Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: HARK, HARK, THE LARK
FROM A PAINTING BY W. E. EVANS]
SUNDAY
SUNSHINE.
EDITED BY
CATHARINE SHAW.
AUTHOR OF
"Something for Sunday," "Mother-Meg," "Dickie's Secret," etc.
[Illustration]
LONDON
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48, PATERNOSTER ROW
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
A Black Sheep.
A Charge.
A Dark Night.
A Decision.
A Favour.
A Lightened Load.
I.
II.—Changed.
An Uninvited Guest.
At Bethany.
A Telegram.
A Wet Day.
Devotion.
God's Messages—Lettice's Lark.
Gossip.
Grand-dad's Advice.
"Hail, King of the Jews!"
Her Sailor Boy.
Hindered.
Hira's Quest.
I.—A Strange Visit.
II.—Hira's Friend.
III.—A Startling Question.
IV.—A Sad Story.
V.—Alone in the Storm.
VI.—Father and Daughter.
VII.—Sukhiya's Scheme.
VIII.—The Old, Old Story.
IX.—"His Great Love."
X.—Rest.
XI.—"Ask, and It Shall Be Given You."
XII.—"He Careth for You."
XIII.—Hira's Quest Ended.
XIV.—Believing and Confessing.
XV.—Hunger and Thirst.
XVI.—Home at Last.
XVII.—Another Prodigal Son.
XVIII.—The Father's House.
XIX.—Sukhiya's Fall.
XX.—Behári Lál.
XXI.—Brought Home.
XXII.—"She Only Touched The Hem of His Garment."
"If Thou Hadst Known!"
In the Prison.
"I Love Him Still."
Jesus Looked round about upon all Things.
Jim.
Looking for Father's Boat.
Making the Best of a Bad Job.
"Master, Rebuke Thy Disciples."
Memories.
"Me Too."
Nellie's Card.
Nora's Message.
On the Moors.
Our Jack-a-Napes.
I.
II.
III.
Out of the Tombs.
"Peter Followed Afar Off."
Pollie's New Mistress.
Pulling.
"Punchinello."
Royalty and Loyalty.
Scripture Clock.
Smoothed Out.
So Much the More!
Sunday Lessons.
Sunset for Jamie.
The Alms-house Inmates.
The Call of Peter.
The First Day.
The Hill above Nazareth.
The New Governess.
The Ringleaders.
The Stay of the Family.
To-day.
Turned Out.
Twenty Times.
Under the Lych Gate.
"What Doest thou here, Elijah?"
When?
"Will I?"
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Illustrations.]
A blind beggar.
A "boat from the French shore picked him up."
"'Ain't you sold any more than that?'"
"All day she sat quiet and waited."
"A soft hand rested on his shoulder."
"Beatrice fidgeted her hoop backwards and forwards."
Big Bob and Little Bob were carrying Liz in a net between them.
Bring your work, and sit under the trees.
Dick bringing home the wood.
"Eileen stood and waited under the lych gate."
Elijah in the wilderness.
"Geraldine worked in a corner apart."
"Gladys is the little teacher."
"'Go out and stay by the church gate.'"
"Hail, King of the Jews!"
"He only moved his position nearer to the fire."
Her late Majesty distributing gifts to soldiers' children.
"Hira would steal away to this quiet corner."
His mother clasped him in her arms.
"'I don't believe I shall ever learn it!'"
"I never saw such a sweet baby," said Grannie.
"Ivan drew out his little Bible."
"'I will go with them myself,' said Geraldine."
Jesus and the angry Jews.
Jesus and the blind man.
Jesus and the man possessed with a devil.
Jesus at Bethany.
Jesus at Simon's house.
Jesus entering the Temple.
Jesus going up to Jerusalem.
Jesus viewing Jerusalem.
"Jim drew the child nearer and admired her fish."
Joseph interpreting dreams.
Launching the boat.
"Mary went out into the November mist."
Memories.
Milly getting her ticket.
"Minette took Hans by the hand."
Nellie's card.
"'Now I'll put him on his hat.'"
"'Oh, has it!' asked Tommy, looking up surprised."
Peace I leave with you.
Peter in the court of the palace.
"Pollie hardly saw what flowers she gathered."
Pulling.
"Rollo stood looking on."
Scripture clock.
"She lay back exhausted."
"She lay in her arms for her 'cuddle.'"
"She's in the passage, kneeling by the window."
"She stooped and tied a ribbon round her dog."
"She tossed the corn to the fowls."
"'Sleep, lambkin, sleep,' she sang softly."
"Taking the lamp she started back to the child."
The alms-house inmates.
The call of Peter.
"'The "Doris" is to proceed to the Cape, Nellie.'"
The fishing-boat.
"The foam broke up white at the water's edge."
The new governess.
Tommy's grandfather.
"Two laughing girls sat down to a cup of chocolate."
"'What "doesn't" he say?' she responded lightly."
"'What do you want?' Sandy growled."
When she got out into the fields better thoughts came.
"'Why, see, child, it's all coming undone!'"
"'Why, you are reading a story book!'"
"'Yes; and it is all my fault,' sobbed the girl."
[Illustration]
SUNDAY SUNSHINE
Edited by CATHARINE SHAW
[Illustration]
HIRA'S QUEST.
BY LOUISE MARSTON.
CHAPTER I.—A STRANGE VISIT.
THE sun was just sinking to rest in a mass of soft white clouds which
were banked up against a clear blue sky—streaks and waves of crimson
mingled with tints of almost indescribable hues showed upon the white
background with an intensity of beauty for those who had eyes to see it.
The earthly scene, from which the sun was just hiding itself, was very
different to the heavenly; "that" consisted of a few straggling mud
houses, which could not be called a village: they were too near to the
large Indian city of which they had originally formed a part, but had
by some means become separated.
Near by was a muddy pond, which dried up in the dry, hot months, but
now afforded a cool, refreshing resting-place to a herd of buffaloes,
who wisely showed they knew the best place to be comfortable in. Except
for these ungainly animals, which could not be said to add any beauty
to the scene, the place looked so silent and deserted that it was
difficult to believe it to be inhabited by any human being.
Suddenly the dreary dinginess was brightened by a patch of bright red,
which appeared on the roof of one of the desolate-looking mud houses.
It moved warily across the flat roof, and then subsided in a corner,
where it became a "very" small patch, and kept very still.
A closer inspection would have revealed the fact that this red patch
was a sari worn by a little Hindu girl. From between its folds, which
were often disturbed by the breeze, could be seen her face, very small
and thin, surrounded by black hair, which apparently did not receive
much attention. The sad, patient expression of the child's face could
not fail to be noticed, and though she sat as if gazing on the glorious
sky before her, no sign of pleasure helped to dispel the sadness.
It was not to see the beauties of the sunset that she had crept up to
the roof, and sat there so still.
It mattered not to her whether the sun rose or set, except for the
heat of its rays, for amidst the brightest glare of a tropical sun she
remained in perfect darkness, for Hira was blind.
She had never thought of grieving over this sad fact, but quietly
accepted it, as she did everything which came to her. Joy and happiness
were words which had no meaning for her, and therefore sorrow and
sadness could not be known by contrast—just as, never having seen the
light, she could hardly comprehend the dense darkness in which she
dwelt.
If she had been asked whether she was happy, she would have been sorely
perplexed how to answer, for she knew no more of happiness than she did
of the world in which she lived.
If she could have analysed her thoughts and feelings and put them into
words, she might have said that what she liked best of all was to climb
on to the roof, and sit alone in the dark, and "listen," for though she
had no eyes to see, she had ears which no sound escaped.
She loved silence too, and that could seldom be had in the courtyard
and verandah below, where children cried, and women talked or
quarrelled, and men scolded.
So, as soon as the sun went down, Hira would steal away to this quiet
corner, which she knew so well that she never feared as she groped her
way to it.
She talked very little, this blind child, but she thought much, though
it might be difficult to explain "how," when she had so little to think
about.
Her mother was dead, and her father had gone away years ago and never
come back; so she lived with her uncle and aunt, who had plenty of
children of their own. She never missed the love which she had never
known, and it was only when she received an extra hard blow, dealt by
some impatient hand, or did not receive enough food to satisfy her
hunger, that she would creep away to her corner on the roof, where her
tears fell unseen and unknown. Even then she did not know that she was
unhappy.
As she sat on that evening with her chin resting on her hands, suddenly
she gave a start, for an unusual sound had reached her quick ears.
It was not often she heard anything like this, and a more critical
listener than she might have been pleased to hear the clear, full tones
of the manly voice which broke the stillness.
Hira was not left to enjoy her delight alone; it suddenly became
evident that this was not such a deserted region as it appeared. A
small crowd collected round the singer, and several women came on to
the roof, that they might hear from there. The words were very simple
and oft repeated, and before the hymn was finished, two were clearly
imprinted on the blind child's memory, words never to be forgotten, for
they were the name of Jesus Christ.
The hymn told how His work was to save souls, and because He had laid
down His life that He might be the Saviour, no sinner could ever come
to Him and not receive salvation at His hand.
Clear and distinct the words rang out on the still evening air, and
were wafted afar on the breeze.
The singer's heart rejoiced, for a stranger in a strange land, as yet
separated by an unknown language from those into whose midst he had
come to dwell, he had found a means of telling the good news which he
had come so far to proclaim.
But he had another message to give before he went on his way, and, not
now in tones of persuasive sweetness, but as a command given by one in
authority rang out the words, not twice, but again and again, "Prepare
to meet thy God."
Then the messenger went on his way, and the astonished listeners never
asked him why or whence he came.
For a time, people talked of the mysterious stranger who had come and
gone so quickly and sang with such a beautiful voice. Then they forgot.
But there was one who always remembered.
[Illustration]
Blind Hira, wrapped in her red sari on the corner of the roof, heard
the words of the command, and, perhaps because she could not be so
easily distracted by the things of earth, which were hidden from her,
they remained written on her memory and heart.
"Prepare to meet thy God." "Prepare to meet thy God."
The words rang on and on, sometimes mixing with the words of the
hymn, telling of One of whom she had never heard, and having heard,
understood nothing, but yet whose name became so familiar, even Jesus
Christ, the sinner's Saviour.
GOD'S MESSAGES—LETTICE'S LARK.
"LETTICE, go out and sit on the form in the shade till I am ready for
church," said her mother.
"May I pick some moon-daisies for old Mrs. Robins? She does love them
so."
"Very well, but do not make yourself dirty."
So Lettice set forth, and when she had filled her basket, she sat down
to rest.
How quiet it all was! How soft the air blew, bringing on it the sound
of the distant church bells; while from the field, a lark rose up
singing with all its might.
Lettice's eyes followed it far up into the blue sky, and her thoughts
went further than her eyes—even into heaven, where angels and the
redeemed were praising God.
When she carried the marguerites into the sick chamber of old Mrs.
Robins, her face brought a message, though the little girl was quite
unconscious of it. As the invalid looked at the flowers that quiet
Sunday evening, she said over and over again to herself, "God's little
messenger, that's what she was! She looked as if she'd been talking to
Him."
AN UNINVITED GUEST.
ONE day when the Lord Jesus was on this earth, He was invited to dinner
by a rich man named Simon.
Perhaps this rich man asked the Lord Jesus to dinner because he wished
to see Him do some miracle—something wonderful, which no one else could
do; or he may have imagined that people would think more of himself if
he had Jesus for a guest. At any rate, by what we read afterwards, I am
afraid the Pharisee did not invite Jesus because he "loved" Him.
But there was somebody at that feast who did love Jesus, but she was
not invited!
In Eastern lands, the houses are not shut up like our houses, but
because it is so warm, the dining-rooms are often open to the air on
one or two sides.
When a great man makes a feast, people hear of it, and come round the
house to look at what is going on.
In the city, there lived a poor sinful and sorrowful woman who had
learned to love the Lord Jesus; perhaps she had heard Him say those
loving words: "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest."
When this sorrowful woman heard that Jesus was gone to dinner at the
Pharisee's house, she brought a little box made of alabaster, which was
filled with some very sweet-smelling ointment, and she made her way
into the open dining-hall, and when she saw where the Lord was sitting,
on a sort of couch close to the table, she came up and stood behind Him.
And as she stood there and thought of all her sinfulness, and of all
His love and compassion, she began to weep, and her tears fell down
over His feet as He reclined at the table.
Then she wiped His feet with her hair and anointed them with the sweet
ointment.
But the Pharisee who had invited the Lord Jesus looked on with great
anger. He thought if Jesus were a great teacher, He would not have
allowed a woman from the city to come and wash His feet with her tears.
But Jesus knows all our hearts, and He could see that the poor woman
loved Him so much that she would go away and try never to grieve Him
any more.
By-and-by, He told Simon to look at this woman, and compare her love
with his.
[Illustration]
Jesus said words something like this: "Simon, I was tired and dusty
when I came in, but you did not give Me water to bathe My feet; but she
has washed My feet with her tears; you did not offer Me a kiss, but
this woman has not ceased to kiss My 'feet'; you did not anoint My head
with oil, but she has even anointed My 'feet' with precious ointment.
She has loved Me very much because I have forgiven her very much."
And turning to the woman, Jesus said to her, "Thy sins are
forgiven; . . . go in peace."
Oh, the joy of hearing Jesus say those words! And we may have the joy
too, if we come to Him with humble, loving heart, and tell Him that we
are sorry.
He never turns anyone away who comes to Him; so, dear little children,
let us trust His loving heart, and though we know we are very unworthy,
do not let us stay away for that, for Jesus longs that we may be
forgiven, and so be able to go away "in peace."
JIM.
THE "Sailors' Arms" had held out alluring hands to Jim Adams for many a
long day. His was the most familiar figure by its fireside in winter,
and in fact, the "Sailors' Arms" saw more of Jim Adams when he was home
from sea than the bare, dirty cottage where he lodged.
[Illustration]
But one sunny summer afternoon, Jim turned out of the "Sailors' Arms"
earlier than his wont.
Somehow he had got thinking of the Lizzie who would have been his wife
if she hadn't taken the fever and died. He mightn't have been the Jim
Adams he was now if she had lived. Who cared for him? Nobody. Who
respected him? Nobody. Who would shed a tear if he never came back from
sea? Nobody. They called him a drunken ne'er-do-weel, and they took a
drink from him and laughed at him almost openly, and the respectable
men and women drew away from him. It was a black picture that Jim drew
of himself as he sat on the shingle and looked at the sea.
A sound of voices and laughter came up to him, and he saw Bob Sheppard
and his children coming over the sand. Big Bob and little Bob were
carrying small Liz in a net between them.
Jim watched them wistfully. He might have had a little laughing
daughter like that.
The two bearers deposited the child on the shingle, and Liz, after
looking round for something to do, came trotting straight towards Jim.
Jim held his breath. He didn't know what made him think of such a
thing, but he decided that if she turned from him, there was no chance
of his being different, but if she came past him without fear, he would
try to be more like the Jim that the dead Lizzie had known.
Little Liz stooped and picked up a piece of shining seaweed; she came
towards Jim and held it out. "That's for you!" she said in her baby
voice.
Jim took it. He looked at it, and folded it and put it in his pocket,
and the child stood and watched him as he got slowly up and went away.
[Illustration: Big Bob and little Bob were carrying Liz in a net
between them.]
Three days later, Jim Adams went to sea again, and Liz's bit of seaweed
went in his pocket. For three days he had been perfectly sober, and the
"Sailors' Arms" had been feeling empty.
Bob Sheppard sailed with him, and sometimes he would look pitifully at
his neighbour's lowering, morose face. But Jim was such a well-known
character that Bob never once dreamed of his wanting a helping hand or
of the wish to be different.
But wish as Jim would, he had no power to make himself different, and
when the ship put in at the seaport near his village home, he went on
shore and got drunk. He was sitting on deck next morning feeling more
ashamed and sorry than he ever remembered feeling before, and there was
a terrible depression at his heart. He could never be different, never
be good enough to meet Lizzie. He would not try any more. He even took
out the little bit of seaweed that he had thought would be a talisman
to help him, and was going to throw it into the sea, when a small voice
beside him said,—
"Did you like my bit of seaweed? You never said you did."
[Illustration]
Jim started violently. There stood little Liz, hugging a great fish,
and behind her was her mother, smiling at her. The two had come over as
a great treat to see Bob, and Liz had spied her old friend and sought
him out.
Jim felt almost too shy to speak to her, but Mrs. Sheppard was talking
quietly to her husband, and Jim drew the child nearer and admired her
great fish. The two grew quite friendly, and hope began to creep back
to Jim's heart. Suddenly looking up, he found Mrs. Sheppard looking
down at him with a kindly expression in her eyes.
"My little Liz has taken quite a fancy to you," she said.
"I wish I was a better man," he said huskily. "I did try, but it don't
seem no use."
"The Lord Jesus would help you," she answered softly. "He loves you and
died for you."
A light came into Jim's bleared eyes.
"Lizzie used to talk like that," he said, "but it's too late now; I'm
too bad."
"It's never too late," cried Mrs. Sheppard warmly. "Don't you remember—
"'The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there may I, as vile as he,
Wash all my sins away.'"
Bob called her just then, and she and Liz wished him good-bye. But
before she parted from Bob, she said hesitatingly, "You know Jim Adams,
Bob? Give him a kind word now and then; little Liz has taken such a
fancy to him, and he looks lonely."
Bob looked down into little Liz's clear blue eyes thoughtfully. "He
wouldn't take a word from me," he said, "but I'll think of it. You
know, we think of those at home when we're out on the quiet nights, and
I will see," he added fondly.
He watched Jim curiously after that. He wondered what had made Lizzie
take to the man. She was a rather shy, particular little lady, and Jim
was not prepossessing in appearance.
Bob watched Jim a good deal that voyage.
Jim was usually morose and taciturn; now, silent as ever, he looked
different, less unkempt, less unhappy. But Bob did not find a chance of
speaking to him; their duties lay apart, and it seemed as if all things
combined to separate them.
One night a wild gale sprang up, and the ship, never very seaworthy in
Bob's eyes, strained and tossed, and was beaten hither and thither in
an alarming manner. Signals were fired, for they were in sight of the
French coast, and as the tardy morning dawned, they saw that a small
boat was putting out to them.
The storm had subsided and the sea had gone down, but the wild waves
had done their work on the old ship and she was sinking fast, and but
one boat was coming out in answer to the signals of distress.
Jim Adams stood looking out over the heaving water. He had a lifebelt
on. He had just been at the pumps, and he knew the ship was doomed, and
he was facing death and eternity. Yes, he could face them calmly now.
He took out the bit of seaweed little Liz had given him—his first ray
of hope—and he murmured over the verse Liz's mother had repeated. As he
said the last line, he lifted his head with a look of triumph in his
eyes—
"And there may I, as vile as he,
Wash all my sins away."
He started as he felt someone stand beside him, and Bob Sheppard's
voice said, "She's going fast."
Jim nodded. "It's all right for me," he said gruffly. Then he added
quickly, "Where's your lifebelt, man? That boat will never reach in
time, and you've dear ones waiting at home."
Little Liz's fair face seemed to rise before Bob's eyes, but he knew
nothing of the ring of pathos that came into his voice as he answered
quietly, "There aren't enough belts to go quite round."
Jim made a quick movement, and Bob cried out earnestly, "No, no! Not
your belt, Jim Adams; I'm determined about that."
"So am I," answered Jim; "I'll try for the boat. I've no one to shed
a tear if I go down, and you have wife and child. If it should be so,
tell little Liz when she's growed up as she pointed the way to God to a
poor lost sinner—she and your missis."
He would take no denial, and he had but bound the life-preserver round
Bob, when there was a sudden cry from below, "She's going!"
She was, indeed. In the rush of the swirl of water as the ship sank,
Bob saw no more of Jim. He was not to wait for the boat after all, and
Bob was borne away on the crest of a wave.
A spar touched his hand, and he grasped it. He would fight for the life
Jim had tried to give him while his strength held out. An hour later,
the boat from the French shore picked him up and bore him to land.
All his mates were saved but one, and the one that was missing was Jim.
[Illustration]
It was early morning when the ill-fated boat that carried Jim Adams and
Bob Sheppard sank into the seething water. The gale that had lulled
somewhat rose again, and a few hours later, a little fishing-smack came
in to the hospitable shore where Bob and his companions were recovering
from their experiences. And with them, cold and still and altogether
peaceful, came all that was left of Jim Adams. The fishermen said they
had picked him up just alive, but in spite of all they could do, he had
died before they could reach home.
As Bob Sheppard stood looking down on the face of the man who had
given his life for him, great tears welled up into his eyes and rolled
unheeded down his rough face. What was he that Jim Adams should give
his chance of life for him? He remembered his wife's interest in Jim,
and Jim's love for little Liz. Jim had given them back their dearest,
and had died in the giving.
[Illustration]
Bob stooped down and took a piece of seaweed from the hand of the dead
man. It was twisted firmly in the fingers, and Bob took it as a little
remembrance. It was all that he could take to tell of that morning's
work. But he did not know that he was taking the bit of seaweed that
Liz had given in the innocence of her childish heart that day when Jim
had left the "Sailors' Arms" and gone to think of his lost Lizzie on
the beach.
Bob did not guess that the seaweed that he folded in his pocket-book
had been the first ray of hope for a new life for Jim. But he
determined that the life given back to him that day should be devoted
more wholly to following his Saviour.
He saw Jim laid to rest in the little French burying-place, and then he
took the first opportunity of going back to his home.
How warm was his welcome!
And as he and his wife gathered round the fire that first evening, with
small Bob at his elbow and Liz close clasped in his arms, he told them
how Jim had given his life for him.
Ah, Jim! You thought that no tears would be shed for you; you thought
no one would care! No one at the "Sailors' Arms" gave you another
thought. Other sailors, tied and bound by the curse of drink, occupied
the "Sailors' Arms," but you were mourned and spoken of gently in one
home, the home where little Liz lived.
As Liz grew up, her mother often told her of Jim Adams, for the child
had no knowledge of what her little innocent gift of seaweed had done
for Jim, though she could well remember Jim's face and figure. And the
story had an effect on all her life, making her kind and thoughtful for
the sad and downtrodden, and ever ready to hold out a helping hand, or
give a cheering word to those who had few to care for them.
[Illustration]
TURNED OUT.
IT could not be true! George looked at his employer blankly; surely he
had misunderstood. But once more, the harsh words fell on his ears, and
he knew he had heard aright.
"Here are your wages, and I shall not need your services after next
week."
George took the pile of silver handed him and walked mechanically out
of the office. Some of the men eyed him curiously as he passed, not a
few openly jeered, but George walked on, dragging his feet wearily.
At the corner he paused, then turned sharply away from the village
towards the desolate bare heaps of refuse which lay around, and walked
rapidly on. How could he go home and face his mother with that story,
that mother so dependent on him, for whom he had toiled so long?
Making sure no one was within sight, he flung himself on the ground and
moaned aloud. Oh, why had they left their little country home and come
to this drear spot? It was all dark to him, and there was no one to
comfort him then.
At last, he roused himself and turned back towards the village; the
sun was setting in a red glow behind the church tower, and the rooks
in the vicarage garden were flying homewards. All was at rest and in
peace, but he alone. And why was it? What had he done that he should be
dismissed? Ah! He knew, but the thought brought him no comfort yet.
"'Saint,'" they had called him, "'coward'" too, because he had refused
to join in their gambling and drinks, and had mocked him; ay, and
cursed him too for the loving care he gave to his mother.
[Illustration]
So he strode through the village angry and sad. Angry, for he thought
God had forsaken him, sad because his faith was dim, and he saw not the
hand stretched out even then to shield.
He had passed the little gate which led from the vicarage garden, when
a cheery voice called to him, and he turned to see the vicar leaning
over it. A glance at his face told the vicar he was in trouble, and
drawing him inside, he paced silently beside the lad while he told his
tale.
He could do little then to comfort, but his sympathy helped George and
took the hardness out of his heart and voice.
Then he hastened home and broke the news to his mother, never noticing
in his trouble the glad bright light on her face.
When he had finished, she took her son by the arm and led him to the
window, where lay a strange, long envelope. George took it, wondering,
then read the letter almost with awe.
"Mother!" he said, and clasped her in his arms. "Then God has not
forgotten."
The letter was from a strange lawyer, telling them that George's uncle
had died in Australia and had left £500 to George's dear mother.
[Illustration]
HER SAILOR BOY.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"I'D better go away, mother, and get over it as best I can!"
"Away from 'me,' Benny?"
"I shall be better away. It's no use trying here. I shall meet Mary
every day, and I can't stand it."
Then the mother knew that what she had feared had come upon her. She
only held his hand and looked into his face.
"There's only one way that I know on, to get broken hearts healed," she
said, falteringly; "and that ain't going into foreign parts! There's a
Healer as will do better for you nor that!"
The young man would not pull his hand away, for might it not be the
last time she might hold it? But a slight movement on his part showed
his unwillingness, which she well understood.
"Come back to me when you are tired of it," she said gently and
tenderly. "If I'm alive, I shall be here waiting for you; and there's
One as is nearer than ever I could be."
Then he packed his bundle; and with sore, wounded heart, and burning
anger against the friend who had played him false, he went to sea.
His mother betook herself to her Refuge. She knew it would take time
for the wound to heal; she knew that it would be hard for him to meet
every day of his life the girl who had wronged him, and she let him go
without further persuasion. Did she not know, too, that where she could
not help him, God could?
Perhaps Ben had not guessed all it would cost him to leave his seaside
cottage, and the fishing smacks, and the fisher folk.
He took train to the nearest seaport, and choosing a vessel that took
his fancy, he engaged himself for a long voyage, and was soon off.
Whatever home-sickness he felt, he kept to himself. In the silent,
starry nights when he was on watch, there were thoughts that passed
through his mind that no one would have guessed in the day while busy
life was round him.
Perhaps he thought more of his mother's God than he had ever done
before; perhaps he humbled himself to seek comfort from Him who
has so lovingly invited the weary and heavy laden to come to Him.
But the three years were lengthened to many more. He had not meant
to stay longer, but a sailor who was his chum persuaded him to try
gold-digging, and somehow—Ben never knew how—he stayed on and on,
writing to his mother that he was coming home "soon," but putting off
the decision till ten long years had gone by.
At length, a letter reached him in a handwriting he knew long ago.
"I that did you the greatest unkindness years ago, will do you a
kindness now," it said. "Your mother has aged a good bit lately. To my
thinking, she won't be here so very long."
Then Ben woke up. All at once he realised that years instead of months
had gone past. His mother's letters and her assurances of being well
and thinking of him always had satisfied him. But now the world had
grown dark suddenly, and he rubbed his hands across his eyes, wondering
how everything was suddenly changed.
"I meant not to go back till I could take her a fortune," he said to
his mate, "but I've mistook mother. She don't want a fortune, she wants
to see me agin, and to know somethin' about me; that's better nor any
fortune."
When once Ben had made up his mind to do a thing, it did not take long
for him to begin it. The next morning saw him on his way home with much
such a bundle as he had started with, but with a few nuggets hidden
among his clothes. In the quiet nights of the homeward voyage, his real
fortune came to him. It came in words which he had learned thirty years
ago at his mother's side—"Seek ye the Lord while He may be found, call
ye upon Him while He is near."
When his mother clasped him in her arms and looked in his face, she
knew that the desire of her heart had been granted.
"The Lord's way is a right way," she said gently. "Welcome home, my
boy, welcome home!"
[Illustration: His mother clasped him in her arms.]
[Illustration]
HIRA'S QUEST.