FAITH'S OLD FRIEND
OLD Mr. Cardwell admired the coin, but was not quite so much impressed
as Faith considered he ought to be. He rang the bell for his servant,
and told him to bring a small cabinet. Then he asked for his bunch of
keys, and he made Faith unlock it, and take out some old coins that he
had collected.
"These are all B.C.," he said. "Hundreds of years before."
Faith looked at them, asked what "B.C." meant, and in her turn was not
much impressed.
"I shouldn't care for them so much," she said. "It's only because this
might—it might, you know—have lain in the Hand of Jesus."
"Oh, you little piece of superstition!" said the old man. "You ought to
have been born an R.C. Then you would have believed anything."
"But I might be right," said Faith. "Nobody could make sure I'm not,
and I like to think it, very, very much."
"Why are you so religious? Is it the way in your family? Children
aren't as a rule. What makes you such a little sober-sides?"
Faith shook her curls.
"I can't tell you," she said, "but I don't feel sober when I come
to see you. I feel I could dance for joy, and I don't think I'm
religious—we're pretty naughty, as a rule."
Then she put her coin back carefully in its box.
"I think the children who lived in the Bible time when Jesus Christ
went about their villages were the most fortunate children in the
world."
There was a pause in their conversation.
Then her little face brightened.
"But I suppose we're fortunate, too, for we have the Comforter going
about with us in the world now."
"Ah!" said old Mr. Cardwell, "I thought you would start that hare
again. How's the old shepherd? Seen him lately?"
"Yes, one day last week. I met him in the road, taking his sheep to
another field, and Sandy was with him. Timothy knows you. I asked him
if he did. And he feels very sorry for our Pirate, because he wanted to
go to the war, didn't he? And they wouldn't have him, because he had a
bad heart?"
"That was the way of it. Bad luck has been in this house for twenty
years—ever since I lost my wife."
"Did she die?" Faith asked with interest.
"Yes, caught a cold—and died after three days' illness. Everything went
wrong after that."
"You must have felt just like the disciples did," said Faith
thoughtfully.
The old man did not reply. A shadow had come across his face, but there
was a softer look in his eyes as he thought about the wife he had
adored.
"Me and Timothy sat down in a field together under a tree," went on
Faith, "while he ate his dinner. He had some cold bacon and bread.
It was very nice, I tasted it. And then he told me the story of the
disciples. You see, it was simply awful for them when Jesus went away
from them like your wife did! Shall I tell you what Timothy told me?"
"Oh, yes, tell me anything you like."
"You see, they thought all along Jesus wouldn't die. They wouldn't and
couldn't believe it when He told them He was going away from them.
And they hoped to the last He wouldn't die, and then He did. It was
awful black and dark, and no good to live any more, they thought.
Timothy said they'd always told Jesus all their troubles, and He had
understood, and they'd loved Him so, and they'd followed and lived with
Him, and when He was silent and dead their hearts nearly broke. Timothy
says they felt what we feel when one we love best dies—you felt like
that about your wife, didn't you? I almost wished when Timothy was
talking that I had somebody I loved very much who died. But I did know
a little girl at our school in London who died, and we cried a good
deal, because she was in my class, and she came to tea once, and I was
sorry after that I didn't let her have one of my dolls' hats. She asked
for it, I remember!"
Faith paused for breath; her thoughts had flown away on another track.
The invalid looked at her with some amusement in his eyes.
Then she returned to the subject of Timothy's conversation.
"Well, just before their hearts quite broke, Jesus rose out of his
grave on Easter Sunday, and then they were most joyful again. And
He often came and talked to them, but then came another dreadful
disappointment. He went away from them for good and all, and never came
back again. And He hasn't come yet, though He will one day."
Faith paused.
"Of course you know all this don't you? Because it's in the Bible, but
Timothy makes it quite real when he tells it. Shall I go on—the best
part is just coming—"
"Go on. I'm listening."
"Well, they were told by angels when Jesus went up to Heaven that the
Comforter was coming to them, and they must just pray and wait for Him.
And then one wonderful day they were all together, and there was a
rushing mighty wind, and the Comforter came."
Faith's eyes were big now with delight and awe. She waved her small
hands in the air in her excitement:
"He came right on them and into them, and they dried their tears and
never cried again; and they found they could do anything they wanted
now, and weren't afraid of the wicked Jews or of death, or any of the
fearful things that come into the world to make us unhappy and sad. And
then they began to see that what Jesus said was quite, quite true. The
Comforter went about with them everywhere and kept them good and happy,
and made them remember every single word Jesus had ever said to them.
And they lived happy ever after till they died, and then the Comforter
carried them up to heaven, and they've been there ever since. Isn't
that a beautiful ending?"
Old Mr. Cardwell gazed at the child's shining face and was speechless
for a minute, then he said:
"But you don't think that the same thing happens to us?"
"Timothy says it does, really it does. And everybody who feels when
they've got their dear soldiers dying and leaving them that they
can never be happy again, are making a little mistake. Because the
Comforter is only too glad to come and make it up to them, and dry
their tears and make them quite happy again. I asked Timothy if we all
heard the wind when the Comforter came. He says He comes very gently
now. But yesterday, all day, there was such a rushing wind round our
cottage and in the orchard, that I wondered if the Comforter was coming
to a whole lot of unhappy people all at once, like He did to the
disciples. What do you think? Did He come to you when your wife died in
a very soft way, or in a loud way?"
"He's never come near me at all," said the old man with a bitter smile.
[Illustration: A RED AND BROWN BUTTERFLY FLEW IN.]
Faith looked at him in a perplexed fashion.
"Well, then, I suppose He is waiting to be asked, like with me. I never
asked Him to come to me before Timothy told me about Him. I really
didn't understand. But I asked Him as soon as I could. And Timothy says
He is with me. I s'pose—"
Faith stopped, and a slow, dreamy smile came upon her lips: "I s'pose
whatever happens to me when I grow up and when I get quite old—if a
earthquake shakes me, or Granny and Aunt Alice and Charity and Hope are
all taken to Heaven first, and me left behind quite alone, and if the
most awful things you can imagine would happen—I shall never, never be
unhappy, because the Comforter will be drying my tears as fast as they
come, and holding me in His Arms and loving me."
There was dead silence. A little breeze blew in at the open window, and
then a red and brown butterfly flew in and alighted on the rug that
covered the invalid's legs.
Childlike, Faith jumped up to look at it. Her grave talk was forgotten.
"I suppose a moth isn't as pretty as a butterfly is it? You will always
call me Miss Moth, won't you? I do love it."
"Well, little Miss Moth, I'm much obliged for your dear little sermon.
We'll have the rest of it another day."
The butterfly flew away, and Faith watched it alight on a rhododendron
outside. Then she turned:
"Oh, dear, everybody tells me I give sermons! I don't mean to. And I'm
not partickly fond of sermons myself, they're so long and dry. But I
do love talking about the Comforter. Charity and Hope won't listen;
they say they don't want any comfort at all. I s'pose if you're never
unhappy you don't. But they do get miserable sometimes."
She stopped. Tea was being brought in, and she had the supreme joy of
handling the silver teapot, and pouring out cups of tea for herself and
the old man. She chattered away now of the Cottage, and of the village,
and of all that she and her sisters meant to do in the summer holidays;
and when the time came for her to go, she parted from her old friend
with real regret.
But she was made happy by the invitation to come and spend every
Saturday afternoon with him. And when she got home her tongue went
fast. Charity told her that she would get sick and tired of the old
invalid before long.
"It's only because he's new. After two or three weeks you'll feel quite
dull, and won't want to go any more."
"I shall always want to go," said Faith emphatically; "he talks nearly
as nice as Timothy, only different, but they both talk to me in a
understanding way."
Charity laughed.
"It isn't very hard to understand you," she said.
Faith coloured and crept away with her feelings a little hurt. Hope
came after her.
"Never mind, Faith. Let's come and put Rose and Violet to bed. They're
up in the apple tree. Charity is always saying nasty things, but she
doesn't mean them. But she says you're trying to get religious like the
children in books. And that's priggy, you know!"
"I'm sure I don't mean to be," said Faith disconsolately.
But she cheered up when they were out in the sunny orchard; and the
putting of the dolls to bed was a serious business, and occupied her
time and thoughts. Faith had been going to the Towers for two or three
weeks, when one Saturday afternoon she arrived home in a state of the
greatest excitement, bearing a covered basket in her arms.
"Oh, Aunt Alice," she cried, as she met her Aunt at the door, "I have
the loveliest, darlingest little black and white puppy, and he's all my
own. Mr. Cardwell gave him to me. We were looking out of the window at
his mother rolling him over and over, and there were three more, one
yellow and brown, and the other all black and—"
"Stop, stop! Not quite so fast," said Aunt Alice. "I don't want to
disappoint you, but we cannot keep dogs here, and you should not have
brought him before asking leave first."
"But Mr. Cardwell gave him to me, he really did."
"Yes, very kind of him, but I can't let you have a dog. There are many
reasons against it."
Aunt Alice walked down to the gate and asked the groom to wait. He had
as usual brought Faith back in the dogcart.
Faith stood hugging her basket with scarlet cheeks and excited eyes.
Charity and Hope besought her to open the basket. She did so.
"Oh, I must keep him!" she cried. "I must, I must. Aunt Alice wouldn't
be so cruel! He's such a darling! He licked my face and fingers with
his dear little pink tongue!"
The puppy looked at the three little faces anxiously bending over him,
and gave a feeble squeak of approval. Aunt Alice came hurriedly into
the Cottage and sat down at her desk to write a note. The children
looking at her felt the puppy's fate was sealed, and Faith burst into a
flood of tears.
"It's a shame!" she sobbed. "I've been planning all the way home about
him, and where he will live. There's an old tub in the yard, and I will
go without some of my breakfast and dinner so as to give him some!"
"Yes, we all will," said Charity eagerly. "I'm sure Granny would let us
keep him. I'll run and ask her."
But Granny was out, and Aunt Alice was quite determined. Faith actually
had a tiny struggle with her aunt before the basket could be taken out
of her arms; but it was no good; the puppy was delivered back to the
groom with the note for Mr. Cardwell, and Aunt Alice turned to confront
three very miserable and rather sullen little nieces.
"Don't be foolish, unreasonable children!" she said. "And, Faith, stop
crying at once. We are not well enough off to start keeping a dog in
these war times. The licence would be expensive to begin with, and we
want every crumb of food ourselves. I have to keep a cat because of
the mice, and I can't have another animal to feed as well. It was very
kind of Mr. Cardwell, but I have explained to him that we never have
kept dogs, and cannot begin it now. Granny would be quite of the same
opinion as myself. It was only the other day she refused the offer of a
spaniel from Sir George."
Faith rushed away out into the orchard, sobbing her heart out. There
was a thick hedge at the bottom of it, and here behind as old apple
tree out of sight of the house she cried most bitterly. It was a
grievous disappointment to her. She could not follow her Aunt's
reasons, and thought she was cross and unkind to act so.
"Aunt Alice might understand—she doesn't care a bit, she's always being
cross now. Oh, my darling puppy! It's cruel to take you away!"
As the tears fell fast, recollection came to her. Was there any need to
go on crying so? Was not the Comforter close by?
"I don't want to stop crying!" she sobbed to herself. "I've a right
to cry. Aunt Alice has made me cry, and she doesn't care a bit. She's
horrid and unkind. No, I really don't want the Comforter at all. I want
to cry."
And so with more anger than sorrow in her little heart, she sobbed on.
When supper time came, Charity came to hunt for her, and brought her
indoors with a tear-stained face.
Aunt Alice took no notice of her unhappiness, but talked very
cheerfully about taking them all out on an expedition in a few days'
time.
"I have heard of a place where some wild strawberries grow, and we will
take our dinner with us and bring home as many as we can carry. I have
told Miss Vale that she must give you a whole holiday."
Charity and Hope clapped their hands; but Faith did not even smile.
Her Granny spoke to her lovingly before she went to bed, but she made
little response. Aunt Alice told her not to be sulky, and that made her
feel worse. When she went upstairs to bed she felt she was the most
ill-used little girl in all the world. But when she knelt down to say
her prayers, better thoughts began to come to her.
"I did think I should never feel unhappy again because of the
Comforter," she thought. "I suppose He has gone away quite disgusted
with me, I don't feel Him near me now. I just feel angry still, because
I'm so disappointed! And I don't care about the strawberries a bit. I
wanted the puppy. But nobody cares. Even Charity and Hope, who seemed
to want him, have quite forgotten all about him now, and they laugh and
talk and think me silly not to laugh too. Oh, please, God, do send the
Comforter back. Perhaps He would make me feel good again. I don't feel
it now. I'm sorry for being so cross."
Faith was getting rather near comfort now. When once she had owned that
she had been in the wrong she began to feel better.
And before she fell asleep that night she had the feeling that the
Comforter was near her, and that she was being made happy once more.
When the next morning dawned she found that the sun was shining and the
birds singing, and life before her was bright, as it always was.
And she was quite ready to talk enthusiastically over the strawberry
gathering. Charity and Hope were accustomed to her moods. They knew
she felt things more deeply than they did, and were thankful to see
her scamper out into the orchard before breakfast, and come in singing
under her breath, as she pulled her chair towards the table.
Nobody alluded to the trouble of yesterday, and, child-like, Faith
soon pushed it into the background, and threw herself into the present
without a shadow of care or disappointment upon her little face.