A STORY AND A FAREWELL.
“Going away! O Herr Adler—don’t go away! We can’t spare you.”
So said Squib in vehement dismay, catching hold of one of Herr Adler’s
hands as he spoke, as though he would restrain him by force.
“Why must you go?” continued the child eagerly. “You are grown up: you
can do just as you like. Ah, do stay as long as I do!”
“So that is your idea of being grown up—to do just as one likes,” said
Herr Adler, with his amused smile, which always made Squib feel as if he
were thinking of all manner of things unknown to the world at large.
“Well, perhaps you are not so far out, my little friend; for I do not
only like my work, I love it with all my heart. A holiday sometimes is
very pleasant and restful; but, after all, it is the work that is the
best part of life.”
“Oh!” cried Squib, “it isn’t so for us—for children, I mean. It’s all
beautiful out here amongst the mountains; but I can’t bear to think of
going back, and just having stupid, tiresome lessons to do. It will be
so dull!”
“Dull!” said Herr Adler, in a voice which brought a sudden wave of red
into Squib’s cheeks; “dull to learn all sorts of wonderful and
interesting things about the great wonderful world we live in! Why, what
did you say to me the other day about finding everything so interesting?
And now you call your lessons dull. Why, that is nonsense!”
“Oh, if _you_ taught me my lessons they would all be interesting,”
answered the little boy quickly; “but some people can’t make anything
interesting; and then—and then—”
Herr Adler nodded his head several times, with one of his grave smiles.
“Yes, you may well say, ‘and then—and then—’ and stick fast. Can’t you
make things interesting for yourself? How is it your games are all so
interesting?—your collections and your carving? Why, because you are
interested; because you want to learn and to know and to do more and
more, and better and better. And your lessons will be just as
interesting—no matter who teaches you—if you just make up your mind that
you _want to know_. Not long ago I met in company one of the cleverest
men living. It was in a very mixed gathering, and there were all sorts
of very different people there. I watched this gentleman a long time. He
went from one to another, and again and again I heard him say, ‘I want
to know’ this—’I want to know’ that. No matter to whom he talked, he had
always something to ask. He always wanted to know. You take him as an
example, my little friend. You want to know—and you will find nothing
dull.”
Squib looked bright and eager, yet he sighed a little nevertheless.
“If I only had you living near, and could see you sometimes, I think I
could feel like that. But I’m afraid the feeling will go off by-and-by,
when I get home. I feel as if it would be different when I live in
another place. If I lived always in this valley, full of such
interesting things—like Seppi—I should be so happy! I should love to see
the snow come down, and live in one of those queer little chalets, and
look after the goats, and carve things all day; and wait for the spring
to come again. But one’s own work seems so tame and stupid. I wish we
could sometimes change with other people!”
Seppi’s eyes opened wide as he heard the little Herr speak so. He did
not _say_ anything, but his face plainly told that he thought exactly
the opposite—that it was his own life which was dull, and the little
English boy’s full of pleasure and variety. Herr Adler, looking from the
one face to the other, and putting down his hand into the depths of his
great pocket, said with a smile,—
“Why, I think I shall have to read you a story which a young friend of
mine wrote, and sent to me the other day, asking my opinion of it. I
read it out of doors last evening, and have it in my pocket still. It is
funny we should begin talking about our work, for that is what the story
is about.”
Squib’s face lighted at mention of a story, as did Seppi’s also.
“Oh, please read it to us,” he said eagerly. “Has it got a name?”
“It has a motto, which perhaps will do as well; I wonder if you are
Latin scholar enough to translate it. My young friend has called it—’Via
Crucis, Via Lucis.’ Can you construe that?”
“It is something about a cross and light,” said Squib, after
considering.
“Yes; it means—’The Way of the Cross is the Way of Light.’ Now, I will
read you the story; and then perhaps you will understand better.”
And so Herr Adler read:—
I.
Many long years ago a child dwelt in a quaint old city, and laboured
diligently to earn his daily bread. He was fatherless and motherless,
and nobody paid much heed to the lonely boy.
Now, hard by that city, just without the walls, stood a great monastery,
wherein lived men called monks, who dwelt apart from other men, and
thought best to serve God by renouncing those things which men hold
dear, and giving themselves to fasting and prayer.
For many hundreds of years men believed that God could best be served
so; and some of the monks led very pious and godly lives. The rich and
great of the earth called them holy men, and often gave to them great
gifts in money or land, to be spent to the glory and honour of God. And
when the monks were faithful to their vows, this money entrusted to them
was spent either in relieving the necessities of the poor, or in the
erection of churches or other buildings to be used for the honour and
glory of God.
At the time of which I speak—long, long ago—when the child dwelt in this
city, a stately church was being built hard by the monastery walls, and
it fell to the lot of the boy to labour with the masons, and to hand
them the heavy hodfuls of mortar as they stood upon the scaffolding at
their toil.
Day after day they toiled at their work, and the child with them; and,
behold, the days grew very long to him, and waxed more and more
wearisome. The hodfuls of mortar seemed to become heavier day by day;
and when he saw other children passing by, laughing and singing in their
play, his heart cried out against the hardness and dreariness of his own
life. Instead of looking upwards, and taking pleasure in the progress of
the stately building, and his own humble share in the pious work, he was
looking ever earthwards, and his heart grew heavy within him.
Now it came to pass that the monks from the monastery hard by came
ofttimes to the place where the workmen laboured, and watched the walls
of the church rising ever higher and more high, and sometimes worked
with their own hands upon some of the beautiful carving in stone or wood
with which it was to be adorned; for to these pious men there was no
drudgery in work that was done for the honour and glory of God; and they
looked forward with longing for the day when the voice of prayer and
praise should ascend from these walls, and when men should learn ever
more and more of the nearness of His abiding presence in His church.
One of the monks who oftenest came to watch or to work was called Father
Gottlieb—and his very name seemed to show something of the nature of the
man, for Gottlieb means “the love of God;” and those who looked upon the
gentle face, which bore traces of fastings and prayers and vigils, could
see that love shone forth from his deep-set eyes, and could hear it in
the tones of his beautiful voice.
For Father Gottlieb had a voice that sometimes sounded like a trumpet
call; and since he had been dedicated to the service of the Lord from
his youth, and had been long resident within the walls of the monastery,
the men of the city had come to love and revere him, and even the rough
workmen hushed their loud voices, and were ashamed of their idle jests,
when they saw the tall form of the monk approaching.
Sometimes as he stood and watched the work, a look of rapture would
steal into his eyes, and he would utter words which had a beautiful
sound, albeit not all of those who stood by knew what was meant by them.
It chanced one day, as Father Gottlieb was looking on at the builders’
toil, that he stood close beside the child of whom I have spoken, and
looking up to heaven he cried,—
“Blessed are those who are counted worthy to serve Him! Yea, thrice
blessed, for their reward shall be great!”
Then the child, looking up into the face of the monk, took courage to
ask a question.
“Of whom dost thou speak, holy father? Who are these blessed ones?”
And the monk laid a hand upon his head as he answered,—
“All are blessed—thou and all thy fellow-labourers; for ye serve a
gracious and kindly Master, who will bless all your toil for Him.”
But the child answered and said,—
“Nay, but mine is a hard taskmaster. Day by day do I do my part, and
toil in the heat of the sun. Yet ofttimes he gives me harsh words, and
never a blessing. I am weary to death of such service.”
But the monk looked down at the child with a searching gaze and made
answer,—
“Ah, my child, thou hast not yet learned whom thou dost serve. He is no
harsh Taskmaster. He is gracious and loving, and full of compassion and
tender mercy. And blessed are those who are permitted to toil for Him,
and raise up temples to His honour and glory!”
But the child understood him not. He thought only of his earthly
taskmaster, and in the face upturned to the monk was nothing but
thankless discontent and wonder. Father Gottlieb was gazing upward,
where high up in the dazzling blue air the builders were toiling at the
soaring spire of the church, and raising his hand and pointing
heavenwards, he asked,—
“What dost thou see there, my child?”
Then the child looked, and made answer,—
“I see the builders busy at their work.”
But the monk answered and said,—
“I see the smiling of the Master’s face.”
Then the bells began to sound forth the Angelus, and the monk went back
to the monastery, for he had his appointed work to do, and might not
linger longer. And the child took up his task again.
Night by night as the child lay upon his rude bed he thought of the
father’s words, but he comprehended them not, for his heart was full of
bitterness because of the hardness of his own lot, and the thankless
toil which he had grown to hate.
“The master is not kind,” he cried aloud. “He is a hard taskmaster. He
chides me oft. I never see a smile upon his face. I will no more of his
service. To-morrow I will go forth into the wide world, and find fresh
paths to walk in. I will no longer serve. I will be mine own master.”
For the child thought only of an earthly master, and knew not that he
was set in the world to serve the Master in the heavens as well.
So when the day dawned he arose from his bed, while all the world yet
slumbered, and wandered away from his home.
II.
Ah, how sweet it was to stand in the early sunshine, free as the
sunbeams themselves! drinking in the pure morning air, listening to the
glad warbling of the happy birds as they flew hither and thither in the
green woodland!
Sweet, indeed, were the voices of nature, and yet the child’s soul was
not attuned to their harmonies. For each and every one of them sang of
the appointed work given to him to do in the wonderful and mysterious
realm of Nature; and the child had made a vow that he would toil no
more, that he would be no servant; so the voices of Nature, which it was
given him to understand, fell ofttimes upon unwilling ears.
Yet, though he could understand the voices around him, he was not
surprised. It seemed as if the dewy morning had woven some spell about
him, and as if he were in some sort changed, albeit in very truth that
same child who had fled from the city, and from his appointed place,
that he might be free from service. Nor did his heart misgive him one
whit for the thing that he had done.
Climbing up a mountain he presently came upon a brook, rippling down
over the rocky boulders. Weary and footsore he sat down beside the clear
water, dipping his hot feet into a cool, deep pool, and listening the
while to the song of the laughing stream as it leaped or glided down the
side of the mountain. It sang of the rocky cavern whence it came, fed by
some unseen springs in the depths of the hills, of the avalanches which
fell with the melting of the snow from the heights above, of the green
meadows in the valley below, towards which it was hastening, and even of
great cities through which it must pass, and where it must do an
appointed work, before it reached the great and boundless ocean towards
which it, like all water, was for ever trending.
But when the child heard this song, and saw how the water foamed and
dashed amongst the rocky boulders, instead of choosing the softer spots
for its channel, he cried aloud, and said,—
“Brooklet, wherefore dost thou choose such a toilsome way for thyself?
See yonder, where the flowers bloom and the moss makes a soft carpet!
Turn aside from those cruel rocks, and linger where all is fresh and
fair and sweet; and haste not to the haunts of men, where there are toil
and trouble! Why wilt thou not rest and play here in this pleasant
place?”
But the brooklet answered and said,—
“Thou talkest foolishly, O mortal child! Not mine the choice. I have my
appointed course and work set for me. I do but follow where the Master
points the way. Amid rocks and melting snows I gather strength and
volume for my journey; but I may not linger to disport myself in green
valleys. I have a work to do for the Master, and He it is who bids me
ever forward and onward. I am here to do His holy will.”
But the child waxed angry, and said,—
“Hadst thou laboured as I have in the heart of the city, thou wouldst
not talk thus. Thou wouldst turn aside and do thine own pleasure. For
sweet is freedom!”
“Nay,” murmured the brooklet, “sweet is service for Him. And blessed are
they who serve the Master in His appointed way.”
Presently the child, being footsore and hungry, sought a place of
shelter for the night, and finding himself in his wanderings at the door
of a farmhouse, he craved food at the hands of the good folk there and a
night’s lodging. These, taking pity on his loneliness, gave him bread to
eat and milk to drink, and allowed him to make his bed amidst the
fragrant hay in a loft above the cowshed.
That night, waking from the sleep of exhausted nature, he thought he
heard the sound of voices beneath, and looking through a wide crack in
the floor, saw that the cattle below were conversing with one another,
nor did it surprise him, after all that had occurred to him that day, to
find that he understood what they said to each other.
“Oh, how my bones do ache!” grumbled a young bullock, who had been
working at the plough (as is the fashion in the country in which the
child lived), “I have been yoked to the plough all day. And now I shall
have but a few short hours’ rest before they take me forth again.”
“And we,” answered a pair of strong white oxen, who were greedily
munching their fodder, having been that night brought into their stalls
quite late, “we have been worse used than thou, brother; for we were up
with the sun, and have been working till he set, dragging I know not how
many loads of hay from the meadows to the yard. Truly our case is an
evil one! And to-morrow will be like to-day. And after the hay comes the
harvest, and nothing but work, work, work from morning till night. Ugh!
Ugh!”
“Nay, but is it not a great and blessed thing, my brothers, to share in
the beautiful harvesting of the earth?” questioned a gentle-faced brown
cow with a white star on her forehead. “Methinks it is a gracious and
goodly task to prepare the brown fields for the sowing of the seed, and,
again, to help in the joyful ingathering. For the hearts of all men are
glad with great rejoicing, and they will bless the Master who has sent
the gracious harvest blessing; and we who have toiled and laboured will
assuredly not lose our share in the gladness and the reward.”
“Ah!” said the young bullock impatiently, “it is easy for thee and such
as thee to talk! Thou dost not labour day after day in the heat of the
sun, as I am called upon to do!”
“Nevertheless,” answered the meek cow, “I have had many a burden to bear
in my time; and I have had my moments of impatience and murmuring. But I
have learned to love my bondage now, and to seek happiness in service;
for all that we do is done for the Master, and it is His desire that
each one of His creatures shall serve Him in the appointed place and
way. Yea, and blessed is all work done for the Master. May He accept it
and bless it to the world!”
Then the elder cattle bowed their heads and said, “Amen!” but the child
started up and cried,—
“O foolish beasts, which know not the power ye possess! Rise up and
break the bonds which bind you! Rush forth free and untamed into the
wide world!”
But the cattle heeded him not, standing silent in their stalls. Only the
swallows stirred and twittered in the eaves above, and the child
presently sank to sleep again.
But, when the day broke, he rose and crept away from the farm, for he
thought, “If I stay here they will perchance seek to make a servant of
me, and I am no man’s servant now!”
Nevertheless, in this he greatly erred, for whether he willed it or no,
he was born to the service of God.
III.
For many days the child wandered on through the smiling fields whitening
for the harvest, and ever and anon as he neared some village he would
see bands of reapers going forth to their toil, singing glad songs; or
would meet them returning home at the close of the day, weary, yet
rejoicing in the glorious weather, and in the bounteous harvest which
God had given them. Many amongst them would speak kindly to the child,
and he always had food given him when he needed it; yet he would
presently slip away from those who would have befriended him, saying in
his heart,—
“These are all workers and toilers. Perchance, if I remain with them
they will ask labour of me;” for his heart was yet set against any sort
of toil, and as he went along and saw how the world toiled and laboured,
he rejoiced to think that no man could ask service of him.
Anon he came, upon one hot, sultry day, to a village. The wide street
was empty, for all the world was out in the harvest-fields, but the
great trees which bordered the road on either side gave a grateful
shade, and from the neighbourhood of an open door, half-way down the
street, came the cheerful ring of a blacksmith’s hammer.
The child, being hot and weary, and disposed to linger in the shade,
drew nearer, and, pausing by the open door, seated himself upon an
upturned barrow and idly watched the flying sparks, and listened to the
creaking of the bellows.
Many horses were waiting to be shod, and the smith attended to them in
turn. But presently he gave a nod to his companion, who disappeared for
a while, and he himself came out wiping his heated brow, and seated
himself beside the child, in the cool shadow of the tree.
From beneath the barrow he drew forth provision for his mid-day meal,
and, marking the weary and wistful face of the child, he gave him food
and drink in abundance, and as they dined together he talked to him
kindly.
“Whence art thou, boy?” he asked; “for I know not thy face, albeit I
have lived here, man and boy, all my life.”
“I am from a far city,” answered the child; “a city that lies beyond
yonder mountains.”
“Nay, that is far indeed!” said the smith; “and whither away now? For
thou art over-young to wander alone through the world.”
“I know not,” answered the child, and then he suddenly crimsoned, he
scarce knew why, as he felt the eyes of the smith rest gravely upon him.
“Is it well to fly from the nest where the hand of God hath placed us?”
questioned the man with gentle severity: the child hung his head and
gave no answer.
Dinner being ended, the smith arose and girded on his leather apron
afresh; then he turned into the forge and grasped his heavy hammer. But
the child eyed him in surprise.
“It is so hot at noonday,” he said; “surely thou wilt rest awhile ere
thou dost labour again?”
The smith smiled as he swung his hammer, and blew up his forge with the
great bellows.
“Nay, child,” he answered, “rest cometh at night, and sweet it is to the
weary who have earned it by the labour of their hands in the appointed
place; but the day is given us by the Master for work, and He looks that
we fulfil our allotted tasks with the best that is in us. Look, too, at
yon patient horses, waiting to be shod, and think of the loads of golden
grain awaiting to be drawn homeward by them! Suppose a thunder-storm
comes up to-night, and the grain is not housed because the horses be not
shod, and that because the smith was sleeping the noontide hour away
when he should have been at work. A fine story that for the Master’s
ears!”
But the child looked about him round the forge, and said,—
“I had thought it all belonged to thee.”
“Ay, so it does,” answered the smith, “and was my father’s before me.”
“Then why canst thou not rest at thy will, since no man is thy master?”
But at that question the blacksmith turned upon him, and cried with a
loud voice,—
“Child! Though the forge be mine, and the anvil and the iron, yet my
time is not mine own, for I serve a Master to whom I must give account
of each day as it passes. Yet,” he added, in a gentler voice, “He is
full of compassion and tender mercy, and hath pity on the weakness of
His children.”
And something in the good man’s face made the child ask,—
“Dost thou find pleasure, then, in His service?”
And the blacksmith answered,—
“His smile is worth far more than ten thousand pieces of silver. Ah, my
child, thou hast still much to learn, seeing that thou knowest not as
yet thy Master.”
But the words fell on unwilling ears, and in his heart the child said,
“I have no master;” and presently, while the smith worked, he crept away
in the lengthening shadows, for he feared lest the good man might seek
to make him his fellow-labourer at the anvil.
IV.
Days and weeks rolled by, and the child still wandered on. He met
kindness from the people through whose villages he passed, and food and
shelter were given him, else must he surely have died. But though his
bodily needs were satisfied, a great hunger of the heart arose within
him that was less easily appeased, for it seemed to him that he was
quite, quite alone in the world, and that he had nothing to do—no part
or lot with the busy life he ever saw about him.
The faces of the workers were happy, but his grew pale and thin. Men and
boys sang at their toil, or called cheerily to one another, and the
women in the houses laughed as they watched the gambols of their
children, and would throw pitying glances on the toil-worn little
traveller. He was never turned away from a hospitable door where he
craved food or shelter, yet his loneliness grew ever greater and
greater, and at last his strength began to fail him, till he ofttimes
felt he could scarcely drag himself along the road. Yet he still strove
to journey on, he scarce knew why, save that he feared always, if he
remained in any place, that he would be made a servant by the good
people who befriended him.
This was why he would not stop, though almost too ill to trail himself
along, until it came to pass that one day he fell beside the road, and
lay there near unto death.
Now the place where he fell was a very lonely one, hard by a great wood,
and for a long while nobody passed that way, but anon there came by a
man, who, when he saw the child, stopped and looked earnestly upon him,
and, seeing that he was very ill, lifted him in his arms and bore him
away to his own dwelling, which was in the heart of the great wood
itself.
For many days the child lay upon the good man’s bed, and it seemed as
though the Angel of Death hovered very near to him; yet God had mercy on
the boy, and raised him up from his bed of sickness, and the care of the
kind master of the house was rewarded.
Little by little the child was able to take note of the things about
him, and to sit up in bed and see what went on; and that which struck
him most as he watched the good man of the house was, that he was never
idle. What it was that he did the child did not at first know, for he
worked outside, and all the boy could hear was the ceaseless sound of
tools, mingling often with the music of some song or chant which the
worker would croon to himself. It sounded like carpentering work, the
child thought, and as his strength returned he began to desire to go out
and watch it. So one day, feeling stronger than he had done before, he
rose and dressed himself, and made his way out into the sunny garden,
glimpses of which he had seen all this while through the open casement
of the window.
The garden was very full of flowers, which showed signs of tender care;
and to the right was a carpenter’s shed, with all the tools and
implements, and certain articles standing about, some only just begun,
and others quite or almost finished. The master of the house was not in
the shed, but sitting in his garden, and in his hands he held a great
piece of wood, fashioned in the shape of a cross, upon which he was
carving, with wonderful skill and fidelity to nature, a wreath of
flowers, copying these from the blossoms which bloomed around him.
When the child appeared, and timidly drew near, the good man greeted him
with a smile.
“What art thou doing?” asked the child, “and wherefore dost thou put
such strength and skill into a bit of wood? Is it not hard work to carve
it thus? And of what use is it when done?”
With another smile the worker made reply,—
“It is hard work, truly, my child, but it is blessed work too, for this
cross is to bear a message of comfort and hope to one who will rejoice
to hear it.”
But the child’s face was full of perplexity, and his eyes asked the
question which his lips knew not how to frame. The master of the house
looked searchingly at him, and then said,—
“Knowest thou not, my child, that the cross is the symbol of all the
pain or trouble or toil of this present life, which we are called upon
to bear, and to share with Him who bore the cross for us, and who has
said, ‘If any man would follow me, let him deny himself, and take up his
cross and follow me?’ And yet, because He _hath_ borne the cross first,
He hath hallowed and sweetened it for us. So that we who carry our
crosses for love of Him, seeking to follow in His footsteps, find them
so covered with flowers that we grieve not at their weight, but rejoice
always in the fragrance of the flowers.”
The child answered nothing, and the man presently spoke again, pointing,
as he spoke, to a little wreath of smoke that curled up from behind the
trees.
“In yonder cottage lives a sick woman upon whom the Lord has laid a
heavy cross of pain and suffering. But she takes it from His hand, and
makes no murmur. This cross, covered with the forms of beautiful
flowers, I am fashioning for her.”
Day by day, as the sun sank to his rest and the master of the house,
putting aside his daily task, took out his cross and worked at the
flowers on it, the child came forth and sat beside him, watching him and
hearing him talk, and little by little it seemed to him that scales fell
from his eyes, and that some change he could not understand was wrought
within him.
When the cross was completed, he went with the maker of it to the humble
cottage where the suffering woman lay, and he watched the light deepen
in her eyes as she beheld the gift, and heard the words which the giver
spoke of it.
As they left the cottage together, he stole his hand into that of his
friend, and asked,—
“Why does she have that pain to bear? Is it not cruel of the Master to
send her such a cross?”
“Nay, child,” answered the good man; “we must not speak thus. The Master
knows best. He gives to each his own cross, and blessed is every one who
bears it after Him in meekness and lowliness of heart.”
“Have we _all_ a cross to bear?” asked the child. “I love not to bear
nor to suffer. Fain would I enjoy my life and be happy!”
“And so thou shalt be, even in the cross-bearing, O child, if thou wilt
walk after the Master and serve Him,” answered the master of the house.
“Hear His own words: ‘Come unto me all that be weary and heavy laden,
and I will give you rest!’ There is no rest, no earthly happiness that
can compare with that which the Master gives to those who come to Him.”
“But how can we come to Him?” asked the child; “and how can we bear our
crosses after Him when we know not what they are, nor where to find
them?”
But at that question the good man smiled and laid his hand upon the head
of the child, drawing him between his knees as he seated himself anew in
his garden.
“We have no need to seek crosses for ourselves, my child. The Master
gives to each one of us that which He would have us carry. Often it may
be no heavier a one than the day’s toil as it comes to us, wrought for
Him with the best that is in us. All that we do can be done for Him. He
has said so—and blessed be His name! Our daily toil is sometimes hard
and cheerless of itself, but borne as the cross after the Master, it
becomes sweet and blessed to us. The cross blossoms with flowers beneath
His smile. Oh, taste and see how gracious the Lord is. Blessed is the
man that trusteth in Him!”
Tears stood in the eyes of the child as he heard these words. He laid
his hand upon that of his instructor and said,—
“Suffer me to dwell with thee and learn thy craft, and all that thou
canst teach me. I would fain take up my cross and follow the Master. I
would work with thee and for thee, and learn to serve others as thou
dost.”
But the master of the house looked long and earnestly at him, and
answered with tender gravity,—
“No man putting his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the
kingdom of God.” And as the child gazed at him with wondering and
uncomprehending eyes, he added, still very gently, “It is not for us to
choose our path, nor the cross we think is lightest and pleasantest to
carry.”
Then the child’s conscience suddenly smote him, for he remembered the
hods of mortar he had left lying in the great city, beside the
unfinished church, and great tears rolled down his cheeks as he began to
understand that _there_, and there alone, lay the cross which the Master
had given him to bear. But although he wept bitterly, yet his purpose
did not falter. He would go back to his appointed task, and seek the
cross he had flung away in impatient despite.
So he said farewell to his friend, who gave him a blessing with tears in
his eyes, and began his weary and toilsome journey. Long and hard did
the road seem, and often his heart wellnigh failed him, but still he
pushed manfully on, for he had learned to look upwards for help and
strength. He knew who was his Master.
He met many kindnesses to cheer him on his way, and now when food and
shelter were given him, he would strive to repay his hosts ere he
started in the morning by some simple act of service—cutting wood or
carrying water, or even amusing a fretful child while the mother
prepared the morning meal. Service was no longer hard and distasteful to
him, for he strove to do all for the Master.
Many a time did some kind woman offer him service in a pleasant
homestead, and greatly would the child have rejoiced to be saved the
rest of that toilsome journey; but the memory of his forsaken task would
come afresh upon him, and he resolutely journeyed on.
“Not mine, not mine the choice,” was the cry of his heart; “I must bear
the cross the Master laid upon me!”
V.
At last, as he journeyed onwards, he saw the walls of the city rise
before him, and hastening onwards ever faster and faster, he approached
the familiar town just as the last rays of the sun were illuminating the
walls of the monastery and lighting up the beautiful white walls of the
church. But what had come to those walls all this while? The child
looked, and rubbed his eyes and looked again. For the structure which he
had left all rough and unfinished was now a beautiful and stately
building, complete in every detail, and upwards into the blue air soared
the tapering spire, crowned with its cross, pointing ever upward towards
the heaven beyond. And from within the building came a sound of music,
like to the sound of many waters; and the child could hear the words of
praise and thanksgiving that told of the pious joy which filled the
hearts of the worshippers. And as he watched, it seemed to him that a
great glory filled the air, and that a cloud of golden light descended
upon the church, while grand, beautiful voices from within and without
sang the glorious words of promise,—
“The kingdoms of this world shall become the kingdom of our God and of
His Christ, and He shall reign for ever and ever.”
Then the child suddenly understood the end and purpose of that toil
which he had shunned—to raise a holy house of prayer and praise that
should teach men how to live and work that this glorious kingdom might
the sooner come.
Now as he stood, watching with a full heart, he felt a touch upon his
hand, and saw a hurrying throng going by, and one spoke in his ear and
said,—
“Child, haste! haste! the Master hath come and calleth thee!”
And another voice took up the word and said,—
“He calleth for all those who have helped to rear this temple to His
honour and glory.”
Then the child suddenly broke into bitter weeping, remembering how he
had rejected his share of the work, and had left his hodfuls of mortar
lying on the ground. Yet, in spite of his grief and shame, he was borne
along by the crowd, and was aware of a strange and wonderful shining,
the like of which he had never seen before; and casting himself down
with his face to the ground he confessed his unfaithfulness, and prayed
for the forgiveness of the Master.
Then it seemed to him that a hand was laid upon him, and a face looked
down at him in infinite compassion and love, and a voice said in his
heart,—
“Thy sin is forgiven thee. Arise and go in peace. Take up thy cross and
follow me.”
And in his rapture the child smote his hands together and cried aloud,—
“O Lord, thy servant heareth!” and in so speaking he awoke.
Yes, he awoke, and behold it was all a dream! And he found himself lying
beside his hodfuls of mortar beneath the unfinished walls of the church,
while the men lay about resting from the mid-day heat, or eating their
noontide meal.
All a dream! And the child’s heart was full of joy; for he was still
here, at his post. He could take up his cross and bear it in the
Master’s strength, for the Master’s sake, and look forward in joy and
hope to that glorious day when the Kingdom should be his for ever and
ever.
And so deeply was the vision graven on his heart, that from that day
forward toil was blessed to him, and his cross blossomed with flowers,
for his work was done with all his might in the power of the Lord,
wherefore it was a joy to him and not a source of sorrow; his heart was
full of thanksgiving and praise.
Father Gottlieb noted the change in the once pale and sorrowful face,
and pausing beside the child one day, he pointed upwards and asked,—
“What dost thou see there beyond, my child?”
And with a smile of beautiful radiance the child made answer,—
“I see the shining of the Master’s face.”
Then the good monk passed on his way rejoicing, and said in his heart,—
“Behold His servants shall serve Him, and they shall see His face.
Hallelujah!”
* * * * *
The children were quite silent for several minutes after the reading of
the story. Probably both entered more into its spirit than either could
have explained. Herr Adler looked first at the one and then at the
other, and finally asked smiling,—
“Well, am I to tell my young friend the author that two little boys have
liked her story, and have learned something from it?”
“Oh yes, please,” answered Squib, drawing a long breath; and then, after
another fit of silent musing, he burst out in his sudden fashion,—
“O Herr Adler, I will try! I will try!”
Herr Adler did not ask what it was that Squib would try to do; but from
the kind and gentle look that came into the good man’s face, the little
boy knew that he had been understood.
It was very hard to say good-bye. Squib needed all his manliness to hold
back his tears; and Seppi’s flowed freely down as their kind friend held
their hands in his for the last time, and blessed them both, and kissed
them before he took his way down the green slope. Squib went with him a
little way, but would not leave Seppi for long, and with another rather
husky good-bye, he turned just as the path entered the pine wood, and
ran back to Seppi.
He found him lying on the grass, still crying; but he soon wiped away
his tears and sat up.
“I shall see him again—somewhere. He said so himself; I am sure it is
true. I shall see him again some day. But we shall miss him so! There is
nobody else like him in the world. Oh, little Herr, I am so glad that
you have seen Herr Adler!”
And Squib answered with earnest gravity—
“And so am I; _very_ glad!”