Mr. Clifton, the minister of Difftown village was one of those few
clergymen who possessed of decided talent was yet content to labor in an
humble sphere. Many of his brother clergymen had left their country
parishes to become stars in cities. Some, unspoiled by the breath of
applause, had laid their honors meekly at the Saviour's feet; others,
inflated with pride and self-conceit, preached soft things to those who
built them palaces of ease, and healed the hurt of the daughter of God's
people slightly.
Mr. Clifton feared the test. Appreciation is as dear to the sanctified
as the unsanctified heart. It _were_ pleasant to see the heart's dear
ones, fitted by nature to enjoy the refinements of life, in full
possession of them; it were pleasant to have daily intercourse with the
large circle of the gifted who congregate in cities--but what shall it
profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? Mr.
Clifton felt that with his ardent social and impulsive temperament, his
quiet village parish, with its home endearments, was most favorable to
his growth in grace; and so, turning a deaf ear to the Syren voices
which would have called him away, he cheerfully broke the bread of life,
year after year, to his humble flock.
It was Sabbath evening--Mr. Clifton lay upon the sofa, suffering under
one of those torturing head-aches which excessive mental excitement was
sure to bring on. He loved his calling--it was not mere lip service for
him to expound the word of God, and teach its sacred truths--the
humblest among his people knew this; the tremor in his voice, the
moisture in his eye, told their own eloquent tale. There must have been
something to enchain those whose active limbs, never still during the
other days of the week from dawn till dark, could sit on those narrow
seats and never droop with uneasiness or sleep.
But the physical reaction was too apt to come to the delicately strung
frame; and with closed eyelids, Mr. Clifton lay upon the sofa in the
parlor of the little parsonage, while his wife bent over him, bathing
his aching temples.
The parsonage parlor! how difficult to furnish it to suit every carping
eye, for there were those, even in Mr. Clifton's parish, as in all
others, whom his blameless life and welling sympathies could neither
appease nor conciliate.
The parsonage parlor! The father of Mary Clifton would gladly have
filled it with luxuries for his only daughter; but Mary shook her little
head, and planted her little foot firmly on the plain Kidderminster
carpet, and sat down contentedly in the bamboo rocking-chair, and hung
the pretty pictures her girlhood had cherished in a spare room
up-stairs, and looked round upon the bare walls of the parlor without a
murmur of dissatisfaction.
Flowers she still clung to. The parsonage parlor was never without them.
They were on the breakfast and tea-table--sometimes but a single
blossom, for Mary had little time to cull them--sometimes only a green
branch or sprig, whose wondrously beautiful leaves, shaded with the
nicest skill, had given her a thrill of pleasure--sometimes a bunch of
simple clover--sometimes a tuft of moss, or a waving corn tassel, mixed
with spears of oats and grass-blades.
Mr. Clifton loved Mary all the better that she loved these things; and
when she came to him with her blue eye beaming, and her cheek flushed
with pleasure, and held up to him some tiny floral treasure, whose
beauty no eye less spiritual than her's could have discerned, and
pointed out its delicate tinting, he thanked God her heart could be made
happy by such pure, innocent, and simple pleasures.
But it was at such times as I have alluded to, when Mr. Clifton sank
under his pastoral duties, that Mary's love shone forth the brightest.
On the Sabbath eve of which we speak, his eyes were closed, but he heard
the rustle of her dress and her light foot-fall on the carpet. He felt
her fragrant breath upon his cheek, and the touch of her soft fingers
charming the fever from his temples. Gradually it crept away, yielding
to her magnetic touch, and the smile came back to her husband's lip, and
the beam to his languid eye. And now the healing cup of tea was
prepared, and the little stand with its tray set before him, and Mary
herself sweetened it, more with the smile on her lip and the love-beam
in her eye than with the big lump of sugar she dropped into it; and as
her husband drained the cup and laid his head back again upon the
cushions, he thanked God, as many a convalescent has done, for the
untold wealth of love which sickness may draw forth.
"Did you see that sweet child, George, in Dolly Smith's pew to-day?"
asked Mary. "Her little face quite fascinated me. It was as sad as it
was sweet. I fancied the child must have known sorrow; perhaps be
motherless," and Mary kissed her own little blue-eyed baby. "You know,
George, things sometimes come to me like a revelation. I am sure that
child's heart is sore. When you read the hymn I saw the tears standing
in her eyes, but then your voice is so musical, George, it might have
been from excess of pleasure."
"Foolish little wife," said her husband; "as if every body saw me
through your eyes, and heard me with your partial ears."
"Well, be that as it may," said Mary, "I want you to call at Dolly's
and see that child; get her into my Sabbath-school class if you can, and
if she has a sorrow, we will try to lighten it."