"Ada seemed such a good girl at first, and you have made all

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

The

Beautiful Garment

and Other Stories

By

A. L. O. E.

ROCK ISLAND, ILL.

AUGUSTANA BOOK CONCERN

COPYRIGHT 1927

BY

AUGUSTANA BOOK CONCERN

PRINTED IN U.S.A.

ROCK ISLAND, ILL.

AUGUSTANA BOOK CONCERN, PRINTERS AND BINDERS

1927

CONTENTS

The Beautiful Garment

The Captive

The Voyage

The Beautiful Garment

"You'll find our Lydia a child after your own heart, Martin," said

Captain Neill, a retired officer, to his elder brother, who had lately

returned from India.

"She seems to be a quick, intelligent girl," answered Mr. Neill, in a

less enthusiastic tone.

"She is that, and a great deal more!" cried the father. "It is

wonderful to see the good that child does! From cottage to cottage she

goes, reading, talking—really like a grown-up woman; it would surprise

you were you to hear her."

"Perhaps it would," said his brother, a pale, reserved man, with dark,

thoughtful eyes, and a face on which love to God and good-will to man

seemed to have set their stamp.

"Certainly, dear Lydia is a very uncommon child," lisped Mrs. Neill

from the sofa, to which long and tedious, though not dangerous illness

had confined her for several months.

"You see," pursued the captain, "we've no child but Lydia, so we've

devoted all our care to our pet."

"An only child runs some danger of being spoilt," observed Mr. Neill,

with a smile.

"Yes, yes, but we never spoil ours," answered the father, quickly.

"Oh, dear, no!" said the lady, from the sofa.

"We have always from the first taught Lydia her duty; and I must say

that we've found her an apt pupil," continued the captain. "Would you

believe it—though she is just twelve years old, that child has twice

read through the Bible, and has started on the third reading of her own

accord!"

The partial father looked into his brother's face, expecting to

see depicted there admiration and surprise. There was, however, no

expression of the kind. Perhaps Mr. Neill was thinking that one verse

of the Holy Scriptures, treasured in the heart, might do more for the

soul than the whole Bible read hastily over for the sake of boasting

that so much had been done.

"And then her charity," recommenced Captain Neil; but he was

interrupted by the entrance of a fine-looking girl, who came in with a

quick step and self-possessed manner, her checks glowing beneath her

white hat from the exercise which she had been taking.

"Where have you been, my darling?" asked her father.

"Oh, round by the mill, and as far as the seven cottages. Poor Jones

is getting worse and worse; his wife says that he cannot last long. I

tried to get Mrs. Brown to send all her children to school, but she

tells me they can't go in such rags. I'm about to make a parcel of my

old clothes, my green dress, and a lot of other things—"

"But, my dear," said Lydia's mother, "that dress was quite new this

spring; I don't wish—"

"I'm tired of it," interrupted Lydia; and seeing that her mother was

about to speak, she cut her short by a decided, "I hate green dresses,

and I'm not going to wear it again."

The mother looked vexed, but said nothing. "You've had a long round, my

darling; sit down and rest," said Captain Neill, kindly.

"I'm not tired, and would rather stand," replied Lydia, in her short,

decided manner, as she flung her hat back on her shoulders, and shook

the curls from her heated face. Then, turning to her mother, she said,

"Whom do you think I met on the way? All the Thomsons on ponies. I wish

I had a pony, too, I should so enjoy riding about."

"Could we afford it, you should have one," said her father, who, though

very fond of riding, had never mounted a horse since he had quitted the

army. It pained him that his child should ever form a wish which he had

not the power to gratify.

"I don't see why the Thomsons should ride when we walk!" observed

Lydia, with a little toss of the head. "We are as good as they any day.

Their mother was no fine lady, I've heard, and they say in the village

that Mr. Thomson is deep in debt, and will have to sell his fine house."

"People say ill-natured things, my love; I would not repeat them,"

observed Mrs. Neill, mildly.

Lydia looked annoyed at the gentle reproof, and began humming an air to

herself, to show that she did not mind it.

"Have you written the notes as I desired you, my dear?" asked the sick

mother, after a silence.

"No, I've been busy, and shall be busy all day; I'll write them

to-morrow," replied Lydia, sitting down, and carelessly opening a book.

"Did you carry your missionary subscription to the Vicarage?" asked the

captain. "My girl keeps a collection box," he added, smilingly turning

towards his brother to explain.

"No; I did not," replied Lydia, shortly.

"And why? for the clergyman told us he was anxious to send in the

subscriptions directly."

"I would rather wait till I have collected more," answered Lydia. "The

Barnes had one pound nine in their box."

"But we cannot attempt to compete with the Barnes, my love; we can give

but little, but we give it cheerfully."

"I will wait till I have collected more," repeated Lydia. "I should be

ashamed to send in less than my neighbors."

"It is a great privilege to be able to help a good cause," said the

captain, again addressing his brother. "My girl does not content

herself with gathering money; she gives her work, which is something

better. Her little fingers were busy for the fancy fair held for our

schools: she made two bags and seven purses—"

"Four bags and eight purses," interrupted Lydia, "and six round

pincushions besides. The Charters did not furnish so much, though there

are three of them to work. But they are such an idle set of girls, and

I don't think they care about schools."

"Four bags and eight purses, to say nothing of the pincushions; pretty

well for one little pair of hands!" said the captain, turning again

to his brother, in expectation of an approving smile or word; but no

smile was given, no word was uttered. Lydia glanced at her uncle in

surprise, but could not understand the almost sad expression on her

relative's kind face. Could she have read his thoughts, they would have

run somewhat as follows:

"It is clear that these fond parents are content with their child, and

that the child is content with herself; she has enough of the sweet

poison of flattering praise without my pouring out more from a selfish

desire to make myself a favorite here. My brother thinks his Lydia

perfect, and believes that the soil, cultivated with tender care, is

already covered with a glorious harvest. But what is it that eyes

less blinded by partial affection see there? In ten minutes I have

unwillingly beheld the weeds of pride, selfishness, and disobedience,

a disposition to evil speaking, covetousness, and a silly thirst for

praise. Small indeed the faults now appear, as weeds scarce showing

above the soil; but it is evident that the roots are there, and I fear

that the harvest will be different indeed from what my brother expects.

What shall I do? Speak openly to him? I fear that the only result

would be to wound—perhaps to offend him; he would think me unjust or

severe, and retain his own opinion. I must gain some quiet opportunity

of speaking a word to Lydia herself; she is an intelligent, sensible

girl; but I can see too plainly by her manner toward her mother that

nothing will be welcome to the young lady that comes in the shape of

reproof. My conscience will not suffer me to leave my niece to her

blind security; I will make at least an attempt to open her eyes to the

truth."

The party now dispersed—Lydia to take off her hat and cape; the

two gentlemen to visit a friend. During their walk, Captain Neill

could scarcely discourse on any subject but that of his daughter.

He told anecdote after anecdote, which had been treasured up in his

affectionate heart; but his conversation only served to convince Mr.

Neill that Lydia, brought up in a pious family, had acquired but a sort

of hothouse religion, that could stand no blast of temptation. He felt

that though his niece might do many things that were certainly proper

and right, she only did them when they suited her pleasure; her proud

will was yet unbroken—her impatient temper unsubdued.

In the evening, Mr. Neill was sitting alone in the little study, when

Lydia entered the room. The girl was anxious to please her uncle, of

whose character she had heard high praise, and whose gentle, courteous

manner was well suited to win young hearts.

"I like him," thought Lydia, "and I will make him like me." So

approaching Mr. Neill, and laying her hand on the back of his chair,

she said in her most pleasing manner, "Can I do anything for you, dear

uncle?"

"Yes, my dear, you can read the Bible to me; I shall be glad of the

help of your young eyes, for mine have suffered from the climate of

India."

"I will read with pleasure," said Lydia, taking up the Bible; and she

spoke no more than the truth. She was glad to do a kindness to her

uncle, but was more glad still of an opportunity of showing him how

beautifully she could read aloud.

"Do you wish any particular chapter?" she inquired.

"Pray, begin the twenty-second chapter of St. Matthew."

In a tone very clear and distinct, Lydia commenced her reading—

"And Jesus answered, and spake unto them again by parables, and said,

'The kingdom of heaven is like unto a certain king, which made a

marriage for his son, and sent forth his servants to call them that

were bidden to the wedding; and they would not come. Again, he sent

forth other servants, saying, Tell them which are bidden, Behold, I

have prepared my dinner; my oxen and my fatlings are killed and all

things are ready; come unto the marriage. But they made light of it,

and went their ways, one to his farm, another to his merchandise; and

the rest laid hold on his servants, and treated them spitefully, and

slew them. But when the king heard thereof, he was wroth; and he sent

forth his armies, and destroyed those murderers, and burned up their

city.'"

"Do you understand the meaning of the parable?" asked Mr. Neill.

"Yes," replied his niece, looking up from her book; "the Jews, to whom

the invitation of the gospel was first sent, in their pride, would not

accept it, but rejected and slew the Lord, and some of His faithful

servants; and so the armies of the Romans were sent to take and to burn

Jerusalem. The command was given that the gospel should be preached to

every creature, as we hear." And Lydia proceeded to read aloud:

"'Then saith he to his servants, The wedding is ready, but they which

were bidden were not worthy. Go ye therefore into the highways, and as

many as ye shall find, bid to the marriage. So those servants went out

into the highways, and gathered together all, as many as they found,

both bad and good; and the wedding was furnished with guests.'"

"'And when the king came in to see the guests, he saw there a man which

had not on a wedding-garment: he saith unto him, Friend, how earnest

thou in hither, not having a wedding-garment? and he was speechless.

Then said the king to the servants, Bind him hand and foot, and take

him away, and cast him into outer darkness; there shall be weeping and

gnashing of teeth. For many are called but few are chosen.'"

"Was it not strange," said Mr. Neill, "that a poor man, taken from the

common highway, should be expected to be found in a wedding-garment at

the feast of the mighty king?"

"No," replied Lydia, without hesitation, "for it was the custom in the

East to provide wedding-garments for the guests, and this man must,

through pride, have refused to accept one, thinking his own dress good

enough to wear."

"And what is the deeper—the spiritual meaning of this parable?"

inquired her uncle.

"The merits of our Lord form the wedding-garment, which all must wear

who would enjoy the feast of heaven. If we try to appear in our own

righteousness, we shall be cast out like the miserable man of whom we

have just been reading."

"You have been well-instructed in the Bible, Lydia."

The girl colored at the praise, and said, "I ought to know it well, for

I read four chapters every day, and a great deal more on Sundays, and

can repeat hundreds of verses by memory."

"And yet," observed Mr. Neill, "there is a wide difference between

head-knowledge and heart-knowledge, between understanding the meaning

of the Scriptures, and making their truths our own. I suspect that many

of us fall unconsciously into the error of the man in the parable, and

fancy that there is something in ourselves to make us acceptable in

the presence of our Heavenly King. When you came into the room, Lydia,

my mind was dwelling upon the very subject, and I was forming a little

allegory, or story, about the garment of human merits."

"I wish that you would tell me your allegory," said Lydia; "I often

make such stories myself."

"Close the Bible, and place it on the table, my child, and you shall

know what thoughts were suggested to my mind by the parable of the

wedding-garment."

Lydia obeyed and listened with some interest and curiosity to this, the

first story which she had ever heard from the lips of her uncle. Mr.

Neill thus began:

"Ada was a bright young creature, brought up in a happy and a holy

home, where, almost as an infant, she had been taught to pray, and

where Scripture had been made familiar to her from the earliest dawn of

reason. Ada was an invited guest to the feast of the great King, and

she had accepted the invitation. She knew that she must appear in His

courts robed in righteousness not her own, a garment provided by the

Lord of the feast, spotless, holy, and white."

"But Ada had a friend, or rather let me term her an enemy, in a

companion named Self-love, whose society was so delightful to the

girl that they were constantly found together. It was wonderful to

behold the influence quietly exerted by Self-love over the mind of her

young companion. She joined Ada in her amusements, assisted at her

studies, went with her wherever she went, even to the cottages of the

poor, even to the house of prayer. But Self-love was treacherous as

well as pleasing; her influence was never exerted for good; her one

great object was to draw Ada away from religion, and cause her to be

rejected at the great banquet, to which Self-love never herself could

be admitted."

"'Is it not hard,' whispered Self-love one night, 'that all the guests

at the banquet are to wear the same kind of dress, whatever their

former character or station may have been? I can well believe that

poor wanderers from the highways, and beggars from the street, will be

glad enough to lay aside their rags, and wear the garments provided;

but you have a white robe of your own, fit to be worn in any palace,

even the robe of innocence, embroidered all over by your hands with the

silver blossoms of good works. How often has the world admired you in

it! How it has been praised by your family and friends! It would, at

least, form a beauteous addition to what you must wear at the banquet

of Heaven."

"Ada turned her eyes towards the robe of which Self-love had spoken,

which was spread out on a table before her. Very beautiful indeed,

and very white, it appeared to the admiring eye of the girl. Hundreds

of delicate silver flowers, work of charity, faith, and obedience,

glittered in the light of a large flaring torch which Self-love had

placed beside it. The robe was studded with innumerable pearls, which

Ada knew to be her prayers, so that nothing could seem more splendid

than the robe which Ada had prepared for herself."

"I suppose," interrupted Lydia, "that this Ada was really a very

excellent girl. I do not wonder that she was unwilling that so lovely

a robe should be laid entirely aside, and not be worn at all at the

banquet."

"Ada listened and looked," continued Mr. Neill; "and the more she

looked and listened, the more she regretted that ragged beggars should

one day be clothed in just the same manner as the possessor of a

garment so fine. 'I almost think that I might wear both,' she murmured,

half aloud; 'I might appear in my own beauteous robe, and if my dress

should be not quite complete, the King's mantle would cover all

defects.'"

"'Ada, Ada!' whispered a voice in the air. The girl started and gazed

around, but no human form was to be seen."

"'Ada, my name is Conscience,' continued the voice, 'and my accents

fall not on the ear; they are heard in the depths of the heart. I have

read thy thoughts, I know thy desires, and I come unto thee with a

message. If thou, for but one day, canst keep thy garment quite white

and fair, thou mayest wear it with joy and honor. But thou must see it

by sunlight, and not by torchlight, and thine eyes must be anointed

with Self-knowledge,—a salve which thou shalt find close to thy Bible

when thou lookest on it first in the morning.'"

"'Be content, Ada,' said Self-love, with a smile, 'a single day is no

long time of trial, and thou hast hitherto kept thy garment so fair,

that thou hast small reason to fear a stain.'"

"The first thing that Ada did in the morning was to anoint her eyes

with the golden salve which, as Conscience had promised, she found

lying close to her Bible. She resolved not to look at her robe till a

part of the day should be over, and then to examine it closely, to see

whether the smallest speck or stain had sullied its pearly whiteness."

"Had I been Ada, I should have been very careful in my conduct on that

day," observed Lydia, with a smile.

"So Ada determined to be. She resolved to crowd it with fresh good

works. She read double her usual number of chapters, was very long at

her prayers, though it must be confessed that all the time that she was

perusing God's holy Word, or making show of pleading with her Maker,

her thoughts were wandering in every direction—now to her birds, now to

her new book, now to her plans for the morrow, and now, alas! resting

with bitterness upon some affront received from a neighbor. While Ada

read or knelt, a dim, misty stain was slowly spreading over her white

garment; that which she believed to be a merit, in God's eyes was full

of sin."

"But Ada was not always in the quietness of her own room; she had to go

forth and mix with others. She determined to visit a great many poor

people, and do a great deal of good; but she lost her temper twice

before she set out. First, with the servant, for keeping her waiting

while preparing some broth for a poor invalid; then with her mother

for sending her to change her dress for one of coarser material, as it

seemed likely to rain. That half-hour of peevish impatience left its

mark on the beautiful garment."

"Oh, uncle, such trifles could never be counted," exclaimed Lydia.

"Life is made up of trifles, Lydia, and especially the life of a child.

But to return to the story of Ada. On her way to the cottages, she met

with a companion, a silly, frivolous girl, and they entered into such

conversation as that which is known by the name of gossip. They spoke

not of the beauties of nature, or the wonders of art, or of the deeper

things of God; they spoke of their neighbors, and their neighbors'

affairs, and the ill-natured remarks, silly jests which they made,

were certainly not such as beseem the lips of youthful Christians. Ada

was very amusing and very merry; but her face would have worn a graver

expression had she but seen how, at each foolish and unkind word, there

fell a speck, as if of ink, on the folds of her beautiful garment."

"A carriage, splendid and gay, drove past the girls, as, heated and

tired, they walked along the dusty road. Ada knew the young ladies

within, and, as she returned their bow, thoughts of discontent,

covetousness, and envy possessed the mind of the girl."

"'How hard it is to walk when others are rolling in their carriages,'

was the secret reflection of Ada. 'I wonder why things are so unequal.

I'm sure we've a better right to comforts than those girls, whose

father made all his money by manufacturing tapes and bobbins.' Ada

expressed not her thoughts aloud; but she fostered and indulged them

in her heart, and deeper and duller grew the stain that clouded her

beautiful garment."

"Uncle, uncle," exclaimed Lydia, who now perceived pretty clearly that

Ada represented herself, "I think that you are hard on your heroine.

It is almost impossible to govern our words, and quite impossible to

control our thoughts."

"If so," replied Mr. Neill, "would the Bible have contained such verses

as these, 'Keep thy tongue from evil, and thy lips from speaking

guile,' 'Covetousness, let it not once be named amongst you, as

becometh saints; neither filthiness, nor foolish talking, nor jesting,

which are not convenient'? When our Lord declared what doth defile a

man, evil thoughts were the first things mentioned, the sin that cometh

from the heart."

Lydia looked grave, and was silent.

"Ada paid many visits, read the Bible in several cottages, and

returned home with a comfortable persuasion that she had passed a most

useful morning. She felt herself wonderfully better than the ignorant

creatures who had listened with admiring attention to the words of 'the

dear young lady.' Ada was impatient to look at her robe, and could

not, as she had at first intended, wait till evening before she did

so. What was her astonishment and distress when she cast her gaze on

the treasured garment! With the salve of Self-knowledge on her eyes,

she could no longer flatter herself that it was anything approaching

to white. A dull, dirty hue overspread it; it was besprinkled here

and there with dark and unsightly stains. Poor Ada was so badly

disappointed, that she could scarcely restrain her tears, till

Self-love whispered, 'It is somewhat soiled, it must be owned, yet see,

it is embroidered all over with the silver flowers of good works.'"

"Yes, that was some consolation," murmured Lydia.

"Then again the low voice of Conscience was heard, piercing the inmost

soul, 'Ada, Ada! there is indeed a blessing on works done for the love

of God; precious and bright is such silver. But while man sees our

actions, God sees our motives, and tarnished with sin is the work, be

it ever so good in itself, which is done from vainglory, emulation,

or self-pleasing.' As the words were uttered, to Ada's dismay she

beheld every one of her silver flowers become tarnished and dull; some,

indeed, less so than others; but not one remained that retained its

brightness, while some appeared actually black."

"Poor Ada had nothing left but her pearls, her prayers," observed

Lydia, with something like a sigh.

"Nay, the pearls shared the fate of the flowers. What is the worth

of prayers uttered from habit, or fear, or love of praise, prayers

with which the heart has nothing to do? The pearls appeared pearls no

longer, but dull, discolored, unsightly beads."

"Oh, what a wretched discovery!" cried Lydia.

"Self-knowledge showed Ada something besides," pursued Mr. Neill,

without looking at his niece as she spoke. "On bending over her

garment, Ada perceived many large rents, which seemed to grow in number

and size the longer she examined the robe. Again was heard the whisper

of Conscience—'These are thy sins of omission, neglected opportunities

of serving God, acts of kindness or obedience left undone, a tender

mother's wishes disregarded, duties put off in order to gratify the

idle whims of self-love.'"

Lydia remembered the notes which she had put off writing for so long

that her sick mother had that morning done the little business herself.

This had been but one of a series of trifling neglects for which Lydia

had never before felt self-reproach; for she had not reckoned them to

be sins. Tears started into her eyes, and she wished that the story

would come to an end.

"'I can never wear this,' exclaimed Ada; 'it would take me months to

repair these rents.' As she spoke she bent down to lift the garment

that she might examine it more closely; to her astonishment, the whole

fabric came to pieces in her hands. The moth of Pride had fretted the

garment, and not only was it tarnished and stained, but no sound piece

was to be found in the whole of the once goodly robe."

"Oh, I can't bear this story of yours," exclaimed Lydia; "it is one to

put us all in despair."

"If it puts us in despair of ourselves, my child," replied Mr. Neill,

laying his hand gently on the arm of his niece, "it will prove a story

not without profit."

"Ada seemed such a good girl at first, and you have made all her

righteousness fall to pieces in the end! How could any one go to a

banquet in such soiled and miserable rags?"

"The knowledge of our helplessness and sin, Lydia, is beyond measure

precious to our souls. While we wrap ourselves in our fancied merits,

while we nourish a secret hope that we can stand before a holy God

in the garment of our own poor works, we will never earnestly and

thoroughly seek for the grace which alone can save. Let us ask for the

gift of self-knowledge, that we may see that we are in His sight."

"Self-knowledge only makes us miserable," exclaimed Lydia, whose pride

had been deeply wounded.

"It would be so indeed, were it not united to knowledge of the

blessed Redeemer; if the same Bible which shows us that our fancied

righteousness is but as a moth-eaten rag, did not show us, also, the

spotless robe washed white in the blood of the Lamb, prepared for the

meek and lowly in heart who come to the banquet of heaven. Let this

then, dear child, be our constant prayer to the Giver of good— 'Lord,

show me myself—my nothingness, my sin. Lord, show me Thyself—Thy

holiness, Thy love. Pour Thy Spirit into my heart; let it rule my lips

and my life, and clothe me in the robe of righteousness, even the

merits of my blessed Redeemer.'"

The Captive

It was with a thankful and joyous heart that Grace Milner wended

her way through the crowded streets of London. She had just been

granted her heart's desire; she had been accepted as a female teacher

by a missionary society for the conversion of the Jews, and a life

which few, perhaps, would covet, but which to her appeared one of

delight, was opening before the clergyman's orphan. It was a life of

independence, and Grace had an honest pleasure in earning her own

bread, and having the means even to assist others; it was a life

of usefulness, and Grace longed to be able to do some good in the

world. And the teacher was young, and of an ardent spirit; to her the

very journey offered great attractions: traveling gave her exquisite

pleasure, all the greater, perhaps, because she had hitherto seldom

enjoyed opportunities of traveling. Grace had not a single relative

from whom it would be a pain to part—she stood alone in the world,

except so far as she belonged to the family of God. She was full of

hope that she might be made a blessing where she was going. Grace

had a great talent for learning foreign languages, and what to many

is a weary task, to her was only an amusement. She felt that she was

peculiarly suited for the position in which Providence had placed her,

and would not have exchanged her lot for that of any queen in the world.

"Oh! to think of visiting the land in which my Saviour lived and

died!" was the reflection of the young teacher as she threaded her

way, careless of all that was passing around her; "to think of gazing

upon Jerusalem, the guilty, yet sacred city, of standing in the garden

of Gethsemane, where the Holy One knelt and prayed! And then to be

permitted to lead the little ones of Israel to the footstool of the

Saviour! To be surrounded by young descendants of Abraham, to whom

I can speak of their fathers' God! Oh! Sweet command of the risen

Saviour, 'Feed my lambs!' With what delight shall I obey it, with

what delight shall I seek out His jewels, to be my joy and crown of

rejoicing when He comes in the clouds with glory! Blessed work to labor

for Him! I thank God for the talents which He has given me; I thank

Him for the opportunity of spending them all in His service; I thank

Him for the hope that I—even I—may one day hear from my Saviour the

transporting words, 'Well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou

into the joy of thy Lord.'"

Grace was startled from her dream of happiness by a sudden shock!

Absorbed in thought, she had not taken sufficient precaution in

crossing a road, and was struck down by a cab that had, unnoticed,

turned sharply round the corner of a street.

The young teacher uttered no cry; she fell stunned and senseless to

the ground. She saw not the pitying crowd who thronged around her.

When raised from the ground, and carried on a shutter to the nearest

hospital, she felt no pain from the motion. It was not for some hours

that Grace had sufficiently recovered her senses to know what had

happened, or to comprehend the nature of the injury which she had

received.

Great indeed was the trial to the poor girl when she awoke to a sense

of what was before her. Her spine had sustained an incurable injury,

such as might not perhaps shorten life, but which might render her

utterly helpless as long as that life should last. The once active,

energetic young woman would never again be able even to sit up in bed,

and all her hopes of usefulness as a teacher were crushed in a moment

for ever!

Dark indeed were the prospects of the orphan, when this cloud of

misfortune so suddenly swept over her sky! Where should she go—what

should she do—when dismissed, as she soon must be, from the hospital

which had received her? Her little savings as a governess had all

been expended; she had no home to which to return, no friend wealthy

enough to be burdened with the support of a helpless cripple. There

was sympathy shown to Grace by the supporters of the charity which had

so lately accepted her services. There was even a subscription raised

for her; but the assistance thus given was far too small to render the

lady independent. As she was unable, and would always be unable, to

rise from a lying position, it would be hopeless to attempt to gain a

miserable pittance by her needle. Drops of agony stood upon the brow of

the poor young lady, as the terrible truth forced itself upon her mind,

that, henceforth, the only home that she could look to on earth was the

poorhouse.

Grace could not at first bend her spirit to submit to a fate which she

looked upon as worse than death. She quitted the hospital for a lodging

where the kindness of strangers enabled her to struggle on for a time.

But she knew that this could not last; the evil day might be put off,

but was certain at length to arrive. Grace thought that it was wrong

to draw so heavily upon the charity of others, when so many of her

fellow-creatures were in want of common necessaries. What was given to

her lessened the power of the generous to assist them; and Grace was of

too unselfish a spirit to bear to encroach on the kindness of the rich,

or draw away relief from the poor. So she made up her mind at last she

would go where she had a right to food and shelter; she would claim the

support of her parish, now that she could not support herself.

Deep gloom was upon the soul of poor Grace, when she was carried to

the large, dull, cheerless-looking building, which to her appeared but

as a prison. She sank beneath the weight of her cross, and even her

religion seemed for a time to bring her no comfort. Satan, ever busy

to tempt us, whether in days of wealth or tribulation, was whispering

hard thoughts of God. Grace saw in her trial no sign of the love of her

Heavenly Father; she thought herself forsaken—forgotten; she longed for

death, little conscious at that moment that she was unfit to die!

"Oh! That I should ever be brought down to this!" was her thought, as

she was borne across the court-yard of the poorhouse, where a few old

women, in pauper's dress, scarcely turned their heads to observe a new

sufferer carried to a place where sickness and sorrow were things too

common to attract much notice. "I, well-born, highly educated, degraded

to the position of a pauper! Why has God, in whom I trusted, forsaken

me? Why has He placed me in a position where I can be but a burden to

myself and to others? God gave me talents, and with a willing mind I

had devoted all my powers to His service; but now He has taken away the

opportunities which once I possessed, of exercising my talents to His

glory, and the good of my fellowmen."

Grace was wrong in three important points: first, She was wrong in

thinking herself degraded by becoming a pauper, when she was so not

from idleness, nor extravagance, nor any other sin of her own. It was

God who had appointed her place, and the post which He assigns to His

people must be a post of honor to those who faithfully fill it. Oh! Let

the lowly ones of Christ remember this to their comfort! Can poverty be

a disgrace when it was the state chosen by the Son of God for Himself,

when He deigned to visit the earth? The Lord's people are kings and

priests unto God, heirs of a crown, and inheritors of heaven, whether

they dwell in a palace, or lie in a poorhouse ward.

Secondly, Grace was wrong in doubting for one moment the loving care

of her God, because He was trying her faith in the heated furnace of

affliction. "Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." Grace had been an

earnest and active Christian; but she had little knowledge of the

weakness and sin of her own heart, till affliction stirred up the quiet

waters, and showed her what evil lay below. She had hoped and believed

that her will was conformed to the will of God, till sudden misfortune

revealed how much of self-pleasing, pride, and unbelief had lurked

behind her devotion. Grace now thought herself worse than she had ever

thought herself before, only because she now knew herself better; the

medicine for pride was most bitter, but it was the hand of love that

had mixed it.

And thirdly, Grace was wrong in supposing that all opportunity of

glorifying God and of serving others had been taken from her for ever.

Never, perhaps, does the Christian's light shine more brightly, or

more profitably, to those who behold it than from the bed of sickness

and pain. Wherefore glorify God in the fires! is the watchword for

the suffering saint. Happy those who to the words, "We rejoice in

hope of the glory of God," can add, And "not only so but we glory in

tribulations also," knowing that tribulation worketh patience, and

patience experience, and experience hope; and hope maketh not ashamed,

because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost

which is given unto us!

Grace was carried to a ward containing twelve of the aged or sick,

and placed on a bed in a corner of the room. The ward was clean and

airy, and, in some respects, more comfortable than Grace had been led

to expect; but she was little disposed to see in it anything but the

dreary aspect of a prison. She looked with sadness on the bare walls,

the high windows—affording no prospect but the sky—and the rows of beds

occupied by those with whom she deemed that she would have not a single

feeling in common. Grace particularly shrank from the pauper whose bed

was next to her own. Ann Rogers, a coarse-looking, red-faced woman,

with a rough manner and loud voice, which jarred on the nerves of the

sufferer.

"Well, poor soul, how came you into your troubles?" were the words with

which Ann first addressed Grace, standing beside her with her arms

akimbo, and surveying the newcomer with a look of mingled curiosity and

pity.

Grace flinched like one who had a rough hand laid on a wound, and

murmuring a short reply, she closed her eyes in the hope of stopping

further conversation.

"You have seen better days, I take it, and so have I. I was cook in a

gent'man's family, I was, and little thought of ever coming to this—."

Ann added an epithet so coarse that I do not choose to repeat it.

"Oh, misery! can I not even suffer in silence?" thought the poor girl.

"Must I have that horrible voice for ever dinning in my ears?" Grace

said nothing aloud, but her face probably betrayed something of her

feelings, for Ann went on in the tone of one who is offended. "There's

no use in anybody's playing the fine lady here, or turning up her nose

at the company she meets with. This ain't the place for airs, and I'd

advise no one to try 'em upon me!"

The heart of Grace sank within her. Weak as she was, and in constant

pain, she needed gentle sympathy, tender care, and perfect quiet; and

it appeared that none of these could ever be her own. She had no spirit

to bear up against the thousand petty annoyances inseparable from her

condition. She resolved that she would never complain, but the resolve,

it must be confessed, came as much from pride as from patience. She

would shut herself up in her sorrow, and have nothing to do with her

companions. In her desponding gloom, Grace forgot that those around her

were God's creatures as well as herself: that they, like herself, were

afflicted, and that the command, "Love one another," is as binding in

the poorhouse as in the brightest, happiest home.

The poor lady might long have remained in this miserable state, with

her mind suffering still more than her body, impatient, despairing

under her cross, unloved, unloving, and desolate; but for a seemingly

trifling incident which occurred a few days after her arrival. This

was a visit to the ward from a lady who came regularly once a week to

read the Bible to its inmates. Mrs. Grant was not gifted with talent:

she had little power of influencing others; she could not, like some

more honored servants of God, so plead with sinners that the hardened

heart should be touched with the holy eloquence of love. She was a

plain, quiet woman, somewhat stiff in her manner, who did her duty

indeed as unto God, but who in herself was little capable of making any

impression on others. Conscious perhaps of her own defects, the lady

contented herself with reading the Scripture without making any remarks

upon it. The portion which she chose upon this occasion was the parable

of the talents. Grace listened in deep depression; the words reminded

her so painfully of her own shattered hopes, of her joyous praises

on the morning on which her accident had occurred—"I thank God for

the talents which He has given me: I thank Him for the opportunity of

spending them all in His service."

But the parable does not end with the account of the "good and faithful

servants who entered into the joy of their Lord.' There is a second

part, and it was this which especially fixed the attention of Grace as

she lay on her couch of pain.

"Then He which had received the one talent, came and said, 'Lord, I

know thee that thou art a hard man, reaping where thou didst not sow,

and gathering where thou didst not scatter; and I was afraid, and went

away and hid thy talent in the earth: lo, thou hast thine own.'"

"His Lord answered and said unto him, 'Thou wicked and slothful

servant—'" And then followed the stern but just rebuke, closing with

the terrible sentence—"'Cast ye out the unprofitable servant into the

outer darkness: there shall be the weeping and the gnashing of teeth.'"

The plain, forcible lesson from Scripture went straight to one heart

in that ward—a loving, obedient heart, that received the truth in

simplicity. Grace did not turn from the light, because it showed her a

blemish in herself; she did not try to persuade herself that the lesson

was meant for some character quite different from her own.

"Is not this God's message to me," thought the sufferer; "and is not

this warning for me? Would not I have been glad to have been trusted

with the ten talents, or the five; but when only one was left to me,

did I not, in discontent, despair, bury it deep and hide it? And why,

why have I done so? Because I have dared to entertain gloomy ideas of

my God. I have thought His dealings hard, and my faith and patience

have failed! But have I, indeed, one talent: I who am so feeble that

my voice could scarcely reach beyond the bed next to mine? Yes, there

is one soul at least in this ward which I might influence for good:

there is one at least to whom I ought to show how meekly a Christian

can suffer. There is great ignorance which I have made no attempt to

enlighten. I have even repelled my fellow-sufferers by coldness that

looked like pride. I have been gloomy—perhaps sullen in my grief. Alas!

alas! I have buried my talent. God help me to use it ere it be too

late!"

In the meantime Mrs. Grant had quitted the ward, and some of the

paupers began to make observations upon her.

"I daresay, now that 'ere lady thinks she has done a mighty good deed

in sitting there starched and stiff for ten minutes, and then sweeping

away in her rustling silk, without so much as asking one of us how we

be!" said Ann Rogers, in her harsh and insolent tone.

"Yes," observed the nurse, "she's different from the lady who visited

the ward that I had down below. That lady smiled so kind, and talked

so pleasant that it was a real pleasure to see her; and she made

everything in the Bible so plain. Then, it seemed as if she really did

care for us; she talked to us quietly one by one, and was as sorry for

any one sick or in pain as if she had been an old friend. That's the

kind of visitor for me."

"I knew a lady, afore I came into the house, who allowed a poor old

soul as lived in a garret a pound of tea every month, and a sack of

coal at Christmas. That's what I calls a friend," said Ann Rogers.

"The kindest thing I ever heard of," observed an old, bedridden pauper,

"was a clergyman's taking in my poor brother, who had chanced to fall

down in a fit at his gate, and nursing him, and paying his doctor, and

giving him a half-crown and a good warm coat when he left. A real kind

Christian was that parson, who knew how to practice what he preached."

There was a general murmur of assent through the room. When it was

silenced, Grace Milner said, in her soft, faint voice, "If you are

comparing deeds of kindness, I think that I know of one greater than

any that you have mentioned. I do not mean to undervalue the generosity

of either the clergyman or the lady; but I could tell you of one who,

without spending a farthing, did more than either of the two. My story

is a true one, and belongs to the history of the famous general, Sir

David Baird."

"A story—let's have that," said the nurse, who, like most of those in

the poorhouse, was glad of anything that gave promise of affording five

minutes' amusement.

"So you've found your tongue at last," observed Ann Rogers, who had

been inclined to take offence at the previous silence of the invalid

lady.

Grace slightly flushed at the rude remark; but without appearing to

take notice of it, and lifting up her heart to God to ask for His

blessing on her attempting to use her one talent to His glory, she

recounted the following little anecdote, in the hope of drawing from it

some spiritual lesson.

"Some seventy or eighty years ago a fierce war raged in India between

the English and a native monarch called Tippoo Saib. In the course of

this war, which ended at last triumphantly for our country, our troops

sustained a terrible disaster, and some of our most gallant officers

fell into the enemy's hands."

"And mighty little mercy they found, I'll warrant you," observed Ann

Rogers.

"The officers, amongst whom was Baird, then a young man, were thrown

into a horrible prison, where those who had been brought up amidst the

comforts of an English home were exposed to hunger and miseries untold.

What made their condition yet more wretched was that some of the

officers had been wounded—Baird, in particular, had been shot in the

leg, and pain and weakness were added to confinement, want, and anxious

fears for the future. A wild beast was at one time kept near the prison

of the unfortunate English, and its howls greatly disturbed them; for a

dread arose in their minds that the tyrant Tippoo intended to give his

captives as a prey to the savage animal."

"Poor souls, they were worse off than we," said the nurse, who had

seated herself on the edge of Grace's bed, to listen to her tale.

"One day the English were further alarmed by a great clanking noise

just outside their prison. The door opened, and a number of native

smiths came in, bearing a quantity of iron fetters, which they flung

down on the floor. The wretched captives too easily guessed who were to

wear these chains. A native officer then entered, who gave command that

a pair of fetters should be fixed upon the legs of each of the unhappy

gentlemen."

"What! The wounded and all?" exclaimed Ann.

"A gray-haired officer," continued Grace,—"I grieve that I have

forgotten his name—determined to make an effort to save poor Baird from

the agony to which he was destined. 'It is impossible,' said he to the

dark Indian, 'that you can think of putting chains upon that suffering

young man. A bullet has been cut from his leg; his wound is fresh and

sore; the chafing of the iron must cost him his life.' But the heart of

the heathen whom he addressed seemed cold and hard as the iron itself.

What cared Tippoo's servant if the prisoner suffered; what cared he if

the prisoner died!"

"'There are just as many pairs of fetters as there are captives,' he

said; 'let what may come of it, every pair must be worn.'"

"'Then,' said the noble officer, 'put two on me; I will wear his as

well as my own.'"

"Bless him," exclaimed the nurse, warmly. "That was a friend indeed;

and what was the end of the story?"

"The end of the story is that Baird lived to regain his freedom,

Jived for victory and reward, lived to besiege and take the very city

in which he had so long lain a wretched captive. In the last deadly

struggle, Tippoo was slain."

"And the kind officer?" interrupted Ann.

"The generous friend died in prison," replied Grace.

"Well," said the nurse, with a sigh, "he did more indeed than either

the clergyman or the lady. To be willing to wear two chains, and all

for the sake of his friend!"

"What would you have thought," asked Grace, "if he had borne the

fetters of all in the prison? What would you have thought if instead of

being a captive himself, he had been free, and wealthy, and great, and,

for the sake of the unhappy sufferers, had quitted a glorious palace to

live in their loathsome dungeon, to wear their chains, to bear their

stripes, to suffer and die in their stead that the captives might go

free?"

"Such a thing would never be done," cried Ann Rogers.

"Such a thing has been done," exclaimed Grace. There was a murmur of

surprise from her hearers; she paused a minute, and went on, clasping

her hands as she spoke. "Helpless captives of sin, doomed to wear

the heavy chain of God's wrath, trials in this world, endless woe in

the next; such are we all by nature—such would we all have remained,

had not the Son of God himself deigned to visit our prison. He bore

the weight of all our guilt, He endured the punishment which we had

deserved; and now, for all who receive His grace, the prison is thrown

wide open; victory over sin here, and glory in heaven—such are the

blessings bought for His people by the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ."

"Ah!" observed the nurse, in an undertone, "that's how my lady used

to speak. Many a time has she told me that there's no friend like the

Lord; for there's no one on earth would do for us what He did of His

own free will."

Grace felt joyful surprise on finding that there was some one in the

ward who looked to the blessed Saviour. An ignorant but simple-minded

Christian was near her, ready and glad to be instructed; and the lady

reproached herself for having ever thought that her own work for God

was ended.

"Well," observed Ann, in her blunt manner, "I went to school when I was

young, and I learned a good deal of the Bible there, which I've not

all forgotten yet. I know that the Lord died for us, and that, when

we've done with the troubles of this life, we shall go and be happy in

heaven."

Grace had already heard enough of the bad language, and seen enough of

the bad temper of this woman, to fear that Ann was deceiving herself;

believing her soul to be safe, although she had never yet repented of

sin, or struggled against its power; never yet given her heart to the

Lord. Oh! Fearful mistake of multitudes deceived by Satan, who, because

salvation's stream flows within their reach, believe that its blessings

are theirs, though they never have tasted of its waters. Grace felt

that the conscience of Ann was asleep, and she silently prayed that God

might awaken it.

"Suppose that the generous officer during his captivity," said Grace,

"had called Baird to his side, had entreated him to do something for

his sake whenever he should quit the prison; suppose that, when Baird

was free, and rich, and happy, he had totally forgotten his friend, had

quite neglected his dying wish, and had even done dishonor to his name,

what should we think of such conduct?"

"Think," exclaimed the indignant nurse, "we should think it shamefully

ungrateful."