AFTER several days' fight with fever, Hira began to recover.
Though she could see nothing of her surroundings, she knew quite well
that she was in a different world to that in which her life had been
passed hitherto.
She heard no harsh, scolding voices, no complaining and quarrelling
about money, but she seemed to be in an abode of peace and love; even
Sukhiya's house, her old refuge, was nothing compared to this.
If she had learnt of heaven, she would certainly have thought she was
there, and that Shushila, with her sweet voice and gentle touch, was
one of the angels who ministered to her. But what did she know of
heaven?
As she grew better, she began to wonder what could happen next. Would
her uncle come and fetch her away, or would she stay always in this
lovely, peaceful spot, where everyone was kind and good to her?
It all seemed like a dream: the terrible storm with the thunder, which
had struck such terror to her heart, the noise and confusion, in the
midst of which, she had felt so utterly helpless to think of anything.
Then loving hands had lifted her out of the storm and noise into peace
and quiet, and there she was still; but what would happen next?
She did not care to see her uncle and aunt again, but if only Sukhiya
would come and speak to her, and tell her where she was! She had a kind
of vague feeling that during the dream from which she was awakening,
Sukhiya really had come, but perhaps it was only part of the dream.
Presently she grew tired of thinking and trying to understand, so she
put out her hand, and asked, "Is anyone there?"
Immediately, the voice she had learnt to know and love answered, "Yes,
little one, I am here; is there anything you want?"
"I want to know where I am and where I am going to?" said the child
feebly.
Then Shushila answered, "You were lost in the storm, Hira, and God, who
takes care of little girls, brought you here, and if you like to be
with me and my father, we will keep you always, so that you will never
be lost again. Will you be my little sister, and stay with me?"
Hira did not speak at once. Then she said, "Tell me about God, for I
don't know anything, and there was no one who could tell me. Did you
see Him when He brought me here?"
It was Shushila's turn to pause now. Where should she begin to tell
this child, who knew nothing, but was so eager to learn, of the
glorious truths which were so precious to her? While she was thinking
what she should say, the blind child spoke again.
"But tell me first, who is Jesus Christ? And if He is alive and here,
why does He not give me eyes? I thought it was a dream, but now I
remember that you told me that He was here."
Then Shushila answered, "Hira, I will tell you all about Jesus Christ,
but it is a long story, and I am afraid so much talking will make your
head ache. Will you not wait a few days till you are quite well?"
The blind child laughed, as if the very thought amused her, as she
said, "How can it make my head ache to hear you talk? When I had fever
in my uncle's house, there was noise and talking all the time, and no
one thought they must be quiet."
So Shushila said no more, but began to tell her story.
"Long, long ago Jesus Christ lived in heaven with God. We cannot tell
what heaven is like, because we have never seen it, but we know that
there is no sorrow nor crying there, nor pain nor sickness of any kind.
No one ever dies, and, what is best of all, there is no sin there. That
could not be, because heaven is God's house, and sin cannot be where
God is.
"But the Lord did not stay in heaven. He knew that in this world in
which we live there is sin, and sorrow, and crying; and so, when God
said He would send Him down from heaven to come here, Jesus Christ was
very, very glad to come.
"He might have come as a very rich man, or as a great king, but He
chose instead to be quite poor, and live amongst poor people."
"Was He as poor as my uncle?" interrupted Hira.
"Yes, I expect He was poorer, because He had no house at all," said
Shushila; "but though He had no money to give away, He helped everybody
who came to Him, and He could help as no one else could, because He
could do what no one else could. They all came to Him—the blind and
lame, lepers, and sick people—and whatever was the matter with them, He
healed them all, and even when they were dead, made them live again.
But it was not to heal the sick, not even to make the dead alive, that
Jesus Christ left His beautiful home in heaven and came into our world.
He came to do something very much greater than that."
"But what could be more than making blind people see, and dead people
alive?" asked Hira eagerly. "Tell me, for I cannot understand."
Then Shushila answered, "There is something, Hira, even worse than
being blind, or lame, or ill, or even than being dead. The worst thing
of all is to be sinful. Sin is the very worst of all diseases, worse
even than leprosy. It is sin which makes all the sorrow and sadness
that there is in the world. Some day I will show you that it is sin
which has made you so unhappy, and not being blind. Jesus Christ came
into the world not to keep us from being blind, and lame, and ill,
because that does not matter so very much, but He came to keep us from
sin, to make us holy like He Himself is holy, and like God is holy."
"But I would like best of all to be able to see," interrupted the
listener, "and if Jesus Christ can give me eyes, why 'doesn't' He?"
"Listen, child, and I will tell you more, and by-and-by, you will
understand," said Shushila, and then she continued, "God wants us to
know Him and be like Him, and then He will be able to have us in His
house to dwell with Him; but sin is like a black curtain which comes
between us and God, and hides Him from us, and it makes us so unclean
that we cannot possibly go to live with God unless we get rid of it."
"Then is that what the gentleman meant when he told us to get ready to
meet God?" asked Hira.
"Yes," said Shushila, "that is just it."
"But what has that to do with making people see, and walk? And what
have we to do to get ready?" questioned the child eagerly.
Again the speaker paused, there was so much to tell and the listener
knew so little.
Then she continued, "Hira, that is why the Lord Jesus came down from
heaven, that He might make us fit to meet God. We cannot make ourselves
clean and holy, and there is no one in all the world who can do it for
us, because all are alike, and there is not anyone who is not sinful;
but Jesus Christ is holy, just as God is holy, and so He can make us
holy too.
"Jesus Christ became a man like us that He might make us like God; He
came down 'from' heaven that He might lift us up 'to' heaven.
"Now, little one, you are tired, and I must not talk to you any more.
Every day I will tell you something more about the dear Lord Jesus, and
all that He has done for us, and it will make you so happy to think
that He loves you and cares for you, though you are only a little blind
girl."
Hira's answer was to cling close to her friend as she bent over her and
whisper, "Perhaps if I had not been blind, you would not have brought
me into your house and taken care of me, so I think I am glad that I am
blind, and I don't mind a bit being in the dark if you are with me."
Just then Shushila was called away, and she went with a light heart,
rejoicing to think how the child to whom she was ministering would one
day learn to know One who could bring light into the very darkest spot,
and whose companionship can make the hardest lot shine with glory.
[Illustration]
WHEN?
BY MABEL MACKINTOSH.
"YOU always want to talk about those sort of things, mother," said Jim
Harris, hitching his shoulder away from the hand that lay on it. "You'd
take all the heart out of a fellow if you could, talking of dying and
another world, and such-like. I'm young and I ain't a-going to die yet.
When I see death coming, I'll prepare, maybe."
He had shaken off her hand, but he glanced into the face that still
bent over him, and his heart softened. It was his last night at home.
To-morrow he would be on the wide sea. The wind was howling round the
house, and the waves broke heavily and monotonously on the beach. "I
don't want to be rough with you, mother," he said, pulling her down for
a kiss; "you shouldn't vex me the last night, but you knows I loves
you, if I am a bit hasty."
He rose up and went out into the night. There was a moon between the
scudding clouds, and the foam broke up white at the water's edge. He
looked at it all and at the few boats lying at anchor, or on the shore.
"To-morrow I shall be out there," he thought. "I'll go back to mother;
it's her last night of me."
The next day he had gone.
It was not an eventful voyage. Day succeeded day, and his conversation
with his mother was forgotten till one evening when he and his
favourite mate, Ben Davis, turned in.
"Jim," said Ben, "I don't believe as I shall last long."
"What!" said Jim, aghast and staring. "You're playing, Ben."
"No," said Ben slowly, "I ain't; I've not been well all the voyage,
and captain, he's tried all he knows; he thinks I'm better, but he's
mistook. My father, he went just like me."
Jim sat down and looked blankly at him.
All suddenly, his own words came back to him. "I'm young; when I see
death coming, I'll prepare."
Death was coming, not to him, but to Ben!
"Ben," he said hoarsely, "are you ready?"
There was a long, long pause, and then Ben answered.
"No, lad," he said.
There was no sleep for Jim that night. He might have seen death coming
for him, and yet it was Ben who was to die. Jim lay and tossed and
turned. All his mother's words came back to him that night. He had
never sought Christ's salvation for himself, and yet he was torn with
anxiety that Ben should be saved!
Early next morning, he turned over his few possessions and found his
long-forgotten Bible. Ben was leaning dejectedly over the ship's side,
and he went to him and slipped the Bible into his hand. Ben glanced at
it, and then his eyes sought Jim's.
"Jim," he said, "I'm no reader; tell me the way."
It was a strange scene—the man who was to die listening to the old,
old story told by the lips of one who hitherto had had no care for it.
Jim's mother's teaching was bearing fruit; her boy knew the way of
salvation well enough.
"Jim," said Ben slowly, "do you believe all that?"
Jim's face was hidden. "My mother does," he said huskily.
Ben opened the little Bible. "Can't you show me one place where it puts
it plain?"
Jim took it and turned over the pages, and his eyes fell on an
underlined text. He remembered his mother marking it the day she gave
the book to him.
"'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting
life.'"
"That's good," said Ben, with a long breath.
Three days later, when the evening sun was lighting up the sea with a
crimson glow, Ben died. His last look was for Jim, his last word was,
"I'm ready, lad."
And as Jim knelt beside him, looking down at the peaceful dead face,
his heart went out in one great cry to Ben's Saviour,—
"God be merciful to me a sinner!"
A great peace filled his heart, and it seemed to him that he could
almost follow Ben up the sunset path into that holy, happy land where
he had gone to be with Christ.
That very night, he sat down and wrote to his mother, telling her how
her words and her teaching had been the means used for Ben's salvation,
and that when he came home again, she might talk about heaven and dying
as much as she liked.
[Illustration]
PULLING.
"I NEVER do what I don't want to!" exclaimed Poll. "I just 'don't.'"
"Oh! Well," said Ellen, "that's not my motto, is it, grandma?"
Grandma smiled. "I've seen a deal of life," she said thoughtfully, "and
I could just tell you what I've found."
Ellen sat down by her affectionately, and leant her arm on her knee.
[Illustration]
"The people that have the strongest wills 'do' the most!" said grandma.
"I told you so!" exclaimed Poll. "That's what I always say."
"But they have the most trouble with themselves, and with other people
too," said grandma.
"How?" asked Poll.
"They're for ever knocking themselves against the fence," said
grandmas, smiling.
"The fence!"
"Yes, and oh! What a job it is to get 'em to come into the shed!"
"The shed!" again echoed Poll.
"The shed where their food is! In my young days," said grandma, "I had
an invalid father, and he was that gentle and patient. One day he said
to me after I had had a self-willed fit, 'Mary, will you go out and get
the calf in?'
"'Why, father,' I said, 'you know what a plague she is! She'll keep
me ages pulling and pulling, and she'll knock against the fence, and
she'll bang into the posts of the shed, and I shall be as hot and as
uncomfortable as possible. I wish you'd send Bill out to get the calf
in.'
"And so father smiled a bit, and he said, 'If you don't take care,
Mary, you'll be as bad as the calf that doesn't know no better! Break
your self-will now, my dear, and you'll be a happier girl ever after.'
"Well, I went out and got the calf in, but all the time, she was
pulling this way and that way, for all that her nice food was waiting
in the shed for her.
"I assure you, my dears, I did not forget his object lesson. And the
more I saw of life, the more I saw that the self-willed people need a
deal of discipline before they come out into tractable obedient folks."
Poll stood listening thoughtfully. There was "plenty of stuff in her,"
people were always saying, and she felt rather proud of it. But what
if she should let that "plenty of stuff" cover over every other good
quality?
She looked at the sweet patient face of her grandmother.
"And 'you' were like that calf," she said at last, incredulously.
"Exactly, my dear!" said grandma.
"And how did you get into—what you are now, grandma?" asked Poll, a
little wistfully.
"By being watchful, and asking God to make me what would please Him."
Poll did not say anything, but as she went about her business, her
proud heart humbled itself to say,—
"Teach me to do Thy will!"
And by-and-by, it came to be much easier than she had thought it ever
could be.
MEMORIES.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"NOW, Milly! If you'll get through the work quickly, you and I will
have a treat."
"Oh, what?" exclaimed Milly, looking up from her sweeping.
"Not but what there's heaps to do," added her elder sister cheerily;
"but you and I can well do it, if we take one thing at a time. You
shall have the dinner things to wash, and the hearth to clean, and the
kitchen to sweep, and I will go up stairs and clean the bedrooms; we
must have it all bright against mother comes back, mustn't we?"
"Oh, yes," assented Milly. It was so pleasant working under May's
cheery direction. She felt as if she could do wonders.
May gathered the pail and broom and floor-cloth which she required for
her share of the work, and disappeared through the little red door that
led upstairs.
Then Milly looked round. Which should she do first? She was now
sweeping up the kitchen, but May had spoken of that as the last thing.
After an instant's thought, she decided that she had better finish what
she was about, and then go to the dinner things. What a lot there were:
should she ever get done, and what was the treat if she did?
She could hear May's spirited scrubbing overhead, and this nerved her
to work away bravely. When at length, after an hour, her sister came
down, a tidy smiling little girl stood by the clean hearth, and all was
done.
"Why, you've scrubbed the table!" said May approvingly. "Now for the
treat!"
[Illustration]
She undid a long-shaped parcel and drew forth a large book. "This
was one of father's greatest treasures," she said; "it is a book in
which he used to draw all the things that happened. Father could draw
beautifully, you know."
She sat down on a settee, and Milly edged up close to her, and laid her
head on her sister's shoulder.
"That is a picture of the first house father and mother lived in, and I
remember father telling us how he made a little trapdoor in the ceiling
of the kitchen so that he could talk to mother if she was upstairs
putting the baby to bed."
"Oh!" said Milly. "How funny! Did any one ever fall through?"
"No; it was made like a box upstairs, and I can remember mother peeping
down and asking father something. And once, he had a joke and passed me
up to mother through it! See, there is the picture of that!"
"Did he love us very much?" asked Milly, to whom her father was little
else but a loved name.
"Love us!" echoed May, her dark eyes softening and glistening. "I've
often understood more about God through thinking of father's love."
One day, little Mary was tiresome, and I had put her in the corner; and
she sent word she was sorry. I was vexed with her, and I said, "I'd
come presently."
"'Oh, don't keep her waiting for forgiveness,' said dear father
tenderly; 'think how ready to pardon God is!' I never forgot that,
Milly!"
"I wish I could remember him," said Milly wistfully.
"You'll see him some day in the Home above!" said May, kissing her.
"But I never forget him—never!"
AT BETHANY.
THERE seems to have been one home where the Lord Jesus loved to visit.
We hear a great deal about the people who lived in this home, perhaps
more about them than any other of the friends of the Lord Jesus.
Their names were Lazarus, Martha, and Mary.
"Oh, yes," you say, eagerly, "Lazarus was raised from the dead!"
And someone else remembers, "Yes, it was Mary who poured the precious
ointment over the Lord Jesus only the week before He was crucified."
"Yes, and Martha served them at the feast," someone else remarks.
All these things are true, but our picture is not about either one of
them.
One day the Lord Jesus was going about healing the sick and teaching
people of His heavenly Father, and in His journey, He came to the
village of Bethany, where Martha and Mary and Lazarus lived.
Now, you must imagine Martha as a very industrious, energetic woman.
When she saw Jesus and the disciples coming, I dare say she ran out to
meet them, and invited them into her house to have something to eat.
She bustled about and spread the table; she told her servants what to
bring to set before the large company who had suddenly come to her; and
with joyful alacrity, she hurried to put before them whatever she could
think of to make them welcome.
Suddenly her eyes fell upon her only sister, Mary. She was not bustling
about and getting the dinner ready; she was sitting near Jesus eagerly
listening to His words, and satisfied to be in His presence.
[Illustration]
Poor Martha! She loved to hurry about and make Jesus welcome, but to
have Mary sit idle and enjoy to hear Him talk was more than she could
bear.
So she got quite cross and vexed. She felt that it was too hard, and
she ran to Jesus and asked Him how it was He did not care that Mary had
left her all the work to do alone, and begged Him to bid her come and
help her.
And then, Jesus turned to her and said those words which have been a
lesson to busy, bustling people all these hundreds of years: "Martha,
Martha, you are too much troubled over these many things; only one
thing is 'needful,' and Mary has chosen that good part which shall
never be taken away from her."
Do you ask, children, what that one thing is?
It is learning of Jesus and hearing His voice.
Even if everything else is lost to us, if we have the Lord Jesus, we
can be happy.
People who have everything that this world can give are often very
miserable. But even the most wretched, ill, or poor person in the
world, who has heard the voice of "Jesus," has the "one thing" which
will make him happy here, and give him endless joy and glory by-and-by.
[Illustration]
SCRIPTURE CLOCK.
CHOOSE A WORD FROM THE BIBLE, SUCH AS LOVE, AND WRITE IT NEATLY IN THE
DIVISION OVER FIGURE I, WITH THE PLACE WHERE IT IS TO BE FOUND IN THE
SPACE BETWEEN THE OUTER CIRCLES. THEN FIND A TEXT OF TWO WORDS, ONE
OF WHICH IS LOVE, AS "HIS LOVE," (ISA. 63. 9), AND WRITE IT IN THE
DIVISION OVER FIGURE II. NEXT, ONE WITH THREE WORDS, AS "WALK IN LOVE"
(EPH. 5. 2), AND SO ON TILL YOU HAVE A TEXT CONTAINING TWELVE WORDS, AS
"LOVE NOT THE WORLD NEITHER THE THINGS THAT ARE IN THE WORLD" (1 JOHN
2. 15).
WORDS SUGGESTED:—Faith, Peace, Jesus, Father, Trust, Believe, Forgive,
Look, Seed, Sins, Blood, Glory, Everlasting.
THE NEW GOVERNESS.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"I AM certain I shan't like her."
"Oh, Miss Doris!"
"Quite certain. I heard mother talking about her to Mrs. Foster this
afternoon; and I am certain she's the kind that I don't like."
"What kind?" asked the nurse, as she brushed out Doris' long curls.
"Oh, I don't know," said Doris carelessly; "it's a dreadful pity mother
keeps on having governesses! They're always a plague, and there is not
one in a hundred that—"
Her cousin Lilian looked up from the corner where she was sitting
buried in a book. The book had been forgotten while Doris was speaking;
instead of the printed words, a picture had come up before her eyes.
A far-off land, a wide shaded verandah, an invalid couch, a figure
stretched upon it; sweet eyes resting on her face, an arm round her
neck, gentle words of parting counsel—they came back now—
"Lilian! If the life is very different in England, and it must be,
seek to please your Heavenly Lord, rather than yourself. Try to make
other people happy, whether it is your aunt, or your cousins, or the
governess who has such a lonely, trying life."
She remembered it all vividly, and how she had promised within her
heart that she would.
Now she had come to England and these things seemed like a dream.
Directly she arrived, Doris had told her of the new governess, and then
her mother's words had flashed across her. She was not inclined to want
a governess any more than Doris, but what if she were lonely and Lilian
should forget her mother's words!
Her earnest eyes looked across the nursery now, and Doris stopped in
her tirade suddenly. Lilian was a funny girl, she thought, and one
never could say anything spiteful before her!
Everybody in the house knew that Doris did not "get on" with the
governesses. The nurse gave good advice, the parlourmaid thought it was
rather a joke; and the cook said governesses always held their heads so
high that she was not surprised.
[Illustration]
So the governess came one morning just before lunch, and the little
girls came to the schoolroom as the bell rang. It would be difficult to
say which of the three dreaded the interview most!
"I will say grace and then we shall get more sociable," said Miss Smith
with tremulous lips.
"We don't say grace," said Doris.
"Not, dear?"
"No—and I don't care about it, please."
Over Lilian's cheeks spread a burning blush, she could hardly raise her
eyes to Miss Smith's face, which had turned very pale. Could she speak
out? What was seemly and right for her to do?
Before Miss Smith had time to answer, the little girl said very gently
but distinctly: "Please do, Miss Smith; I always do at home—and here—I
couldn't be happy without—"
She knew months afterwards that that had been the one drop of comfort
to the new governess on that first hard day.
ON THE MOORS.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"SLEEP, lambkin, sleep!" she sang softly, as she rocked the cradle to
and fro in the shade of the doorway of her little cottage on the border
of the moor.
The September sunshine shone brightly without, and far away she could
hear the tinkle of the sheep-bells, while she dreamily pictured to
herself her husband walking among his flock, leading them to the
greenest grass, tending them with love and care such as only a shepherd
knows.
"I'm glad he's a shepherd!" thought the young wife. "It is so nice to
think he's something like the Lord in that!"
A shadow fell across the sunshine of the door, and she looked up to see
her husband stagger into the cottage and guide himself uncertainly to
the nearest chair.
"Alec!" she said, springing to his side. Was he ill, was he dying? What
could it be?
He leant his head upon her bosom, but was dumb. Something in his action
told her it was grief and not illness which had struck her husband.
"What is it, Alec?" she asked, bracing herself to be strong to bear for
his sake. "Can't you tell me?"
"I telled ye lang syne that I'd hed a son that had gone awa' to
Amerikay—and had got lost! He's come—back—Jeannie!"
She guessed it all in those few broken words.
She knew without telling that he had come back dishonoured.
"Where is he?" she whispered.
[Illustration]
In that moment's pause, she had seen her own baby a man, wandering away
in a far country, having spent all he had—ruined, hopeless, forsaken.
She had pictured him turning towards his father's home on the moors;
she had seen him crossing the ocean and making his weary way home!
Should she have pity, or should she turn away?
"Where is he?" she whispered, with her eyes fixed on the cot where her
innocent babe slept.
"In the wood juist beyond—"
When the poor wanderer looked up as he heard a rustle on the path, he
saw a gentle face gazing down upon him, and two hands held out to him.
"Come home!" she said tenderly. "And I'll nurse you and love you for
Christ's sake. He gave His life for you!"
"I've come to die," he groaned. "Can you have such as me?"
For answer, she raised him from the bank, and together they slowly made
their way to the cottage, and straight into the little room she called
her parlour.
There she laid him upon the little sofa and bidding him rest, she went
to her husband.
"Jeannie?" he said, raising his eyes to her face.
"Yes," she answered simply, "I shall take him as my own, and some day—"
"Some day?" he asked with a groan.
"There'll be joy in the presence of the angels of God over a sinner
that repents. I know it will be so.
"Cheer up, Alec, and trust the Good Shepherd who is seeking His lost
sheep!"
[Illustration: Her late Majesty distributing gifts to the Soldiers'
children.]
ROYALTY AND LOYALTY.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
[Illustration]
GLADYS pushed away her lessons impatiently, and laid her
head down on the table.
"Why, Gladys," said her governess, "so tired as all that?"
"I hate learning, and I hate French, and I'm so vexed at this tiresome
cough that I'm sick of everything."
"Yes, it is disappointing!"
"And I wanted to go out to-day ever so much; this afternoon father was
going to take me to see the Queen when she went for a drive, and I
'did' want to see the dear Queen."
"I am so sorry," said her governess gently. Then she added brightly,
"Did you see the picture in this week's 'Illustrated News' of our Queen
distributing Christmas gifts to the soldiers' children?"
"No," said Gladys, raising her head.
"Well, here it is—see what a sweet picture! Should not you have liked
to be there?"
"Oh! Should I not!" Gladys looked at it long and earnestly. She thought
she would almost like to be a soldier's child for such a privilege as
that. But then—oh, the poor soldiers!
She sat for a good while silent, and her next remark was not of the
soldiers, for whom her childish heart bled, but of scenes long past.
"I wonder what sort of a 'girl' the Queen was when she was my age," she
said thoughtfully, "to have been such a good and true woman all these
years."
"I can tell you that, for I was reading yesterday what her governess
said about her. It was just this, Gladys; she told her governess in the
sweetest way, when looking out on life and all its responsibilities, 'I
will be good!'"
"Did she?" asked Gladys earnestly, her face flushing with a new thought.
"Indeed she did, and she has kept her promise nobly, Gladys; and when
now she sympathises with the sorrowful and rejoices with the happy, and
wins love and admiration of her people by all her acts, we follow her
exultingly, and thank God for such a sweet and such a noble woman as
our beloved Queen!"
Gladys smiled through two bright tears, and she said naïvely, "I
mustn't fret about my cough after that!"
[Illustration]
POLLIE'S NEW MISTRESS.
"I'M sure I shall be miserable, mother, and I shan't stop. I'll let her
get settled in, and then I'll go away to Miss Edith. She always wanted
me to be with her, she said so when she went away. I shall be miserable
here, and then the baby will be miserable." And with that, Pollie burst
into tears, and hugged the baby so tight that he cried too.
"Miserable!" echoed her mother. "What nonsense, girl! The master did
right to marry again, and bring home a mother to his child, and a good
one, too, as he writes. What are we, plain people too, to bring up his
son in a gardener's cottage? Not but what we would bring him up as good
as we knew. And the master's been considerate and good to us; he'll not
part us from the boy, for you're to be nurse in the grand house and
have the charge of him. As for going to Miss Edith, why, she's married."
"I know that," sobbed Pollie, still holding the baby tight, "but I know
I shan't like it, and the new mistress will be cross if the baby loves
me, and of course he loves me."
"You're a silly girl," said her mother. "Give me the child to dress,
and go and get the flowers to deck the rooms, and then make yourself
neat. We must be ready for them in two hours. Are the master and his
lady to come and find us not ready?"
[Illustration]
Pollie went slowly away down the garden. How sweet and peaceful the
flowers looked! How little they knew that the master and a new wife
were coming home that day, and that Pollie's heart was sore at the
thought of the change and that she had determined to leave her precious
charge rather than endure it.
But God knew. Somehow Pollie's thoughts went straight from the flowers
to God, and her eyes filled with tears. God knew what was best for the
baby, God knew what was best for her, and what was best for the master
who had been so sorely bereaved a year ago.
Pollie hardly saw what flowers she gathered into her muslin apron.
There was a battle in her heart, a battle between right and wrong,
a battle between being a good girl to her new mistress and being a
naughty girl and going away to serve Miss Edith.
But the right conquered, and before Pollie went back to her mother, she
had looked up through the leafy trees and asked God to help her to be a
good girl and to do right.
Two hours later, the flowers were all arranged, the baby wore his best
frock and his blue ribbons, and Pollie and her mother stood in the hall
to welcome the master home, for the rest of the servants were not to
come till the new mistress had settled in.
Then there was the sound of carriage wheels, and the master, tall and
handsome, leaped out, and behind him came —Pollie's head seemed to
swim, and she held the baby tighter that she might not drop him—behind
the master came her dear Miss Edith.
Pollie knew now that God had been planning happiness for them all, even
while she had been encouraging that discontented spirit!
How joyfully she held the baby out to its father and new mother, and
what a happy smile lighted her eyes as she hurried to help her mother
prepare the travellers' meal!
And often in after-days, when things seemed to be dark, she remembered
how good God had been, and that He was always the same.
THE CALL OF PETER.
WHEN the Lord was on earth, He did so many kind and loving things, and
made so many people well who were sick that the multitude followed Him
about everywhere, so that sometimes Jesus and His disciples had not
even time to eat.
One day, when He was by the Lake of Gennesaret (which is sometimes
called the Sea of Galilee), the people pressed so close to Him that,
seeing two ships drawn up on the shore, He entered one of these and
asked the owner to put his ship a little way out from the land, so that
He might speak to the multitude where they could all hear. The boats
were empty, for the fishermen were gone out of them and were washing
their nets in the lake.
The one that the Lord Jesus entered belonged to Simon Peter, whose
wife's mother had been healed by Jesus a very short time before.
Peter loved Jesus very much, but he had not yet been chosen to be His
disciple.
So when the Lord had done talking to the people, He told Simon to
launch the ship out into deep water, and let down their nets to catch
some fishes.
But Simon told Him that they had been up working hard all night, but it
had all been for nothing, as they had not caught any fish.
But Simon did not stop there; he added what has been a comfort to
hundreds and thousands of people since then—"Nevertheless, at Thy word
I will let down the net."
Do you think they caught nothing this time?
Ah, if you do, you have not thought what it is to be in the boat with
Jesus!
When He commands, He also makes it possible to obey. You will find that
out, children, the more you love Him and trust Him.
So they let down the net, and now they enclosed such an immense number
of fishes that their net began to break, and they were obliged to
beckon to their partners, who were in the other ship, to come and help
them.
[Illustration]
So they filled both the ships full, so that they began to sink.
Then Simon Peter fell down at the feet of Jesus and told Him that he
was too sinful to be near Him.
But Jesus comforted him with the loving words which are so often
repeated in the Bible for all who are afraid—"Fear not."
Then Jesus told Peter that he should be a fisher of men, that he should
be used by God to draw people into the kingdom of heaven.
And when Peter and his partners, James and John, heard that, and saw
the wonderful miracle that Jesus had performed, they left everything
and followed Him, and became very soon His three chief disciples who
were chosen above all the rest to be close to Him.
Making the Best of a Bad Job.
"I SAY, girls, I have got a holiday on Friday. Couldn't we make up a
skating party, start early for the lake, take lunch and eat it at the
cottage, and come home here for high tea? What do you all say? Shall
we, father?"
"Splendid!" cried Rose and Flora and Liz.
"I am quite pleased if the girls can manage it," said their father.
"Well, ask a nice set," said Gerald. "It's time I was off to the
station." He disappeared from the breakfast table, but after two or
three minutes, he reappeared and tossed a note across to Lizzie.
"Take that to Jess Bristowe," he said; "I want her to come."
"You'll lose that train," grumbled Lizzie. "Why don't you deliver your
own notes? I don't want to."
But Gerald hardly heard her; he had risked the train to write the note,
and he had to run for it.
[Illustration]
"I do hate being asked to do his errands," went on Lizzie, giving the
obnoxious note a toss. "Whom shall we ask, Rose? It's rather a jolly
plan!"
So the talk drifted into other things, the girls wrote notes, made a
list of needed provisions, and hunted up their skates. Lizzie told
herself she supposed she must go with the tiresome note sometime, but
she shouldn't trouble when, and consequently she forgot all about it.
Friday morning broke clear and bright, and promised an ideal day.
Breakfast was over, and Rose and Flora were trying to persuade their
father to accompany them, when Gerald suddenly asked Lizzie what answer
Jess had sent.
Lizzie gasped. "I never went," she said slowly.
"Then I shan't go," cried Gerald, his face flushing. "I never thought
you would fail me."
"Can't we ask her now?" asked Lizzie lamely.
"At the last minute!" cried Gerald. "I told her I meant to have a
party, and she must come, and a poor compliment she would think it!
Well, you'll have to go alone." He went off into the study and stood
moodily looking into the fire. The day would be spoilt without Jess.
[Illustration]
A soft hand rested on his shoulder and Rose's voice said, "Gerald!"
"It's no good your coming persuading," he said roughly; but Rose knew
it was disappointment made him rough.
"I think," she said gently, "that if I went down to Jess at once and
explained how it was, she would quite understand, and she is not one to
take offence, and she would so enjoy the day. I should have plenty of
time. May I, Gerald?"
"It will tire you so," objected Gerald. "You'll be wet and cold before
we start."
"Oh, no!" said Rose hopefully. "I'll bring Jess back with me, and if
you have a cup of chocolate ready for us, we shall start warm."
"All right!" said Gerald briskly, for to make chocolate for Jess was an
alluring prospect. "You are a good girl, Rose!"
It "was" a rather cold, long walk, but Rose went cheerily. And
by-and-by, two laughing girls sat down to a cup of chocolate presided
over by a smiling young man. And after that, the skating party went as
merrily as marriage bells.
[Illustration]
HIRA'S QUEST.