, there were a

harshness of character, and an inability to appreciate or sympathise

with her niece, which would have made Mary Stansfield's life a burden to

her had it not been for her high sense of duty, her patient charity, and

God's abiding-grace in her heart. Misunderstood, thwarted at every

turn, her attentions misinterpreted, her gentle forbearance made the

object of keen and relentless sarcasm or lofty reproof, her supposed

failings and shortcomings exposed and commented upon with ruthless

bitterness, while yet the tongue which wounded never transgressed the

bounds imposed by politeness, but rather chose the blandest terms

wherewith to stab the deepest,--hers was indeed a life whose daily

strain taxed the unostentatious grace of patience to the utmost, and

made her heart often waver, while yet the settled will never lost its

foothold.

How gladly, had she consulted self, would she have left her gilded

prison and joined some congenial sister, as her own means would have

permitted her to do, in work for God, where, after toiling abroad, she

could come back to a humble home, in which her heart would be free, and

generous love would answer love. But duty said "No," as she believed.

The cold, hard woman who so cruelly repulsed her was her beloved

father's only sister, and she had resolved that while her aunt claimed

or desired her services no personal considerations should withdraw her

from that house of restraint and humiliation.

Pondering the difficulties of her trying position, yet in no murmuring

spirit, Mary Stansfield, on this quiet summer's evening, was just

passing the boundary wall which separated Riverton Park from the

adjoining property, when, to her surprise and partly amusement also, she

noticed a venerable-looking old gentleman seated school-boy fashion on

the top rail of a five-barred gate. The contrast between his

patriarchal appearance and his attitude and position made her find it

difficult to keep her countenance; so, turning her head away lest he

should see the smile on her face, she was quickening her pace, when she

became aware that he had jumped down from his elevated seat and was

advancing towards her.

"Miss Stansfield, I suppose?" he asked, as she hesitated for a moment in

her walk, at the same time raising his hat respectfully.

Surprised at this salutation, but pleased with the voice and manner of

the stranger, she stopped, and replied to his question in the

affirmative, and was moving on, when he added,--

"I am a stranger to you at present, my dear young lady; but I hope not

to be so long. I daresay you will guess that I am the new occupier of

Riverton Park. I suppose I ought properly to wait for a formal

introduction before making your acquaintance; but I have lived abroad in

the colonies for some years past, and colonial life makes one disposed

at times to set aside or disregard some of those social barriers which

are, I know, necessary in the old country; so you must excuse an old man

for introducing himself, and will permit him, I am sure, to accompany

you as far as your aunt's lodge."

There was something so frank, and at the same time so thoroughly

courteous, about the old gentleman's address that Miss Stansfield could

not be offended with him; while his age and bearing prevented her

feeling that there was any impropriety in her permitting him to be her

companion on the public road till she should reach the drive-gate

leading up to her home. She therefore bowed her assent, and the two

walked slowly forward.

"You must know, Miss Stansfield," proceeded the stranger, "that I have

both seen you before and have also heard a good deal about you, though

we have never met till to-day.--Ah, I know what you would say," he

added, with a smile, as he noticed her look of extreme surprise and her

blush of bewilderment. "You are thinking, What can I have heard about

one who is leading such a commonplace, retired life as yours? I will

tell you. I have been rather anxious to know what sort of neighbours I

shall have round me here, so I have been getting a little reliable

information on the subject--where from it matters not; and my informant

has told me about an old lady whose estate adjoins Riverton Park, and

who has a niece living with her who belongs to a class for which I have

a special respect, and which I may call `workers in the shade.' Do you

understand me?"

"Perfectly," replied his companion; "only I feel utterly unworthy of

being included in such a class."

"Of course you do. And just for this reason, because you're in the

habit of burning candles instead of letting off fireworks; and so you

think your humble candles aren't of much service because they don't go

off with a rush and a fizz. Is that it?"

"Perhaps it may be so," said the other, laughing.

"Well, do you remember what Shakespeare says?" asked the old man.

"`How far that little candle throws its beams,

So shines a good deed in a naughty world.'

"Now, I want you kindly to answer me a question. It is this, Are there

any unselfish people in Franchope or the neighbourhood?"

The question was put so abruptly, and was so odd in itself, that Mary

Stansfield looked in her companion's face with a half misgiving. He

noticed it instantly. "You're a little doubtful as to the old

gentleman's vanity?" he said, laughing; "but I'm quite sane and quite in

earnest; and I repeat my question."

"Really," said the other, much amused, "it is a very difficult question

to answer. I hope and believe that there are many unselfish persons in

our neighbourhood, or it would be sad indeed."

"Ah! True," was his reply, "but hoping is one thing, and believing is

another. Now, I've been half over the world, and have come back to my

own country with the settled conviction that selfishness is the great

crying sin of our day; and it seems to me to have increased tenfold in

my own native land since I last left it. So I should very much like to

meet with a specimen or two of genuine unselfish people; for I have some

important work to do here, and I shall stand in need of truly unselfish

helpers. Can you name me one or two?"

"Well, sir, if you mean by unselfish persons those who really work for

God's glory and not their own, I freely admit that they are, and I

suppose always must be, comparatively rare."

"That is exactly what I _do_ mean, my dear young lady; can you help me

to find a few such unselfish workers in your own rank of life, and of

your own sex?"

His companion was silent for a few moments, then she said slowly and

timidly, "I judge, dear sir, from the tone of your questions that you

are a follower of that Saviour who has set us the only perfect example

of unselfishness."

"I trust so, my young friend," was the other's reply; "I wish at least

to be so. Well, I see we have only a few more steps to bring us to your

aunt's lodge. We shall meet again, I have no doubt, before long; and

perhaps when we do I shall have more to say to you on the same subject.

Farewell, and thank you." And with a courteous salutation he parted

from her.

CHAPTER TWO.

SETTLING DOWN.

Restoration and improvement went on vigorously at Riverton Park. The

front of the house soon lost its careworn appearance; the walks laid

aside their weeds, and shone with a lively surface of fresh gravel; the

shutters ceased to exclude the daylight; while painters and paperers,

masons and carpenters, decorators and upholsterers soon brought the

interior of the dwelling into a becoming state of beauty, order, and

comfort.

And now the new proprietor was looked for with anxious expectation. His

name had already got abroad, and all the gentry round were prepared to

welcome Colonel Dawson when he should take possession of his newly

acquired property. The colonel was an old retired officer, who had

spent many years since leaving the army in one or more of the colonies.

And now he was come home again, and intended to pass the rest of his

days at Riverton. This was all that report could confidently affirm at

present.

Was he an old bachelor or married? And if the latter, was his wife

still living, and was there any family? Very conflicting rumours got

abroad on this subject, but very little satisfaction came of them. All

that could conclusively be gathered was that Park House was to have a

lady inhabitant as well as the colonel; but that only a portion of the

house was to be fully furnished. The appearance of a coachman daily

exercising two noble carriage-horses was also hailed as a sign that the

colonel did not mean to lead an unsociable life.

So Franchope and its neighbourhood were content, and watched the

arrivals at the station day by day with patient interest. At length, in

the first week in August, it was observed that the colonel's carriage

drew up at the railway office to meet the evening train from London.

From a first-class carriage there emerged three persons--the colonel, an

elderly lady, and a young man who might be some twenty years of age; a

footman and a lady's-maid also made their appearance; and all drove off

for Riverton Park. Who could count the pairs of eyes that looked out

from various windows in Franchope as the carriage drove rapidly through

the town? A glance, a flash, and the new-comers were gone.

And now, in a few days, the whole household having twice occupied the

family pews in the old parish church on the Lord's day, the neighbouring

gentry began to make their calls.

The first to do so were Lady Willerly and her daughter. Her ladyship

had discovered that she was distantly connected with the colonel, and

hastened to show her interest in him as speedily as possible. Having

cordially shaken hands with her and her daughter. Colonel Dawson turned

to the lady and young man by his side and introduced them as, "My sister

Miss Dawson; my nephew Mr Horace Jackson." So the relationships were

settled, and public curiosity set at rest.

Numerous other callers followed, and by all it was agreed that the

family was a decided acquisition; a pity perhaps that there was not a

Mrs Dawson and a few more young people to fill the roomy old house and

add liveliness to the various parties and social gatherings among the

gentry. A younger man than the colonel would undoubtedly have been more

to the general taste, especially as it was soon found that the family at

Park House neither accepted nor gave dinner invitations, nor indeed

invitations to any gatherings except quiet afternoon friendly meetings,

where intercourse with a few neighbours could be enjoyed without mixing

with the gaieties of the fashionable world.

So good society shrugged its shoulders, and raised its eyebrows, and

regretted that the colonel, who doubtless was a good man, should have

taken up such strict and strange notions. However, people must please

themselves; and so it came to pass that the family at Riverton Park was

soon left pretty much to itself, just exchanging civil calls now and

then with the principal neighbours, and being left out of the circle of

fashionable intimacy.

Three families, however, kept up a closer acquaintance, which ripened,

more or less, into friendship. About a mile and a half from the Park,

on the side that was farthest from Franchope, lived Mr Arthur Wilder, a

gentleman of independent means, with a wife, a grown-up son, and three

daughters. Horace Jackson was soon on the most intimate terms with

young Wilder, and with his sisters, who had the reputation of being the

most earnest workers in all good and benevolent schemes, so that in them

the clergyman of their parish had the benefit of three additional right

hands; while their parents and brother gave time, money, and influence

to many a good cause and useful institution.

Adjoining the Riverton estate, in the direction of Franchope, was, as

has been already stated, the property of the elderly Miss Stansfield,

whose niece, Mary, has been introduced to our readers. The old lady was

an early caller on the colonel's family, having made a special effort to

rouse herself to pay the call, as she rarely left her own grounds. She

at once took to Colonel Dawson; and, whether or no the liking was

returned on his part, he frequently visited his infirm neighbour, and

would spend many a quiet hour with her, to her great satisfaction. The

old lady was one who wished to do good, and did it, but not graciously.

So she had won respect and a good name among her dependants, but not

love. The world called her selfish, but the world was wrong. She was

self-absorbed, but not selfish in the ordinary sense of the term. She

acted upon principle of the highest kind; her religion was a reality,

but she had been used ever to have her own way, and could not brook

thwarting or contradiction; while her ailments and infirmities had

clustered her thoughts too much round herself, and had generated a

bitterness in her manner and speech, which made the lot of her niece,

who was her constant companion, a very trying one.

To the north of Riverton Park was the estate of Lady Willerly. Her

ladyship was one of those impetuous characters who are never content

unless they are taking castles by storm; she must use a hatchet where a

penknife would answer equally well or better. She was a widow, and

dwelt with her only child Grace, a grown-up daughter, in her fine old

family mansion, in the midst of her tenants and the poor, who lived in a

state of chronic alarm lest she should be coming down upon them with

some new and vigorous alteration or improvement. Her daughter was in

some respects like her mother, as full of energy, but with a little more

discretion; bright as a sunbeam, and honest as the day; abounding also

in good works. Such were the three families who maintained an intimacy

with Colonel Dawson, when the rest of the neighbouring gentry dropped

off into ordinary acquaintances.

CHAPTER THREE.

"THE NEW SCHOOL."

When the family had occupied Park House about four months, a great deal

of curiosity and excitement was felt by the inhabitants of Bridgepath,

the little hamlet of five hundred persons in the rear of Riverton Park,

in consequence of sundry cart-loads of bricks, stone, and lime being

deposited on a field which was situated a few yards from the principal

beer-shop. The colonel was going to build, it seemed,--but what?

Possibly a full-grown public-house. Well, that would be a very

questionable improvement. Was it to be a school, or a reading-room?

There was a school already, held in the parlour of the blacksmith's

cottage, where a master attended on week-days, weather permitting, and

imparted as much of the three R's as the children, whose parents thought

it worth while to send them, could be induced to acquire under the

pressure of a moderate amount of persuasion and an immoderate amount of

castigation.

The master came in a pony-cart from Franchope, and returned in the same

the moment the afternoon school broke up, so that his scholars had ample

opportunity, when he was fairly gone, to settle any little disputes

which might have arisen during school hours by vigorous fights on the

open green, the combatants being usually encouraged to prolong their

encounters to the utmost by the cheers of the men who gathered round

them out of the neighbouring beer-shops.

As for religious instruction, the master, it is true, made his scholars

read a portion of the Scriptures twice a week, and learn a few verses.

But they would have been almost better without this; for the hard,

matter-of-fact way in which he dealt with the Holy Book and its

teachings would make the children rather hate than love their Bible

lesson.

And what was done for the improvement, mental or spiritual, of the

grown-up people? Nothing. Neither church nor chapel existed in the

place. A few old and middle-aged people walked occasionally to the

nearest place of worship, some two miles off; but nine-tenths of the

villagers went nowhere on a Sunday--that is to say, nowhere where they

could hear anything to do them good, though they were ready enough to

leave their homes on the Sabbath to congregate where they could drink

and game together, and sing profane and immoral songs.

So Bridgepath was rightly called "a lost place;" and indeed it had been

"lost" for so many years, that there seemed scarcely the remotest

prospect of its being "found" by any one disposed to do it good.

However, even in this dark spot there was a corner from which there

shone a little flickering light. John Price and his family tenanted a

tolerably roomy cottage at the entrance to the village, close to the

horse-pond. The poor man had seen better days, having acted as steward

to the young squire from the time he came into the property till he

disappeared with his infant son and an old nurse who had lived for

nearly two generations on the Riverton estate. Poor John had served the

squire's father also as steward, and loved the young master as if he had

been his own child; and it was known that, when ruin fell on the young

man, the poor steward was dragged down also to poverty, having been

somehow or other involved in his employer's ruin. But never did John

Price utter a word that would throw light on this subject to anyone

outside his own family. All he would let people know was, that the

squire had left him his cottage rent-free for his life,--which was,

indeed, all that the master had to leave his faithful servant.

The worthy man had struggled hard to keep himself and his family; but

now he was bed-ridden, and had been so for some five or six years past.

However, he had a patient wife, who made the most and best of a very

little, and loving children, some of them in service, who helped him

through. And he found a measure of peace in studying his old, well-worn

Bible, though he read it as yet but ignorantly. Still, what light he

had he strove to impart to those of the villagers who came to sit and

condole with him; while his wife, and an unmarried daughter who lived at

home, both deploring the wickedness of Bridgepath, tried to throw in a

word of scriptural truth now and then, for the sake of instructing and

improving their heathenish neighbours.

It may be well imagined, then, with what interest all the villagers, but

especially the Prices, including John himself, as he was propped up in

bed and gazed through the casement, marked the numerous carts bringing

building materials of all kinds to the village. All doubts on the

subject, however, were soon brought to an end by a call from the colonel

at John's house in the early part of November. After a few kind

inquiries about his health and family, Colonel Dawson informed him that

he was going to build at once a school and master's house in Bridgepath,

with a reading-room attached to it, and to place there a married man of

thorough Christian principles; one who would not only look after the

ordinary teaching of the children, but would also, under the

superintendence of the vicar, conduct a simple religious service on

Sundays for the instruction of the villagers.

Bridgepath had from time immemorial been under the special supervision

of the proprietors of Riverton Park, the whole hamlet being a portion of

the property. The parish to which it belonged was extensive, and the

parish church some five miles distant, Bridgepath being just on the

borders of the next parish, in which parish the Park itself was

situated. So, in former days, the chaplain at the house used to look

after the people of the hamlet in a good-natured sort of way, by taking

food and clothing to the sick and destitute, and saying a kind word, and

giving a little wholesome advice, where he thought they were needed.

But being himself unhappily possessed of but little light, he was unable

to impart much to others, and the spiritual destitution of poor

Bridgepath never seemed to occur to his mind at all. But now, for the

last twenty years, neither squire nor chaplain had resided at Riverton;

so that a very occasional visit from the vicar--who had more on his

hands nearer home than he could well accomplish, and who, with others,

was living in constant expectation of some one coming to the property

and bringing about a change--was all that had been done directly for the

scriptural instruction and eternal welfare of the benighted inhabitants

of Bridgepath.

Now, however, a mighty change was coming, and the dwellers in the hamlet

were supposed to be highly delighted, as a matter of course, with the

prospect. And, certainly, the hearts of old John Price and his wife and

daughter did rejoice; but not so the hearts of most of the inhabitants,

for they were thoroughly conscious that much of the goings on in their

village would not bear looking into by those who feared God and

respected human law. Bridgepath had been now for a good many years a

_privileged_ place in the eyes of poachers, gamblers, and Sabbath-

breakers, where the devil's active servants could hold their festivals,

especially on the Lord's day, without fear of interruption from

policeman or preacher. And the women were as bad as the men; they

"loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil." So

the new school and reading-room arose amidst the sneers and loudly-

expressed disgust of the majority of the population; the proprietors of

the beer-shops being specially bitter in their denunciations of this

uncalled-for innovation on the good old times and habits, so long the

favoured lot of a primitive and unsophisticated people, who had been

quite content when left to their own devices, and could do perfectly

well without these new-fashioned schemes, if only good people would just

let them alone. The good people, however, saw the matter in a different

light; and so, spite of all the grumbling and outspoken dissatisfaction,

the buildings were completed in the spring, and the new schoolmaster and

his wife took up their abode in Bridgepath.

Colonel Dawson had chosen his man carefully, and duly warned him that he

would find his post at first no bed of roses. To which the master

replied that he was not afraid of encountering his share of thorns; and

that he doubted not but that with prayer, patience, and perseverance,

there would be both flowers and fruit in Bridgepath in due time. As for

opposition, he rather enjoyed a little of it, and trusted to be enabled

to live it down. The colonel was satisfied, for he knew that he had

chosen a man who had already proved himself to be no mere talker. So

Bridgepath looked on in sulky wonder; but soon was constrained to

acknowledge that, in their new schoolmaster, the right man had been put

into the right place.

And now the colonel was very anxious to get the help of some earnest-

hearted Christian lady, who would visit the sick and needy in the

neglected hamlet, carrying with her Christ in her heart and on her lips;

for his sister was too old to undertake such a work. His thoughts

turned to Mary Stansfield. He would go and have a talk with the old

lady her aunt about it.

CHAPTER FOUR.

WHAT IS UNSELFISHNESS?

Colonel Dawson took a deep interest both in Miss Stansfield and her

niece. He understood them both, and pitied them both, but for very

different reasons. He pitied the old lady because she was throwing away

her own happiness and crippling her own usefulness. He pitied her

because she was not what she might so easily have been; because she was

storing up vinegar where she might have gathered honey; and was one of

those of whom Dr South says that "they tell the truth, but tell it with

the tongue of a viper." He pitied Mary Stansfield, but with a pity

mingled with profound respect and admiration. He pitied her that she

should have to bear those daily raspings of the spirit which her aunt,

half unconsciously, perpetually inflicted on her. And yet he could not

altogether regret the discipline, when he marked how the trial was daily

burnishing the fine gold of her character. Still, he pitied both, and

was a frequent visitor at Morewood Court, partly because he marked how

few were the friends who cared to stay at the house, and, more still,

because he hoped to be of use in lightening the burden of both aunt and

niece.

Colonel Dawson was one of those who love "working in the shade." Not

that he was ashamed or afraid of working in the light, but he was

content to pursue the less attractive and less ornamental paths of

usefulness, which few comparatively cared to follow. And so he had set

himself resolutely and prayerfully to the task of rearranging the

character of one who, he was persuaded, was capable and desirous of

doing good and great things, could she only be got to hold herself at

arm's-length from herself for a little while, and see herself in the

glass of God's Word, and as others saw her. He felt sure that there was

good, practical sense enough in her mind, and grace enough in her heart,

to make her yield to conviction when he should draw her on to see and

acknowledge a better way; and then he knew that, when she should have

been drawn out of the old self into a better self, she would duly

appreciate and love her long-suffering niece. But he was well aware

that the old self would not surrender its throne without a severe

struggle, and he was therefore not surprised to find the old lady's

bitterness rather increase than diminish as through their conversations

she was learning to become more and more dissatisfied with herself.

Her poor niece had to bear in consequence the burden of an increased

irritability in her aunt's addresses to her. But she was greatly

cheered when the colonel took an opportunity of seeing her alone, and

assuring her that, spite of appearances to the contrary, the clouds were

beginning to break, and that light and peace would shortly follow.

It was now the month of June; the school and reading-room at Bridgepath

had got fairly established; the growlers and grumblers had nearly all of

them subsided; and many long-benighted souls were receiving light with

gladness.

"Pray excuse my calling so early," said the colonel, as he took his seat

beside the elder Miss Stansfield, on a bright sunny morning. The

drawing-room window was open, and the ladies were seated on either side

of it--the aunt half reclining on an easy-chair, the other occupying a

low stool, with the open Bible from which she had been reading aloud on

her lap.

Miss Stansfield received her visitor very cordially, but it was plain

that the reading of the Holy Book had not imparted any sunshine to her

spirit, and there were traces of recent tears in her niece's eyes.

The colonel saw this, but made no remark on it. For a few moments he

gazed on the lovely garden, visible through the open window, without

speaking; then he said abruptly, "I was thinking how selfish we

naturally are; those beautiful flowers reminded me of it, and seemed to

reproach me. God gives us such a profusion of colour, and harmonises it

so marvellously to delight us; and yet how ready we are to pick out, as

it were, the sombrest tints in his dealings with us, and to keep our

eyes fixed on them."

Miss Stansfield coloured slightly, and then said, after a pause, during

which her niece did not look up, but nervously moved the leaves of her

Bible, "Yes, I quite agree with you, Colonel Dawson; there is abundance

of selfishness in our days, especially among young people. They seem to

think of nothing but having their own way, and seldom condescend to

admit that those who have been brought up in less enlightened days can

have gained any wisdom by experience."

"Ah! I dare say," replied the other; "I've no doubt that young people,

many of them at least, have a large share of this very unlovable

quality. Perhaps we have all of us more of it than we should like to

admit to ourselves. But now, to tell the truth, I am on the look-out

for one or two unselfish people;--can either of you, my dear friends,

help me to find them?"

"I think you will search in vain in _this_ neighbourhood," said the old

lady dryly.

"Nay, my dear Miss Stansfield, are you not a little uncharitable?

Surely you can point me to some who love doing good, and forget

themselves in doing it."

"I can say `Yes' to the first but not to the last part of your

question," was the reply. "There are plenty who love doing good,

according to the popular estimate of goodness; but they love still more

to be known and praised as the doer of it."

"Well," rejoined her visitor, "granting this in a measure, I should

still like to know of some of these popular good-doers. We must make

considerable allowance for human frailty. Perhaps I shall be able to

pick out a real jewel, where you have believed them to be only coloured

glass and tinsel."

"I fear not, Colonel Dawson. However, I will mention a few of what I

believe to be but counterfeit gems. There are the Wilders, for

instance. Those girls are always doing good, and their brother too.

You have only to look into the local papers to see what a broad stream

of good works is perpetually flowing from that family. What with

ecclesiastical decorations, Sunday-school and day-school _fetes_,

dancing at charity balls, managing coal and clothing clubs, and a

hundred other things in which the world and the Church get their

alternate share pretty evenly, that family is a perfect pattern of good

deeds for everybody to look at,--like the children's samplers, which

their mothers point to with so much pride, as they hang up framed in

their cottages."

The colonel looked grave, and said, "Then you do not consider that there

are likely to be any unselfish workers in the Wilder family?"

"You had better ask my niece, colonel. She will give you an

unprejudiced opinion."

The other looked towards the younger lady, and said, "I am asking now in

confidence, and with an object, not from mere idle curiosity, far less

from any wish to pick holes in the characters and conduct of any of my

neighbours. So, Miss Mary, kindly give me your opinion."

Thus appealed to, the younger lady replied, but evidently with much

reluctance, "I fear that my aunt is right in her judgment of the

Wilders. I dare not recommend them to you as likely to prove, in the

truest sense, unselfish workers. They are very kind and good-natured,

and no one can help liking them; but--" and she hesitated.

"I understand you," said the colonel; "they would not come up to my

standard, you think?"

"I fear not; but then I should be sorry to judge them harshly, only you

asked my honest opinion."

"Oh, speak out, my dear, speak out," said her aunt; "they are but

afflicted with the epidemic which has attacked all ranks in our day.

Thus, where will you find a really unselfish servant nowadays? The old-

fashioned domestics who would live a generation in a family, mourn over

an accidental breakage committed once in a quarter of a century, and

count their employer's interest as their own, are creatures entirely of

the past. And as with maid and man, so with mistress and master, old or

young. `What am I to get as an equivalent if I do this or that?' seems

the prevailing thought now with workers of every kind."

"Ah yes," said the colonel thoughtfully, "there is too much truth in

what you say; only, in the darkest night we may detect a few stars, and

some very bright ones too, if we will only look for them. And I am

looking for stars now, but I shall be quite content to get one or two of

the second or third magnitude."

"I'm afraid you'll hardly be able to find any in this neighbourhood, for

the clouds," said the old lady, with a smile, in which the bitter

prevailed over the sweet.

"Nay, nay, my dear friend," cried the colonel cheerily, "don't let us

talk about clouds this lovely June morning. I fear, however, that I

must not look for what I want among the Wilders. I can readily

understand that they might be unwilling to work in the shade, where

there would be nothing to repay them except the smile of Him who will

not let even the cup of cold water rightly given go unrewarded. What do

you say to Lady Willerly's daughter? I have heard great things of her.

They tell me she is one of the most unselfish creatures under the sun."

"Ay," said the old lady dryly, "when the sun shines on her; but you want

workers in the shade. Grace Willerly will not do for that."

"You think not? Well, let me tell you what I have heard of her. Those

who know her well say that she never seems so happy as when she is doing

good and making others happy. Her mother calls her `my sunbeam.' She

seems to take a pleasure in thwarting herself in order to gratify

others. If she wants to go out for a walk, and some tiresome visitor

comes in, she will laugh, and say, `I was just wanting some one to come

and keep me in, for I dare say I should have caught cold if I had gone

out just now.' Or it may be quite the other way. She is just sitting

down to draw or play, and some one calls and asks her to take a walk,

and she at once leaves her occupation, jumps up, and says, `Ah, how nice

this is! I ought to take exercise, but felt disinclined; and you've

come at the very right time, to entice me out.' In fact, her greatest

pleasure seems to be to cross her own will and inclinations, that she

may do what will give pleasure to others. Such is the picture that

intimate friends have drawn of her; and certainly it is a very charming

one. What say you to it, Miss Mary?"

"It is very beautiful, Colonel Dawson--" and she hesitated.

"Ah, then, too highly coloured, I suppose you would say. Give me your

candid opinion."

"It is very difficult to say what I feel," replied Mary Stansfield,

"without seeming to lay myself open to the charge of censoriousness or

captiousness; and yet I cannot help seeing a shade of unreality, and

even insincerity, on that bright and beautiful character,--that it

wants, in fact, one essential element of genuine unselfishness."

"Of course it does," broke in the elder lady; "you mean that it is not

free from self-consciousness and, more or less, of parade."

"I fear so, dear aunt. I cannot help thinking that, as some one has

said of faith, so it may be said of true unselfishness, that `it is

colourless like water,'--it makes no show nor assertion of itself. But

dear Grace Willerly is a sterling character for all that."

"So then," said the colonel, after a pause, "I must give up in despair,

must I? No, that will never do. Now, I am wanting a quiet worker in

the shade for poor Bridgepath,--some young lady friend who has a little

leisure time, and will go now and then and read in the cottages there

the Word of God, and give some loving counsel to those who need it so

much. I have the good vicar's full consent and approbation; he will

gladly welcome any such helper as I may find for the post. It will be a

true labour of love; and, without any more words I am come to ask Miss

Stansfield if she will spare her niece for the good work, and Miss Mary

if she will be willing to undertake it."

The reply of the two ladies, who were equally taken by surprise, was in

each case made in a single word, and that word very characteristic.

"Impossible!" cried the old lady. "Me!" exclaimed the younger one.

"Nay, not impossible, dear friend," said the colonel gently. "I want

this service of love only once a week for an hour or two, and I am sure

you can spare my young friend for that time.--And as for yourself, Miss

Mary, I believe, from what I have seen of you, that you are just fitted

for the work; and I am sure that you are too sincere to excuse yourself

on the ground of an unfitness which you do not really feel."

"And what am I to do?" asked the old lady bitterly.

"Exercise a little of this true unselfishness, dear friend. You see

there are many ways in which you too can show true unselfishness in the

cause of that Master whom I know you truly love, though he has laid you

aside from much active work for him."

Miss Stansfield did not answer for a time; she looked pained, but the

bitterness had passed away from her countenance. Evading an immediate

reply, she said, "I don't understand these many ways in which I can show

unselfishness, Colonel Dawson."

"Do you not? May I mention some?"

"Yes, do," she replied earnestly.

"Well, bear with me then, while I make one or two suggestions which our

late conversations have been leading up to. I will imagine myself in

your place, and looking out to see where I may best put the stamp of the

Cross on my life. I am wishing to do good, I am trying to do good: but

may it not be that my benevolence is sometimes rendered so ungraciously

that it gives more pain than pleasure to those who receive it? Ah,

then, I will put the stamp of the Cross here. I will try, not only to

do good, but to do it graciously. Perhaps, again, I am looking upon

suffering and natural infirmity of temper as an excuse for harshness and

hard judgment, and not as a call to exercise charity, patience, and

forbearance. Then let me put the stamp of the Cross here also. Or,

once more, perhaps I am in the habit of looking for the weeds rather

than the flowers, for the shadows rather than the sunshine, in my lot.

Well, then, here again I may place the stamp of the Cross, by exercising

quiet, unostentatious self-denial and unselfishness before the loving

eyes of him who has made us for himself, and redeemed us that we might

in all things glorify him. Might I not thus, dear friend, exhibit true

unselfishness, and at the same time brighten my own heart, and also the

hearts of others?"

No one spoke for a few moments, but the old lady bowed her head upon her

hands and wept silently. Then she stretched out a hand to the colonel,

without raising her head, and said in a half-stifled whisper, "Thank

you, thank you, faithful friend. Mary shall undertake the post if she

will."

Ah yes! Light had shone into that clouded spirit; the shadows were

passing away. Mary Stansfield knelt her down by the old lady's side,

and in one loving, tearful embrace, such as they had never known before,

the icy barrier that had so long chilled that young and loving heart was

melted, and there was peace.

The colonel was more than satisfied. He knew, as he quietly stole out

of the room without a further word, that he had been privileged to gain

that morning two like-minded workers in the shade, instead of one.

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE STAMP OF THE CROSS.

A few days after Colonel Dawson's happy interview with Miss Stansfield

and her niece, a _fete_ was given by the Wilders at their residence,

Holly House, partly for the entertainment of the children who belonged

to the Sunday-school classes taught by the Misses Wilder, and partly

also as a means of gathering together as many neighbouring friends and

acquaintances as might be at leisure to come.

Colonel Dawson and his nephew had received a pressing invitation; and

also Lady Willerly and her daughter, though the latter was hardly

expected, as it was known how many engagements she had to tie her at

home. The invitation, however, decided Grace Willerly to write at once

and say that, although she had a very pressing engagement, she would

arrange to put it off, as she felt that a good game of play with the

dear children on the lawn at Holly House would be just the very thing

she wanted to do her good and freshen her up.

So a large party assembled on the day appointed, and among them the

colonel and his nephew--the former because he wished to keep on friendly

terms with his neighbours, though he anticipated but little pleasure

from this particular gathering. Besides this, he was a little anxious

to see to what extent the intimacy between the young Wilders and his

nephew had gone; for he had something of a misgiving that the young man

might be getting entangled in the attractions of one of the young

ladies, and this was the last thing he would have desired for him. As

for Horace Jackson himself, his impression concerning the younger

members of the Wilder family was that they were decidedly "jolly." He

had not yet consciously arrived at a warmer stage of feeling in regard

to any one of them, and his estimate was tolerably correct. Somebody

had characterised the young ladies of Holly House as "dashing girls,"

and such they certainly were.

The eldest was now about one and twenty, a fine _manly_ young woman,

with a loud voice, and very demonstrative manners, who seemed inclined

to do good in the spirit of a prize-fighter, by attacking the evils

which she sought to remedy with a masculine vigour, such as would drive

them in terror off the field. The second daughter, Clara, was of a

rather less commanding appearance than her elder sister, but dressed and

talked pretty much in the same fashion. The third, Millicent, would

naturally have been quiet and retiring, but had constrained herself to

imitate her sisters. She had, however, only so far succeeded as to

acquire an abrupt and off-hand style of speaking, which was calculated

to shut up old-fashioned people, who had been brought up under the

impression that young ladies should belong to the feminine gender.

Indeed, when the three Misses Wilder were met on the public road in

their walking attire, with natty little hats on their heads, ulsters

down to their feet, turn-down collars round their necks, and riding-

whips or walking-sticks in their hands, it would have been very

difficult for an unpractised observer to determine to what particular

sex they belonged.

Their brother was proud of his sisters, and matched them admirably. He

was a kind-hearted, outspoken, generous young man, up to anything, from

a midnight spree to a special religious service; hating everything like

cant as decidedly "low," and going in for sincerity, truth, and free-

thought. Moreover, he spent his money, or, more strictly speaking, his

father's money as well as his own, on horses, dogs, and guns, and left

sundry little bills to stand over till the poor creditors had lost both

hope and patience.

It was now four o'clock, and the children were assembling for tea, after

a series of games, in which they had been joined by Grace Willerly with

an unflagging energy, and been occasionally encouraged by a kind word

from Mr and Mrs Wilder and their daughters.

"What a charming sight, isn't it?" said Mrs Wilder to Colonel Dawson,

as they strolled up to the tea-tables, which had been set out under the

shade of some huge elms. "How happy the dear children seem!"

"Yes," replied her guest; "it is indeed a pleasant sight, and I am sure

we may well learn a lesson of contentment with simple pleasures from the

hearty enjoyment of these young ones. What a pity that the world and

its attractions should ever get a place in the hearts of these or of any

of us, since God has made us for purer and higher things!"

"Ah! Very true, colonel;--but won't you come into the house? I see our

friends are gathering in the drawing-room. We shall find tea there; and

Clara and Millicent, with Grace Willerly, will see that their little

friends want for nothing. Oh! Here is your nephew.--Pray, Mr Jackson,

come in with us; I am sure you will be glad of a little refreshment."