"But the harvest is a great deal better this year, Effie."
"Yes; but there winna be much to sell. If we don't have to buy, it will
be a great thing for us. And the shoes we must have, and new harness,
and other things. I mustna think of staying this winter, I'm sure,
Christie."
Christie gave a long sigh, as she rose with her full pail.
"I wish I was old enough and able to keep a school, or do something!"
"Do something!" echoed Effie. "I'm sure you do a great deal. Think of
the butter! And you've made bread all the summer, and swept, and
ironed, and washed the dishes."
"But all that comes to very little," said Christie, disconsolately.
"Indeed it does--to more than my school-keeping, I dare say. And I'm
sure it's far pleasanter work."
"Pleasanter!" repeated Christie; and there was such a protesting echo in
her voice that Effie could not help laughing; but she said, again--
"Yes, pleasanter. Don't you think it must be far nicer to be at home
with all the rest, than to stay among folk that don't care about you,
and have to bear your trouble alone?"
Christie opened her eyes wide.
"But, Effie, folk do care about you. And what troubles can you have to
bear?"
Effie laughed softly; but she looked grave immediately.
"Well, I havena so many as I might have, I suppose."
"I'm sure if I were you I should be perfectly happy," said Christie.
"That's only one of the mistakes you have fallen into," said Effie,
gravely. "Do you remember the story of the burdens, and how every one
was willing to take up his own at last?"
Nothing in the world would have convinced Christie that her sister's lot
was not much pleasanter than her own; and she said to herself, how
gladly she would change burdens with her! but aloud she only asked--
"Has anything new happened? What's troubling you, Effie?"
"Oh, nothing has happened," said Effie, cheerfully. "I'm getting on
well. The worst of my troubles are those I find at home--Aunt Elsie's
rheumatism, and your pale, tired face, and the wearing out of the
children's clothes. And you have all these too: so I dare say my burden
is the lightest, after all. Now let me see your butter."
It was well worth seeing. There was one tub made when the weather had
been warm, and, for that reason, was pronounced by Christie not quite so
good. Then there was a large one, with over a hundred and twenty pounds
in it--so hard, and yellow, and fragrant! Christie was not a little
proud of it; and Effie praised it to her heart's content. There was no
better butter in all Glengarry, she was sure.
"And a hundred and twenty pounds of it! It's worth twenty-five cents a
pound, at least. Think of that, Christie!--thirty dollars in all! That
is something of your doing, I should think."
"Partly," said Christie. "I only helped." But she was very much
pleased. "If we could only sell it, it would get us shoes, and lots of
things."
"But I'm afraid we mustna sell it," said Effie. "We shall have so
little meat all the winter--and it is so dear, too; and we shall need
the butter. And how many cheeses are there? Five?"
"Five uncut. One is nearly done since the harvest. See, these two are
better than the others. But it is getting so dark you canna see them.
I think the cheese will be a great help. We had none last winter, you
know."
"Yes, indeed!" said Effie, heartily. "We shall have a better winter
than the last was."
"Except that you winna be at home," said Christie, desponding a little
again.
"Well, I would like to be at home, if it were best; but we canna have
all we would like, you know. If you have milk to skim, you will need a
candle, Christie."
"No: I skimmed it before I went away. See, father and the girls have
come home at last. How glad they will be to see you, Effie!"
Yes, everybody was glad to see Effie--though no one said much about it
that night. Indeed, it was rather a silent party that partook of the
frugal supper. Except that the book-man (as the colporteur was called)
exchanged now and then a remark with Mr Redfern, little was said till
supper was over and the Bible laid on the table for worship. The
Redfern family had the custom of reading verse-about, as it is called,
partly because lights were sometimes scarce, and partly because, after
the work of a long summer day, both great and small were too tired to
enjoy protracted reading; and it must be confessed that, at times,
morning and evening devotions were both brief and formal. They were not
so to-night, however; for they were led by Mr Craig, the book-man, a
cheerful and earnest Christian, to whom, it was easily seen, God's
worship was no mere form, but a most blessed reality. Indeed, so
lengthened was the exercise to-night that the little ones were asleep
before it was done; and so earnest was he, so elevated were his
ascriptions of praise, so appropriate his confessions and petitions,
that the elder members of the family, notwithstanding their weariness,
could not but listen and join with wonder and delight.
"_He_ believes that it is worth one's while to pray, at any rate," said
Christie to herself; and all at once it flashed upon her that a part of
_her_ prayer had been answered. Aunt Elsie had not spoken one word of
reproof for her long delay by the side of the brook. Not a little
startled, Christie paused to consider the matter further.
"She could hardly have scolded me while a stranger was here. And,
besides, Effie's here, too, and I wouldna have much cared if she had.
And it's no' too late yet. She'll be sending me to my bed the moment
the dishes are put by."
But she did not. Long after the little ones, and even Annie and Sarah,
were asleep, Christie was allowed to sit without rebuke, listening to
the pleasant talk of her father and Mr Craig, and now and then saying a
word to Effie, on whose lap her head was laid. The only words that Aunt
Elsie spoke to her that night were kind enough; and some of them were
spoken while Effie was not there.
"So that it couldna be to please her," thought Christie. "What if God
should hear my prayer, after all?"
The thought was quite as startling as it was pleasant. Then she
wondered if Effie had brought the book. She did not like to ask her.
She did so want to believe that she might fall back on God's help in all
her troubles; but if Effie had not brought the book she could not be
sure that her prayer had been heard. "Could it be possible?" she said
to herself. It seemed altogether too good, too wonderful, to be true.
And yet there were verses in the Bible very plain, very easy to be
understood--"Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find;" and
many more besides that.
She repeated the words slowly and earnestly. That must be true, she
thought. Every one believed the Bible. And yet how few live and pray
and trust as though they really do believe it! She had heard
discussions, many and long, between her father and some of their
neighbours, on difficult passages of Scripture and difficult points of
doctrine. She had heard the Scriptures quoted to support doctrines very
different in their nature. She had heard passages commented upon and
explained away to suit the views of the speaker, until she had come to
think, sometimes, that the most obvious meaning of a text could not
possibly be the true one; and she said to herself, what if she had been
taking comfort from these promises too soon? What if they meant
something else, or meant what they seemed to mean only to those to whom
they were spoken? What if, for some unknown, mysterious reason, she
were among those who had no part nor lot in the matter?--among those who
hearing hear not, or who fail to understand? And before she was aware,
the hopefulness of the last half-hour was vanishing away before the
troubled and doubtful thoughts that rushed upon her.
"I wish there was any one that I could ask about it! I wonder if Effie
would know? I'll see if she has brought me the book; and that will be
something. Maybe the book-man could tell me all about it. Only I don't
like to ask him."
She turned her eyes towards him, as the thought passed through her mind.
His face was plain and wrinkled and brown; but, for all that, it was a
very pleasant face to look at. It was a grave face, even when he
smiled; but it was never other than a pleasant one. There was something
in it that brought to Christie's mind her favourite verse about "the
peace that passeth all understanding."
"He has it, I do believe," she said, while she quietly watched him as he
listened or talked.
"It must be a weary life you live," Aunt Elsie was saying, "going about
from morning till night, in all weathers, with those books of yours; a
weary life and a thankless."
"Do you think so?" said Mr Craig, with a smile. "I don't think it is a
harder life than most of the people that I see are living. No harder
than the farmers have during this busy harvest-time. No harder than the
pedlars of tin-ware and dry goods have, that go about the country in all
weathers."
"But it's different with the farmer, who tills his own land. He is
working to some end. Every tree he cuts, every sheaf he reaps and
gathers in, is so much gain to him; and even these pedlars must have a
measure of enjoyment when their sales are good. They are gaining their
living by their travels."
"Well, so am I, for that matter," said Mr Craig, still smiling. "I am
on equal terms with them there; though I cannot say that the greatest
part of the pleasure I have in my work arises from the gain it is to me.
But why do you say it is a thankless work?"
Instead of answering directly, Aunt Elsie asked, a moment after:
"Are you always well received,--you and your books?"
"Oh, yes; in this part of the country, always,--quite as well as other
pedlars are, and sometimes far better, for my work's sake. I have been
in places where the reception I met with was something worse than cold.
But I now and then met, even in those places, some that welcomed me so
warmly for the work's sake I was doing as to make me little heed the
scoffs of the others."
"You are sent out by a society, I think?" said Aunt Elsie. "It is
mostly Bibles that you sell?"
"Yes; it's mostly Bibles that I carry with me."
There was a pause. The colporteur sat looking into the red embers, with
the smile on his face which Christie had found so attractive. In a
little while Aunt Elsie, not without some hesitation, said:
"And is all the time and trouble and money spent by this society worth
their while?"
Aunt Elsie would have been shocked had any one expressed a doubt of her
sincere respect for the Bible. Her respect was hereditary. Not one day
in her childhood or womanhood had passed in which she had not heard or
read some portion of the Holy Book. Nothing could have induced her to
part with one of the several Bibles that had been in her possession for
years. One had been hers when a girl at school, one had lain in her
seat at the kirk for many a year, and a third had lain on her
parlour-table and been used by her at family worship when she kept house
for herself. It would have seemed to her like sacrilege to let them
pass into other hands. That the superiority of the Scottish people over
all other nations (in which superiority she firmly believed) was in some
way owing to the influence of God's Word, read and understood, she did
not doubt. But her ideas of the matter were by no means satisfactory
even to herself. That the Bible, read and understood, should ever
change the mixed multitudes of her new and adopted country into a people
grave and earnest and steadfast for the right, was altogether beyond her
thought. The humble labours of this man, going about from house to
house, to place perhaps in careless or unwilling hands the Bible (God's
Word though she acknowledged it to be), seemed a very small matter--a
means very inadequate to the end desired. So it was a doubtful and
hesitating assent that she yielded to the reply of Mr Craig in the form
of a question.
"Is not God's Word His appointed instrument for the salvation of men?
And will He not bless it to that end? I do not doubt it," continued Mr
Craig. "How can I doubt it, in the face of the promise that His word
shall not return unto Him void--that it _shall_ prosper in that
whereunto He sendeth it? I never let a Bible pass from my hands without
asking from God that it may be made the means of a lasting blessing to
at least one soul. And I have faith to believe that my prayer will be
heard and granted."
Aunt Elsie's motions expressed some surprise.
"And is not that presumption on your part?" she asked.
"Which? The prayer, or the expectation?" said Mr Craig. "Not the
prayer, surely, when He says, `Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye
shall find.' `Whatsoever ye shall ask in My name, believing, ye shall
receive.' `Ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.' Is
it presumption to ask blessings for those whom God so loved that He sent
His only begotten Son into the world to die that they might live? `Will
He not with Him also freely give them all things?' Truly, I think the
presumption would lie in _not_ asking, or in asking and not expecting to
receive."
In the pause that followed, Christie, with a strange feeling at her
heart, pondered the words.
"Well," said Aunt Elsie, in a moment, "I dare say it is as well that you
have these thoughts to encourage you. The Bible can do nobody harm, at
any rate; and it may do good to the bairns at the school."
Mr Craig opened his lips, as though he were going to answer her; but he
did not. By and by he said--quite as much as though he were speaking to
himself as to her:
"Yes; it is indeed a good thing to have God's promise to fall back upon.
My work would be vain and weary work without that. And so would any
work to which I could put my hand. There _are_ folk in the world who
live with no hope or trust in God's promised blessing. How they do it I
cannot tell."
"God is good to many a one who thinks little of Him or of His care; or
what would become of the world and the thousands in it?" said Aunt
Elsie, with a sigh.
Mr Craig gave her a quick look.
"Yes: He is kind to the evil and the unthankful. But I was thinking of
the blessedness of those who have the daily and hourly sense of God's
presence with them and His fatherly care over them. In time of trouble,
and at all times, indeed, it is sweet to know that we have His word and
promise for all that we possibly need."
"Yes," said Aunt Elsie, uneasily, and rather coldly. "There is much
truth in what you say."
Mr Craig continued: "There is no fear of being forgotten. He who sees
the sparrow when it falls, and does not forget to number the hairs of
our heads, may well be trusted. And may we not trust in Him who is not
ashamed to call His people brethren? Our Elder Brother! He who
suffered being tempted--who is touched with the feeling of our
infirmities! It is worth while to have His promise to fall back upon--
for me in my journeys, for you amid your household cares, and for this
little maiden here amid whatever life may bring to her."
In the interest with which she listened, Christie had forgotten her
shyness, and had drawn quite near; and now she sat with her eyes
fastened on the good man's face, her own quite expressive of intense
eagerness.
"Christie," said her aunt, as her eye fell upon her, "it is high time
you were in bed. There will be no getting you up in the morning. Your
sisters are all asleep. Haste away."
Christie would have given much for courage to ask one question; and
perhaps a glance into the kind face that was looking down upon her might
have given it to her, had her aunt not been there. Perhaps he guessed
her thought; for he said, as he put out his hand and laid it softly on
hers:
"Yes, my lassie; it is not beyond belief that the kind care and the
loving eye of this Elder Brother should be over you, if you are one of
His little ones. Are you?"
The last words were spoken after a momentary pause, and the little brown
hand was gently pressed as they were uttered. If Christie could have
found words with which to answer him, she could not have uttered them
through the tears and sobs that had not been far from her all the
evening. Slowly obeying the admonishing touch of her aunt, she withdrew
her hand from the gentle pressure that detained it, and crept away in
the dark to the room where all her sisters, except Effie, were already
asleep.
And what a tumult of glad, wondering and doubtful thoughts was stirring
her heart as she seated herself on the floor and leaned her weary head
upon her hand! Could it all be true? Did God see and hear and care for
people? And for her too? The Elder Brother! What a sweet name to give
to Jesus! It seemed easier to believe that He would care for her,
calling Him by that name.
And if it were really true that God heard her prayers and would answer
them, certainly things would not go so badly with her any more. But was
she one of His little ones? Surely there was no one more helpless and
hopeless and troubled--nobody that needed help more!
"Oh, if I could only be sure!" she whispered. "But I'll see to-night.
Aunt Elsie wasna vexed to-night. And if Effie has brought me the book,
I'll take it for a sign. Oh, I wish she would come!"
And yet, when Effie came in with a light in her hand, Christie was in no
haste to speak. Effie moved about very quietly, for fear of waking her
sisters; and then she sat down, shading the light from their faces.
"Haste you, Christie dear," she whispered. "I thought you were in bed.
It is more than time."
Christie slowly undressed, and after kneeling a little while, laid
herself down on the low bed beside her little sister. But she did not
sleep. She did not even close her eyes, but lay watching sometimes the
motionless figure of Effie and sometimes her shadow on the wall,
wondering all the while what could keep her occupied so silently and so
long. Yet when at last the book was closed and Effie began to move
about the room, she could not find courage to speak to her at once.
"Effie," she said, by and by, "did you bring me the book you promised?"
Effie started.
"Christie, I thought you were asleep! Do you know how late it is?"
"Did you bring me the book you promised?" repeated the child, eagerly.
Effie could not resist the beseeching face; and she came and seated
herself on the side of the bed.
"I wanted it so much," continued Christie. "I thought you would bring
it! Did you forget it? Or were you not up there this week?"
"I was there, and I didna forget it; but--"
"Did you bring it?" cried Christie, rising, in her eagerness. "Where is
it?"
Effie shook her head.
"I didna bring it, Christie."
Poor little Christie! She laid herself back on her pillow without a
word. The disappointment was a very bitter one; and she turned her face
away, that her sister might not see the tears that were gushing from her
eyes. She had all the week been looking forward to the pleasure of
having a book--"The Scottish Chiefs"--a stolen glance or two of which
had excited her interest to the highest degree; and the disappointment
was great. But that it should have failed to come on this particular
night was harder still to bear.
"If God only hears half our prayers, and that the half we care least
about, what is the use of praying at all? Oh, dear! I thought I had
found something at last!"
"Christie," said her sister, laying her hand on her shoulder, "why are
you crying in that way? Surely you have had tears enough for once?
What ails you, child? Speak to me, Christie."
"Oh, you _might_ have brought it!" she exclaimed, through her sobs.
"You almost promised."
"No, Christie, I didna promise. I didna forget it. But I am afraid--
indeed, I am sure--that the reading of the book would do you no good,
but harm; and so I didna bring it to you. You are wrong to be so vexed
about it."
"Is it a bad book?" asked Christie.
"I am not sure that it is a _bad_ book. But I think it might do you
harm to read it. I am afraid your imagination is too full of such
things already."
This had been said to her in far sharper words many a time before; and
Christie made no answer.
"You know yourself, Christie, when you get a book that interests you,
you are apt to neglect other things for the pleasure of reading it.
Almost always Aunt Elsie has to find fault with you for it."
"Aunt Elsie always finds fault with me!" sighed Christie.
"But you give her reason to find fault with you when you neglect your
duties for such reading, as you must confess you do; even to-day, you
know."
"I believe it grieves Aunt Elsie's heart to see me taking pleasure in
anything," said Christie, turning round passionately. "She never heeds
when Annie or Sarah takes a book; but if I look the way of one, she's at
me. I believe she would be glad if there was no such thing as a book in
the house."
"Hush, Christie! You are wrong to speak in that way. It is not true
what you are saying. Aunt Elsie is fond of reading; and if she doesna
object to Annie and Sarah taking a book, it is because they don't very
often do so. They never neglect their work for reading, as you too
often do."
All this was true, as Christie's conscience told her; but she was by no
means willing to confess as much; so she turned away her face, and said,
pettishly:
"Oh, well, I hear all that often enough. There's no use in saying
anything more about it."
Effie rose, and went to the other side of the room. When she returned,
she carried something wrapped in paper in her hand.
"Look, Christie; I brought you a book--a better book than `The Scottish
Chiefs.' Turn round and look at it."
Slowly Christie raised herself up and turned round. She was ashamed of
her petulance by this time. Something shone in the light of the candle
which Effie held.
"What is it?" she asked; and her sister placed it in her hand.
It was a Bible, a very beautiful one, bound in purple morocco, with
clasps and gilt edges. It was small, but not too small even for
Christie's eyes.
"Oh, how beautiful!" exclaimed Christie, forgetting everything in her
delight. "It is the very thing I have been wishing for!"
Effie said nothing, but watched her, well pleased.
"But, Effie," said Christie, suddenly, "this must have been very dear.
A plainer one would have done just as well. Did it cost much?"
"Not very much," said Effie, sitting down beside her again. "A Bible is
for one's whole lifetime, and so I got a good one, and a pretty one,
too; you are so fond of pretty things. If I had known that the book-man
was coming here I might have waited and let you choose it for yourself.
We might have changed it now, but see, I have written your name in it."
She turned to the fly-leaf, and read "Christina Redfern," with the date,
in Effie's pretty handwriting. She gave a sigh of pleasure as she
turned it over.
"No, I don't believe there is a nicer one there. It's far prettier than
yours, Effie. Wouldna you have liked it? Your old one would have done
for me."
"Oh, no, indeed! I would far rather have my own old Bible than the
prettiest new one," said Effie, hastily.
"Yes, I suppose so," said Christie. "Mother gave it to you."
"Yes; and, besides, I have got used to it. I know just where to find
the places I want, almost without thinking of the chapter."
"It is a perfect beauty of a Bible; and such clear print! But I am
afraid it cost a great deal--as much as a pair of shoes, perhaps?" she
continued, looking at her sister.
Effie laughed.
"But what comparison is there between a Bible and a pair of shoes? You
must read it every day, dear; and then you'll be sure to think of me."
"I do that many times every day," said Christie, sighing.
"I'm glad you like it, dear. Mr Craig ask me if it was for myself; and
I told him no, it was for my little sister at home."
Christie started. This, then, was one of the Bibles that the book-man
had said he asked God to bless for the good of at least one soul. And
he seemed so sure that his prayer would be heard. And, then, had not
her prayer been heard?--not just as she had hoped, but in a better way.
The thought filled her with a strange glad wonder. Could it be
possible? Her eye fell on the open page, and her hand trembled as she
read:
"Ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full."
"Effie," she said, softly, "I thank you very much. Lay it in my little
box; and good-night."
The tears that wet her pillow were very different from the drops that
had fallen on it a little while before.
"Nothing will be so bad again," she murmured. "Nothing--nothing.
Whatever happens, I can always pray!"