_ONE INJUNCTION._
"I cannot leave you a great number of injunctions," exclaimed Mrs.
Headley tearfully, on that last morning when all was ready for
departure, and the day for the sailing of the steamer had really come.
"I think you have, mother," said Hugh, trying to hide his feeling under
a joke.
"No, not to you, dear; to Agnes I may have."
"Yes, to _me_" said Hugh. "I am to mind Agnes, and not to mind John; and
to mind I am kind to Minnie; and to keep in mind that Alice is younger
than I; and to----"
"Shut up," said John; "we don't want to hear your gabble to the last
moment!"
"I was going to say," resumed their mother gently, "that there was one
thing I did want you to think of."
"Tell us then, mother," said Alice, putting her arm round her fondly,
"we'll keep it as the most important of all."
There was a momentary silence, and then Mrs. Headley turned to her
husband with a mute appeal. "Tell them," she said brokenly, "what we
were saying this morning."
"We want you all to think of one thing. In _any_ difficulty, in _every_
difficulty, in _all_ circumstances, say to yourselves, 'Lord, what wilt
Thou have me to do?' If you wait and hear the answer, it will help you
in everything."
"People generally do wait to hear the answer to their question, don't
they, father?" asked John.
"Not always; especially when they are speaking to God. But you be wiser,
my children. In the waiting-time for the answer an extra blessing often
comes."
The children looked thoughtful; and then their father took from a paper
a large painted card in an oak frame, which he proceeded to hang up on a
nail ready prepared for it.
On the card were letters in crimson and gold and blue, and the children
read:
"Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?"
Then the sound of wheels suddenly reminded them that the parting had
come. With a close embrace to each from their mother, and with an
earnest "God bless you" to each from their father, the travellers turned
to the door, followed by John and Hugh, who were to accompany them to
the railway station.
When the last bit of the cab had disappeared. Agnes turned round to her
younger sisters and put her arms round them both lovingly. "We'll be
ever so happy together when we once get settled in," she said, choking
down her own emotion, and bending down to kiss them in turn.
"Oh, yes," answered Alice with a sob, trying to look up bravely.
But Minnie could not look up. Her mother was her all, and her mother had
gone. She threw herself into Agnes's arms in a passion of misery.
Agnes sat down and tried to make her comfortable on her lap; but the
child wailed and sobbed, and gave way to such violent grief that the
elder sister was almost frightened, and looked towards the window with a
momentary thought of whether it would be possible to recall her mother.
It was only momentary, for how could she? Then her eyes fell on the new
text, and her heart, with a throb of joy, realized that the Lord was
with her.
"Always," she said to herself; "so that must mean to-day. 'Lord, what
wilt Thou have me to do?'"
She bent her head over the little golden one, and clasped her arms
tighter round the trembling little form, and then she said softly:
"Minnie, have you read our text since father and mother went?"
Minnie listened, but only for an instant, then she sobbed louder than
ever.
"Minnie," again pursued Agnes, "do you think you are carrying out what
_He_ would have you do?"
Minnie stopped a little, and clung more lovingly than before to her
sister's waist.
"We must be sorry they are gone; we can't help it, and I don't think
Jesus wants us to help it; but we ought not to give way to such grief as
to seem rebellious to what He has ordered."
"Do you think I am?" asked the child brokenly.
"What do you think yourself?"
"I don't know," hesitating.
"Well, think about it for a moment. Look here. Minnie, I want to put up
these things that are scattered about, so I will lay you on the sofa and
cover you up warm; then you can think about it while you watch me. Come,
Alice dear, you and I shall soon make things look brighter if we try."
Alice had been standing gazing rather forlornly at Minnie, but now
turned round with alacrity. To do something would divert her sorrowful
thoughts.
By-and-by a heavy sigh from Minnie made her sisters look at her. There
she lay like a picture, her long curls tossed about over the sofa
cushion like a halo, her dark eyelashes resting on her flushed cheeks,
where the tears were hardly dry, asleep.
"What a good thing," said Alice in a low tone. "I thought she would cry
herself ill."
"Yes, I am glad," answered Agnes, looking down upon her. "But, Alice,
the boys will be back before we have done if we stand talking."
"Then we won't. Agnes, did not aunt Phyllis say she would come in
early?"
"Yes; but I hope she will not till we have put away everything. Just
take up that heap and come upstairs with me, Alice; and then run down
for that one, will you? You don't mind?"
"I'm not going to 'mind' anything, as Hugh says," answered Alice
earnestly, a tear just sparkling in the corner of her eye.
"That's a dear girl; it will make everything so much easier if you do
that."
"I mean to try."
They left the room, closing the door after them, and went up with their
loads--papers, string, packing-canvas, cardboard boxes, rubbish, shawls,
and what not.
Agnes placed the various things in their places, while Alice watched and
handed them to her, and at last all was done and the girls ran down,
just as a double rap sounded through the hall.
"That's auntie's knock, I shall open it," exclaimed Alice, and in a
moment she admitted a little lady, whose pale delicate face and stooping
attitude betokened constant ill health.
"Well, my dears," she said cheerfully, "I knew you would have a few
things to do after such an early starting, so I waited for a little
time. Are the boys back yet?"
"No; we expect them every moment," answered Agnes, leading her aunt into
the now orderly dining-room, and placing her in an arm-chair.
Miss Headley's eyes wandered round in search of little Minnie, and soon
she saw the sleeping child.
"Not ill?" she asked, reassuring herself with her eyes before Agnes
answered:
"She was tired with excitement, I think, and grief. I am so glad she is
asleep."
"The best thing for her. And they got off well?"
"Oh, yes; but I hardly knew how utterly dreadful it would be to feel I
could not call them back!"
Agnes turned away; she could not say any more. While the responsibility
rested on her alone she had been brave, but now with her aunt's sympathy
so near she began to feel as if she must break down.
"I know," said the soft voice, "do not mind me, my child; come here and
let me comfort you."
Agnes knelt down and laid her head on her aunt's shoulder, while one or
two convulsive sobs relieved her burdened heart.
"There will often be moments when you would give anything to have them
here, my child; but the Lord knows just that, and has sent forth
strength for thee to meet it all. We never know how very dear and
precious He can be till we've got no one else."
"I shall learn it soon," whispered Agnes.
"Yes, my child; and it is such a mercy to know that He suits our
discipline to our exact need. The other day I was on a visit in the
country, and had to go to an instrument-maker there to do something for
my back. He told me he could not help me at all, for my case was so very
peculiar, and he had nothing to suit me. But that's not like the Lord,
my child. He knows us too intimately for that. He does not think our
case too peculiar for His skill, but holds in His tender hand just the
support, just the strengthening, just the treatment we want, and He
gives us what will be the very best for us."
Agnes and Alice knew to what their aunt referred. An accident when she
was a beautiful young woman of twenty had caused her life-long
suffering, and obliged her to wear a heavy instrument which often gave
her great pain and weariness.
Her niece raised her hand at those gentle words, and stroked her aunt's
face lovingly.
"It is resting to know He understands perfectly, my child, isn't it?"
"Very. But oh, auntie, I wish you hadn't to suffer so!"
"Don't wish that, my dear, but rejoice that, in every trial that has
ever come to me, I can say, 'His grace has been sufficient for me.'"
Agnes knelt on in silence; and aunt Phyllis did not attempt to disturb
the quiet till some hasty footsteps were heard along the pavement, which
came springing up the steps, and in another moment the two boys, fresh
from their walk, came bursting into the room; but not before Agnes had
sprung up and seated herself at the table with her work.
"Hulloa, Agnes! Why, auntie, is that you? So you've come to look after
the forsaken nest, have you?"
"How did they get off, John?" Agnes asked, looking up as quietly as if
she had been sitting there for an hour.
"Very well; mother was cheerful to the last."
"And they had a foot-warmer?"
"Your humble servant saw to that."
"And you got them something to read?"
"Wouldn't have anything."
"And they did not leave any more messages?"
"None whatever. Now, Hugh, as Agnes has pumped me dry, let Alice take a
turn at _you_!"
Alice, till her brothers came in, had been leaning over the fire, deeply
buried in a book and now turned round to it again, as if she would very
much rather read than do anything else.
Hugh seeing this, advanced a step nearer, and his eyes looked
mischievous.
"Well, Alice, don't perfectly smother a body with questions. One at a
time. What's the first?"
"I don't know; I haven't any to ask."
"You mean you're too busy?"
"No," answered Alice, half vexed.
"Perhaps you're cold, you're such a long way off from that tiny fire!"
"I'm not cold," said Alice, putting her hand up to her glowing face.
"Not? Now I really thought----"
But a gentle voice interrupted what was becoming too hot for poor
Alice's temper, and aunt Phyllis said:
"Grandmama invites you all to dinner to-day, my dears, at two o'clock;
will you come?"
At the word dinner Agnes started. "Oh dear, auntie, I forgot it was my
duty now to see after dinner! I do not believe I should have thought of
it for ever so long."
"Cook would have reminded you, I dare say," said her aunt, smiling.
"What are you boys going to do this morning?" asked Agnes.
"I'm going to my room to have a general turn out for the holidays, and
shall not be visible again till five minutes to two."
"That's a good thing," said Agnes, laughing.
"Your politeness is only exceeded by your truth," said John, giving his
aunt a kiss, and disappearing through the door before Agnes could give
him back an answer, had she wished it.
"And what is Hugh going to do?" asked Miss Headley, turning to him.
"Tease Alice," said Hugh, nodding towards the crouching figure by the
fire.
"I was going to say that I have to go to see a woman in Earl Street, and
wanted you to carry my basket for me, Hugh. Can you spare time, do you
think?"
"All right, auntie."
"Where's Hugh going?" said Minnie, sleepily, opening her eyes.
"He is going out with me, darling; would you like to go too?"
"I don't know; I think I'm going to sleep again."
She turned her back on the room, and vouchsafed no further notice of her
aunt, nor of anyone else. Agnes gave a glance of apology, but Miss
Headley answered by a look that it was not needed, and in a few moments
took her leave, followed by her nephew, who ran in next door for the
basket, and caught her up before she had reached the corner of the
street.
Agnes left the room, and Alice woke up from her book to find herself
alone.
She was just going to stoop again over it, when her eyes caught the
unaccustomed frame upon the wall, and she could not but see the words,
"Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?"
"I've nothing to do but this now," she said, drawing her shoulders
nearer to the blaze. "It's holiday time, and I have not lessons or
duties of any kind; I may do as I like."
But though she tried to read, she could not forget that question. At
first she determined to shake it off, but by-and-by her book fell closed
on to her lap, and she looked up straight at the words, thoughtfully.
"This is the first way I am keeping my resolves; a pretty way!"
"Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?"
Then she waited, as her father had said--waited, looking at the words as
if they would shine out with an answer. And so they did; for as her eyes
rested on the last word, she suddenly started up.
"Do," she said, half aloud. "I don't suppose He likes me to sit here
idling my time. I wonder if Agnes wants me? Or if not, I promised mother
to practise a whole hour every day, and as I am going out to dinner I
shall have to do that first."
Then her eyes met Minnie's wondering ones shining out from among the
golden curls and crimson sofa cushion, and she heard a little voice say:
"Who wants you to '_do_'?"
Alice pointed with her finger towards the text.
"Oh!" said Minnie, comprehending.
"But I didn't remember you were there, or I should not have spoken
aloud."
"I forgot what Agnes said, because I went to sleep; but----"
"Yes," answered Alice, waiting for what the little pet sister wanted to
say.
"I don't think He would have liked me to cry so _much_, if I had asked
Him first."
And with another little sob she rushed past her sister and flew up the
stairs.
At five minutes to two o'clock, John opened his bedroom door and called
Agnes.
She was just coming out on the landing, with her hat on, followed by
Minnie and Alice.
"Come and see my arrangements," he said, opening the door wider.
"I don't see anything particu----Oh!" with a start, "why, John, where
did you get that?"
"Out of these two hands of mine, to be sure, and these eyes, and that
paint box, and that cardboard."
On the wall hung the same text that their father had prepared with such
care downstairs, only that John's was not framed, but put up with four
small nails.
"I thought I should see it more up here than downstairs."
"And he thought," added Hugh slyly, "that _I_ should have the benefit of
it here."
"I never thought of you at all," said John.
"It is very nice," said Agnes, coming in to examine it.
The others went down stairs, and the brother and sister were left alone.
"I've been thinking a lot, Agnes," said John, turning his back to her,
as he busied himself at one of his drawers, "and I've made up my mind
while I've been tracing the words of that text."
"What about?" asked Agnes, with a feeling that there was something
unusual in his tone.
"I've determined to take it as my life text."
"John!"
"Yes. It seemed so horrid without mother, and I've been thinking about
it, on and off, for a year past; and to-day, as I painted those words. I
thought----"
Agnes was standing behind him, her soft cheek resting against the back
of his shoulder.
"Yes," she whispered.
"He seemed to say to me, that the first thing I had to _do_ was to come
to Him."
"I'm _sure_ it is."
"So now you know," said John huskily.
"And you did come?" asked Agnes, feeling as if she wanted to understand
all before she could rejoice.
"Of course," answered John, turning round astonished; "I should not have
said a word if that had not been the end of it!"
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