JERRY'S FAITH HAS ITS REWARD.
SOME months later, on a bright June morning, Ellen and Jerry Mansfield
were waiting on the Charmouth platform for the train which was to take
them home. The face of each was radiant with delight, for they had been
counting on this day for weeks, and the flight of time had been far too
slow for their eager anticipations. His six months' absence from the
home which he had never before quitted even for a day, had been a trial
to Jerry's loving heart, and he longed intensely to be with his parents
and brothers and sisters once more.
But he was not going home as he had left it. No; his faith had received
its reward. The Saviour had not turned a deaf ear to his oft-recurring
cry, and he was no longer a helpless boy, with weak and crippled limbs;
the bent frame was straightened now, and the little face bore the hue
of returning health, though there were still traces of delicacy to
proclaim the need for caution.
His recovery had been slow and painful, and his patience had been
tried by the restrictions the doctors found it necessary to place upon
his movements. For many weeks, he had been obliged to lie perfectly
still upon a flat couch, but the boy had borne the restraint without
murmuring.
His winning ways won the affection of all about him, and he became a
favourite alike with doctors, nurses, and fellow-patients. Miss Graham,
who frequently passed an hour by his bedside, was especially fond
of him, and her kindness awakened in Jerry's heart the warmest love
and gratitude. She fully sympathised in his joy as he felt his limbs
regaining power and began to walk, at first only a few steps at a time,
but with daily increasing strength.
The doctors were not a little proud of the cure they had effected, and
Dr. Graham, much interested in the little lad, took pains to procure
him an appliance recently invented for the relief of sufferers from
spinal affections, which proved of great assistance to Jerry's feeble
frame.
And now he was able to walk quite easily, and was going home to show
them all what a change had taken place in him! How shall we describe
the gladness that filled his young heart?
He and his sister were not alone. Their Aunt Matilda had contrived
to spare half an hour from her work in order to see them off. It
was not easy for her to do without her niece's assistance during
the fortnight's holiday she had promised her, but she was learning
to deny herself for the sake of others, and she did not regret the
inconvenience thus occasioned as she noted the happy faces of brother
and sister.
Presently, as they waited, they were joined by Miss Graham, who wished
to see the last of her little friend, and to provide for his comfort on
the journey.
"Oh, Miss Graham, how kind of you to come!" he cried, as he saw her. "I
did want to say good-bye to you again."
"You are very glad to leave us, Jerry," she said, as she looked at his
smiling face.
"Not glad to leave you, Miss Graham," he answered, "but very glad to go
home."
"Your mother will be overjoyed to see you looking so well," said the
lady; "you are not like the same boy you were when you came."
"Mother'll hardly know me, I think," said Jerry joyously. "Ellen says I
have grown two or three inches since I left home."
"I dare say you have," replied Miss Graham; "and you are certainly
stouter than you were, so that you are improved in all respects."
Jerry was silent for a few moments. He was thinking how best he could
thank Miss Graham for her kindness to him since he had been in the
hospital. But in vain, he tried to find suitable words. All he could
say was,—
"Miss Graham, you have been very good to me since I have been here, and
so has Dr. Graham. I shall never forget you."
"Thank you, Jerry," said the young lady, with a smile. "I am sure we
shall always remember you. And if ever we can help you in any way,
you may be sure of our willingness to do so. I shall hope to have the
pleasure of seeing you again at Charmouth at some future time."
Jerry shook his head.
"I don't think I shall ever leave home again, if I can help it," he
said decidedly. Then, as if fearing his remark might appear ungrateful,
he added, "But I should very much like to see you again, though."
"Then I hope you may," replied Miss Graham. "Perhaps when you are
older, you will come to Charmouth to learn a trade, or fit yourself for
some calling, for I do not suppose you will be a farmer, Jerry?"
"No, I don't think I shall," returned Jerry, looking at his thin, white
hands. "I know what I should like to do."
"What is that?" asked Miss Graham.
The boy's face flushed, as in a low tone, he answered, "I should like
to tell others about Jesus, and how good He is to those who trust Him."
"Well, Jerry, perhaps that is the work the Lord means you to do," said
his friend; "and it is work which you may begin at once. You remember
how Jesus said to one whom He healed, 'Return to thine own house, and
show how great things God hath done unto thee.' He says the same to you
now."
"Yes, He has done great things for me," said Jerry gravely; "for it is
Jesus who has really made me well. The doctors did all they could, but
their doctoring would have been of no use without Him."
"And the bodily health He has given you is, after all, but a small
blessing when compared with the spiritual health which He is willing to
bestow upon all who seek it at His hands," said Miss Graham.
But here the arrival of the train interrupted the talk, and there was
little time for further words. Ellen and Jerry were soon placed in a
carriage, and as the train bore them away, joyously waving farewells to
the friends they left behind, Miss Graham thought she had never seen
such happy faces as theirs.
What a pleasant journey that was! It was now nearly a year since
Ellen had quitted her home, and many a pang of home-sickness had she
experienced in the interval. Absence had taught her to value her
parents' love, and to long for the presence of the little ones, whom
in past days she had often found tiresome. But she had learned higher
lessons since her departure—lessons in the school of the Great Master,
which she could never forget, and which made her, in many respects, a
different being from the Ellen Mansfield of a year ago.
As the train sped on its way, bearing them from the smoky town, with
its gloomy streets and crowded wharves, to the peaceful beauty of
country scenes, Jerry felt inclined to sing for joy, and snatches of
hymns he had heard in the hospital broke every now and then from his
lips. The train moved too slowly for him. At each station they gained,
he eagerly inquired of his sister how long it would be before they
reached the one at which their father would meet them, and it seemed to
his impatience as if they would never get there.
But at length, Ellen was able to say, "The next station will be ours,
Jerry."
And soon, he felt the train slackening speed, and caught sight of his
father standing on the platform, looking out for them. It was well his
sister was there to take care of him, or he would certainly have sprung
out before the train stopped, or have run some such risk of undoing all
that the doctors had been able to do for him.
"My little man, how well you look!" exclaimed his father, as he helped
him from the carriage. "And how bravely you walk!" he added, as Jerry,
eager to show himself off to the best advantage, stepped out at his
quickest pace.
The father's heart was more glad than words could express, and with the
back of his hard, brown hand, he hastily dashed a tear from his eye,
ere he helped his boy and girl into the cart which stood outside the
station. They did not talk much as they drove home through the winding
lanes on that bright summer afternoon. Somehow the hearts of all three
seemed too full for many words, but the exclamations which burst from
Ellen and Jerry at the sight of each familiar object they passed, were
sufficiently eloquent.
At last, the farmhouse came into view, with a group of children
standing at the gate, one head rising above another, as they watched
for the first sign of the expected one's approach. A shout of joy was
raised as they caught sight of the vehicle, and the noise brought their
mother to the door.
Oh, how thankful she felt, as she lifted her boy from the cart, and
held him in a warm embrace! Then she turned to receive her other child,
whose radiant looks testified that she had quite recovered from the
misadventure which had caused her mother such grief and alarm. Then
the children pressed around their brother and sister, and kisses and
hugs were exchanged, and questions and answers followed each other
so rapidly that the talk seemed like a game of "cross questions and
crooked answers."
"Come, come, children, you don't want to stay in the yard all the
evening, do you?" asked their father. "Our travellers are hungry, I
guess."
So saying, he pushed them before him into the large kitchen, which wore
its brightest aspect in honour of the happy occasion. A snowy cloth was
spread on the deal table, and the tea-things placed ready thereon, and,
by way of ornament, a jug containing a bunch of dog-roses and other
wild flowers of the month. An appetising odour pervaded the apartment,
for the mother had been frying pancakes for the children, who she knew
would relish them.
[Illustration: THE RETURN HOME.]
"Oh, how good it is to be home again!" said Ellen, and Jerry echoed her
words.
Merry was the children's talk, as they gathered around the table for
their evening meal. They were ready to laugh at the least thing, and
Johnny, by simply remarking that Jerry and baby had learned to walk at
the same time, provoked a burst of merriment. But beneath this innocent
mirth, there were serious thoughts, and when his mother suggested that
it was time the little ones went to bed, Jerry, looking at his father,
said, quietly but earnestly:
"Father, before we go to bed, won't you thank Jesus for having made me
well?"
The request took his father by surprise; he coloured deeply, scratched
his head, and looked appealingly at his wife.
She responded to his glance by lifting her Bible from the shelf on
which it lay, and placing it on the table before him.
"My father always used to read a chapter and pray with his children
before they went to bed," she said. "I wish we had followed his example
at the beginning of our married life. But it's not too late to turn
over a new leaf. The Lord's been very gracious to us, although we've
forgotten Him. Let us thank Him for His goodness, as the dear lad says."
Her husband opened the Bible, but turned over its leaves with an air of
embarrassment.
"What shall I read, wife?" he asked.
She found him the 103rd Psalm, and slowly, and not without difficulty,
for he was "no great scholar," as he often told his children, he read
it.
The prayer was a harder matter. Memory came to his aid, however,
recalling words familiar to his ears in boyhood, and in tremulous
accents, he repeated the Lord's Prayer. Then he ventured to add a few
words of thanksgiving for the especial blessings they, as a family,
had received, with humble confession of sin. Broken and imperfect
utterances they were, but spoken from the heart, and inspired by the
Spirit of God.
That evening, watching angels could say of Joseph Mansfield, as was
said of one of old, "Behold, he prayeth," and had cause to rejoice that
to another of earth's homes, salvation had come. There were tears in
his wife's eyes as she rose from her knees, but they were not tears of
sorrow. The habit thus commenced was never dropped. Henceforth, not a
day was allowed to close, without a portion of God's Word being read
and a brief prayer offered.
All too quickly for Ellen, the happy hours passed by, and the day came
when she must return to her work at Charmouth. It was with much regret
that she said good-bye to her home once more. Had the choice been
offered her, she would have preferred to remain at home, and help her
mother with the domestic duties she had formerly despised. But it was
too late to change her plans. Her assistance was no longer urgently
needed, for baby was now out of hand, and Lucy was able to give her
mother all the help she needed.
Ellen had made her decision, and must abide by it. Recognising this,
she put a cheerful face upon the matter, and bravely, though with a
somewhat heavy heart, went back to her tedious occupation, resolved to
serve her aunt, not with "eye-service," but as "the servant of Christ."
She gradually became more accustomed to her aunt's peculiarities, and
learned to love her in spite of them. Miss Mansfield treated her niece
with kindness, and her demeanour showed that she was actuated by a
different spirit from that which had influenced her in the past. But
she still spoke quickly and sharply on occasion, and never quite lost
her love of scolding, for the habit of a lifetime is not easily broken.