THERE was not much rest for Sukhiya during the night of the storm;
even after the worst violence had spent itself, the rain continued to
stream through the roof. And when a dry place had been found for the
butter and milk still left for sale, and another sheltered spot for her
husband, who being an old man must be kept as dry as possible, there
was none left for the mistress of the house, who had to be contented to
do the best she could, and hope to be dry again some time.
Towards morning, the rain ceased and Sukhiya was roused early out of a
deep sleep by someone knocking at the door.
No answer came to her inquiry, "Who is there?"
So she got up off the wet bedstead on which she had been lying, and
went to the door.
"Is Hira here?" asked a voice, which she quickly recognised as that of
one of the blind girl's cousins.
In a moment, Sukhiya was thoroughly awake, and the door quickly opened.
"What do you ask, Is Hira here?" she said, in a voice of some concern.
"How could that be? Does she ever pass the night here? Whenever she
comes, I always bring her back, and nowadays she seldom comes."
"Then how can we tell where she is?" remarked the boy in a voice which
sounded as if he at any rate did not much care. "She is not in our
house, and if she is not here, where can she be?"
A great dread seized the heart of Sukhiya; she knew that her little
favourite had been becoming more and more unhappy in her uncle's house,
and not long ago had said in a determined voice, "Some time I will run
away."
Maybe this was what she had done. But where could she have gone, if she
had not come to her, and where could she have been during the storm?
The ghi-seller was a shrewd woman, and as she stood at the door in the
early morning, facing the boy who had come to tell her that the blind
child was lost, she at once made up her mind on one point—if Hira had
run away from her uncle's house, she should never go back there again,
if she could help it. So she answered in a tone of indifference, "Tell
your father that I have not seen the child for several days, for she
has quite given up ever coming to my house." Then she asked, "Since
when has she been missing?"
The boy answered, "She hasn't eaten anything since the morning, and no
one has seen anything of her since just before the storm."
"Well, what can I do?" said Sukhiya again. "Those to whom she belongs
are the right ones to look for her if she is lost, and they will know
best why the child has run away."
Then the boy, finding no more to be gained, went back to give the
answer to the question he had been sent to ask.
Although Sukhiya had appeared to be so indifferent, she was far from
feeling so. And in spite of having implied that it was not her business
to look for the lost child, she at once began to think how she could
best do it.
She would have liked to have set off at once, but the cow must be
milked, and as she did not wish Hira's uncle to know that she was
making any efforts to find the child, she could not do better than make
her inquiries as she went on her rounds.
So from house to house went Sukhiya with her basket on her head and a
heavy burden on her heart, which grew heavier and heavier as the day
wore on, and still there was no trace of the lost child. She longed to
go to the uncle's house and ask whether she had returned, but then that
might spoil her little scheme.
Little rest was found that night either. And the next morning, the
poor woman began her day's work with a heavy heart, for with Hira, she
seemed to have lost all her interest in life.
The first day she had kept to her own neighbourhood, not thinking it
likely that the blind child could have strayed far away. The next day
she went a greater distance, and so came at length to Mary Dayál's
house.
The woman's sad, hopeless face reminded Mary at once of Anandi and the
blind child, and she asked, "Do you know anything of the blind child
you brought here one day? Is she safe and well?"
The simple question was too much for the sore heart of the anxious
woman, and, bursting into tears, she answered, "She is lost, the poor
helpless little one; there was no one to love and care for her, though
I would have done it if I could. But she is gone, and how will I ever
see her again?"
"I think I can tell you where she is," said Mary, glad to be able to
comfort the sorrowful woman.
As Sukhiya listened to what Anandi had said, she felt certain it must
be Hira who had been found on the doorstep. Was not the red sari she
wore the very one she had given to her?
The children had gone to school, and Mary could not leave her home to
show the way, but there was little fear that Sukhiya would not find
the house which contained her lost treasure. So having received full
directions, she set off to seek it.
Hira was still burning with fever, which had risen so high that she
took little notice of anything or anyone near her, only sometimes
muttering such words as "I don't know where I am; I must be lost. If
Jesus Christ would come and give me eyes, but He won't. He must be
dead."
Shushila, who dearly loved to tend anyone who was ill, sat by her side,
putting wet cloths on her head, and speaking now and then in a soft,
gentle voice, which seemed to soothe the restless child.
Sukhiya found the door open and walked in. Besides what she had heard
from Mary Dayál of Shushila's goodness, her own eyes told her that
however Hira had found her way to this spot, she had certainly found
refuge in a peaceful, happy home, and if she could only stay there
always, it would be well for her. So she quickly made up her mind to
try and bring this about.
"Do you want any butter or milk to-day?" she asked, setting down her
basket.
Anandi soon appeared to answer the call. And seeing the woman, asked at
once, "Have you come about the blind child?"
"What blind child?" was the answer in a most indifferent tone.
Then Anandi told what she knew, and Sukhiya listened, but said nothing
till the story was finished.
"There is a blind child I have seen about sometimes; if I were to see
her, I should know whether it is the same."
So Sukhiya was taken to where Hira lay, just at that time in a heavy
sleep. Shushila was sitting near, and as soon as the woman caught sight
of her sweet, gentle face, she still more fully made up her mind that,
even though these people were Christians, Hira could find no better
home.
She tried to conceal her anxiety at the child's illness, and when
Shushila called her out of the room and asked what she knew of the
child and her relatives, she answered, "What can I tell more than that
she has neither father nor mother, nor anyone else to care for her? For
many a day she has been half starved, and now it has come to this."
"Then you think," said Shushila, "that I may keep her and that no one
will want to take her away from me?"
"Who is there to take her away? Have not I said that she has neither
father nor mother, nor anyone who cares whether she is alive or dead?
Great will be your reward if you take this helpless little one and feed
and clothe her."
Shushila was much relieved by the woman's words, but she thought it
right to say, "If you should hear of anyone inquiring for her, you will
tell them where she is, and that she is being well cared for."
"Who is there to ask?" was the reply. "Certainly I will tell if I
should meet any such person. But surely you are needing some butter or
milk, and you will find none better than mine."
Anandi was called to make a small purchase, and Sukhiya determined that
it should not be the last, for how else would she be able to see the
child in whose interests she had been working?
Although the woman felt glad for the child's sake, she felt sad for her
own. What more would Hira care for her, poor ignorant creature, now she
had a friend with a beautiful face and soft, sweet voice, to care for
her? It was true that the blind eyes could see neither the beauty of
the one nor the lack of it in herself, but something would surely tell
her the difference. Anyway, she would be no longer needed, and Sukhiya
felt as if she had lost yet another child.
However, there was still one more thing to be done before her work for
Hira was complete. A few days later, she arrived at the blind child's
old home, and having put down her basket on the ground began to cry and
wail piteously.
The whole household gathered around and begged to know what was the
matter.
It was a long time before Sukhiya's distress would allow her to speak,
and then she sobbed out, "Alas! Alas! All my children have died, and
now this helpless little one I loved as my own is gone too; it matters
nothing to you, but my heart is made desolate."
"What do you mean?" was the general exclamation. "Have you heard any
news of Hira? What has happened to her?"
Sukhiya shed a few more tears, and then, with a quivering voice,
explained, "She got lost that night you turned her out in that heavy
rain, and only a thin, worn sari to cover her. Was it any wonder
that she should get fever and die?" And again the woman's cries and
lamentations broke forth.
Then an angry voice asked, "Who says we turned her out? She went away
herself; and it is you who are to blame that she was lost in the rain,
for it was you who taught her to go wandering from house to house,
which was most improper for a girl of her age. Now you can go and never
come here again accusing innocent people of what you are to blame for
yourself."
Sukhiya was only too thankful to find that she was not to be
cross-examined on the story which she had made up. And taking up her
basket quickly, departed. And for many days nothing was seen of the
ghi-seller in Hira's old home.
[Illustration]
A BLACK SHEEP.
BY MABEL MACKINTOSH.
ARTHUR NEAL was the black sheep of the school. The biggest among
the little boys, there was no sort of possible mischief in which
he did not entangle himself, no sort of naughtiness or laziness or
don't-carishness in which he was not foremost. They had scolded him,
kept him in, deprived him of extra pleasures, caned him; but nothing
seemed to affect him. He had once overheard the head master call him
incorrigible and a black sheep; he rather gloried in it, and his mother
and father in India grieved over the bad accounts of their boy, and
wrote lectures and good advice and pleadings, and Arthur only laughed.
India was a long way off, and nobody loved him and he loved nobody.
But the term was over and holidays had come, and Arthur was to go to
Scotland to his cousins' home, for the head master had positively
refused to keep him for the holidays. Arthur was well pleased. Here was
a new field for his mischievous energies! Wouldn't he lead Ivan and
Archie a life? Wouldn't he teach them a thing or two?
[Illustration]
He was very quiet that first day in Glasgow; he was taking in his
surroundings. His aunt thought he had been belied; it had cost her
much to invite this little ne'er-do-well to meet her boys, and yet she
prayed that this uncared-for little soul might find a blessing. Was he
to go on to rack and ruin for want of a helping hand?
Ivan and Archie watched him curiously, too, the first day. They were
in a difficulty. In the summer, both of them had given themselves to
Christ to be His soldiers and servants, and since then, they had read
together a chapter from their little Bibles directly after tea. What
should they do now? Should they put it off and read separately at
another time, or should they read aloud as usual, and let their new
cousin laugh if he liked? It was a hard struggle, this first taking up
the reproach of their Master, but the two boys conquered. When the tea
was cleared, they sat down in the glowing firelight, and Ivan drew out
his little Bible.
"We always read together," he said a little brusquely, for it was a
very big effort to him.
Arthur said nothing. He was too surprised, too flabbergasted, to make
any resistance. Had he had a minute to think, he would have retired
with a sneer. But already Ivan had begun, and he sat still.
It began with the story of the lost sheep, and the shepherd seeking
over the mountains until he found it. It rushed into Arthur's mind that
he was called a black sheep, and it seemed as if the story was all
written for him.
[Illustration]
He did not hear the other stories in the chapter; he was too intent
on this one. He hardly noticed when his cousins rose and left him. He
only moved his position nearer to the fire, and sat staring into it. He
knew enough of Bible teaching to know the meaning of the shepherd. He
had heard often enough of the love of Jesus, but he had never thought
of Jesus loving "him," wanting to find "him," the black sheep of the
school.
But still, if Jesus wanted to find him, how was it all done? How could
he know he was found, he was such a naughty boy? How could he become a
white sheep safe in the fold? He puzzled and puzzled over it for three
days. And then, when he lay in his little bed on the third night, his
auntie came to him and solved his problem for him.
She sat down beside him and laid her soft hand on his. And then in the
dim light, she saw his eyes were full of tears.
"What is it, dear?" she said gently.
"I didn't know you loved me," Arthur answered.
"Didn't you, poor lonely boy?" she answered. "I love you and Jesus
loves you."
Arthur sighed deeply. "I'm such a naughty boy, a black sheep," he said;
"but the boys were reading about the shepherd looking for the sheep.
Would He look for me?"
"'The Son of God, who loved me, and gave Himself for me,'" said auntie
softly. "He loved you so that He gave His own life to find you."
"How shall I be found?" asked Arthur.
"If you were a little lost sheep lying on the dark mountain, and you
heard the shepherd calling you, what would you do?"
"I would call to him, 'Here I am.'"
Auntie knelt down by the little bed, and, still holding Arthur's hand,
she spoke to the Good Shepherd.
"Dear Lord Jesus," she said, "Arthur has heard you calling, and he says
he is here. Take him and make him Thy lamb, and wash his sins in Thy
precious blood."
"And thank you for loving me, auntie!"
NELLIE'S CARD.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"SIT down, just a little while, Sister!" coaxed Nellie. "You haven't
sat down all the afternoon, for I've been watching you!"
Sister Ruth smiled.
"Well! Just a little while, Nellie," she said sitting down beside her.
"Why did you want me to, particularly?"
"'Cause you look tired; and besides, I wanted you to talk to me."
"What a lot of Christmas cards!" said the nurse, glancing at the little
table on which Nellie had arranged all her treasures in front of her.
"Yes," she said softly, "everybody, almost, that loves me has sent me
one!"
[Illustration]
"What a rich little girl!"
She smiled a happy little smile; and then as the nurse laid her hand
gently on hers, she looked up with an earnest glance.
"I know you're sorry for me," she said. "I feel it every time you come
near."
"Indeed I am."
"Do you know, when I first came here, Sister, I was not—I didn't feel
as I do now."
"You were so very ill," asked Sister Ruth, "and in such pain?"
"No-o," said Nellie reflectively, "it wasn't only that."
"Well?" asked Sister Ruth. A weary craving in her own heart made her
long, somehow, to know what made Nellie's face so peaceful.
"At first I couldn't 'bear' it," said the child slowly, "and then all
seemed dark and miserable."
"Poor little Nellie!"
"Then, on Christmas Eve, somebody sent me this."
She put her little hand out towards a card which rested in the very
centre of all the rest. "That changed everything."
The nurse bent forward where she pointed, and read—"'Come unto Me all
ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"
Sister Ruth was startled; startled at the child's look of heavenly
peace, as she went on—
"I thought at first, when my foot had to be taken off, that all the joy
had gone out of my life; as if nothing was any good any more. I thought
how it would be when I got home, to be limping about on crutches; how
it would feel to be unlike everybody else for always!"
"And how could that card make any difference?" asked Sister Ruth
incredulously, and the longing in her eyes grew greater.
This child had lost all that made life dear to her—deep down in her
heart she knew that she too had done the same.
"It did!" said the child with a flash of light in her eyes. "The words
were so plain, and I was so sad! When I thought of my foot, I knew how
heavy laden I was—and so—"
"And so?" asked Sister Ruth.
"I just told Jesus I was glad to come if He'd have me! And after that,
the black darkness rolled away, and I've felt quite different."
The nurse bent and kissed the little hand that lay near her, almost
reverently, while she turned away to hide her tears.
"Does He cure all sorrows, do you think, Nellie?" she asked softly.
"I expect He does; if the people are heavy laden, and come. I'm sure He
does—oh, yes, dear Sister! I know He does!"
[Illustration: When she got out into the fields
better thoughts came.]
[Illustration]
A DECISION.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"WAIT for me at the stile, Mary: I'll be sure to come!" Charlie had
said.
"How early you are going, Mary!" called her father a little
complainingly after breakfast the next morning.
"Not earlier than usual, father."
"It don't take you an hour to get to town. What makes you start so
soon?"
"I like going along by the hedges and picking the wild flowers," said
Mary, while the slightest tinge of pink reddened her cheeks to a deeper
shade.
"Oh, well!" said her father crossly. "I don't see the sense of it.
You're always picking flowers, or sauntering along, or something—"
"Oh, I don't saunter," said Mary reproachfully. "I never saunter—" She
took up her basket of eggs and went out abruptly, calling Fox sharply,
settling her sun-bonnet on her head with a determined little shake that
spoke volumes.
But when she got out into the quiet fields, better thoughts came, and
all the irritation passed from her step. If father was unreasonable,
she herself had not been blameless.
"Look here, Charlie," she said, directly he came up, "this mustn't go
on any more. If I don't take care, I shall get to be an untruthful
girl! Here, for the sake of meeting you, I've been and told father that
I like to pick wild flowers, and that I started early for that! So I
do, but—"
Charlie stood silent, and Fox, who had listened eagerly to the
conversation, hung his tail.
"If we speak, he'll put an end to it," said Charlie slowly.
"Yes—at least, I think so—and yet, Charlie—"
The young fellow came closer to the stile, and he looked in her face.
"I wouldn't be the one to ask you to do wrong," he said very gravely.
"I've not been easy myself over it. Suppose we go back at once—"
"Now?" said Mary. She remembered her haughty departure and her father's
black looks, and her heart almost failed her.
"If it's 'right,'" he said tenderly. It was that tenderness of
Charlie's that had won her.
"I'll do it," she said, "and we shall be 'helped,' Charlie!"
And so they were.
Mary ran into the cottage and put her arms round her father's neck:
"Oh, I'm so sorry I said that about the flowers!" she said, hiding her
face. "Father, it was partly to meet Charlie. And Charlie has come back
to ask you if we may."
[Illustration]
A FAVOUR.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"KOTCHED!" exclaimed Roland, with a chuckle, stopping at the kitchen
door.
"What?" asked Kathleen, looking up. "'Kotched' over what?"
"Why, you are reading a story book, while you are pretending to cook my
dinner! I've kotched you!"
"Have you, indeed?" said his sister, springing up and chasing him.
"I've a good mind to threaten that you shan't have a bit of my golden
pudding!"
"Your 'what?'" asked Roland.
"Golden pudding. Look here, Rol, I want you to do me a favour—"
"I'm not workin'" said Roland, backing.
"Oh, yes, you are! No one can work like you when you've a mind."
"But you see I haven't a mind—"
He had reached the front door and managed to escape, and Kathleen
slowly turned back to the kitchen with a more sober face.
[Illustration]
Roland went down the road whistling, and somehow his whistling fell
into a tune like this—
"I believe that girl's been at it pretty nearly all day! I wonder
what she wanted of me? How pretty she looked in that apron, and what
a nuisance it must be to have to see to things in the house when you
want to be out and about! I wonder if Kathleen does ever want to be out
and about? I declare I'll take her to the football match on Saturday;
I never thought of that. I wonder what she did want of me? Not that I
care! I can't be called upon to do odds and ends for her all the time.
By-the-by, I wish I'd asked her to see to those buttons for me—what
a nuisance I forgot! I wonder what she did want me to do? Nothing of
importance, I dare say."
So Roland called in to see a friend, and forgot all about Kathleen and
her wants.
Kathleen seemed to have forgotten all about them too, he thought,
when he came in again. She was sitting very quietly at the table, and
everything was prepared with the utmost nicety.
Roland did not feel easy; he still wondered what the favour had been
that Kathleen had asked. Some "girls' tripe," he thought.
If he could have seen a letter in the pillar-box opposite, he would
perhaps have ceased to wonder.
"Darling Nettie,—I have never missed sending you a present for
your birthday before, but I simply could not get out to-day—nor
yesterday—nor the day before. You know we are single-handed just now,
and mother is upstairs ill, and I have to keep everything going. You
will not think I have forgotten you? I meant to send you a bottle of
scent; perhaps I shall be able next week."
That little note had not been written without tears of disappointment.
And the only thing that made Kathleen able to meet Roland with a bright
face was a line she read on her wall as she closed her letter—
"'My times are in 'Thy' hand!'"
And she went on bravely.
"If Thou Hadst Known!"
PERHAPS you ask, dear children, "Who is that standing there looking so
sorrowful? And what is He doing?"
Well, I will tell you.
I have heard that as travellers approach the city of Jerusalem, it is
hidden from them by the hills which surround it. But at one point, when
you least expect it, the view of the city bursts upon you, and you see
all at once that which you have been travelling many weary miles to
catch a sight of.
Perhaps that is how heaven will seem to us when we die. We may be
travellers towards it, and our feet may be tired with the rough way,
and all at once, we shall open our eyes and find that the toilsome
journey is over, and we are there!
Be that as it may, this picture shows us the Lord Jesus when the view
of Jerusalem burst upon His view.
He had been travelling many long miles to reach it, and He well knew
that there He was going to offer up His precious life as a ransom for
all.
But to Jesus that view of the city was not all joy. St. Luke tells us
that when He beheld the city, He wept over it.
Why did He weep? Ah, that is the question. Why did the Son of God,
having been doing works of love and pity for three years, and now going
up to Jerusalem to obtain eternal salvation for us, why should He weep?
Little children, Jesus cried because He knew that very few in that
beautiful city would come to Him to be saved.
He cried because the people there would not believe in Him, or accept
Him as their Saviour.
So when He wept, He said, "If thou hadst known, even thou . . . in this
thy day, the things which belong to thy peace! but now they are hid
from thine eyes."
I think that this story of the Lord Jesus weeping over Jerusalem should
make our hearts very soft and tender.
We should think to ourselves, "Jesus is very sorry when we do not love
Him, and come to Him to be saved from our sins. I would not like to
make Jesus sorry, who suffered so much for me; so I will just tell Him
that I love Him, and that will make Him glad."
[Illustration]
And so it will, children. And the very thought of doing a little thing
to make the Lord Jesus glad will make us happy too, and we shall be
more cheerful over our lessons, and more bright in our play, than we
should have been otherwise.
Jesus said to Peter, "Lovest thou Me?" Shall we not answer gladly,
"Thou knowest all things; Thou 'knowest' that I love Thee"?
[Illustration]
HIRA'S QUEST.