THERE was much to talk of, for though Shushila was much younger in
years than Mary Dayál, she had been learning in God's school for
several years, while the other had only just enrolled her name as a
scholar.
While the talk was still going on, Rámpál Singh returned. He had found
what he had expected. Mark Dayál had been dismissed the day before, and
that was evidently the reason of his disappearance.
"He will probably go and get work elsewhere, and will then write and
tell you of his whereabouts," added he, anxious to give some comfort.
Then he proposed that they should commit the matter into the hands of
their heavenly Father, and ask Him to guide and keep the one who had
gone, as well as those who were left.
Mary Dayál never forgot that prayer, for it taught her what true prayer
really means, and her heart rejoiced as she realised that, having
become a child of God through faith in Christ Jesus, a key had been put
into her hand, with which she could unlock the storehouse of heavenly
riches.
If she had lost her husband, she had found a Father; and the grief and
anxiety caused by the loss, only increased the joy of the gain.
It was only after she returned to her desolate house that she began
fully to realise what it really meant to be left with four children to
feed and clothe, and no means, as far as she could see, to provide for
them. Whichever way she looked, she could see no light. Her parents
lived so far away that it would cost a great deal to get to them, and
they were quite unable to support a family. Besides, how could she bear
to tell them that her husband had gone and left her? Whatever happened,
she would be loyal to him, and shield him all she could.
If there was anyone to blame, it was she, for not being more patient
and gentle, and she determined that if her husband returned, he should
never hear a word of reproach from her lips.
Of course he "would" return, she told herself again and again, or if
not, he would send for her and the children. He never intended to
desert them, but only to seek employment to enable him to provide for
them. As soon as he succeeded, he would surely write.
Then there came over her a great desire that her husband should be one
with her in her newly found happiness, that he too should be ready to
meet God. Gradually all other needs seemed to be lost sight of in this
great cry of her heart.
And why should it not be granted? The mighty Hand which had been
stretched out to save her could reach her husband also, wherever he
might be. The first treasure which she would seek to obtain by this
newly found key should be the salvation of her husband, and never would
she cease seeking until she knew she had obtained it.
So, as she had committed herself into the hands of this almighty
Friend, she committed her husband also, and prayed that wherever
his wanderings might lead him, or whatever his disappointments or
difficulties might he, he might at last be guided, as she had been, if
not by easy means, then through sorrow and suffering, to the cross of
Christ, there to find pardon and salvation.
Then Mary began to think of the present, and consider her earthly lot.
Something must be done, and besides herself there was none to do it, so
it was quite plain that she "must" find some work; but what was it to
be?
Besides learning her lessons in school, and, after her marriage,
looking after her house and children, which her conscience told her had
been very badly done, she had never tried to do anything.
It was true that sometimes in her days of greatest poverty, when her
husband was out of work, she had thought of trying to get employment as
a Zenana teacher, but though she knew of others who did this in order
to obtain the salary, her own heart told her that it should not be so,
and that only those who knew God themselves were fitted to teach others
about Him.
It was different now. Having found salvation herself, it would be
a joy and privilege to tell others about it; only who, knowing her
circumstances, would be able to understand that she was not seeking her
own good only?
Again, she remembered her newly found key. Did not her heavenly Father
know all her needs and difficulties, as well as the change in her heart?
If He would call her to take a share in His work, and count her worthy,
it would not matter what others thought. And so again, Mary prayed that
God Himself would lead and direct her, and make it quite plain what
work He would have her do.
By-and-by, the children returned from school full of questions about
their father, whose sudden disappearance sorely perplexed them all. The
mother tried her best to satisfy them, by saying she believed he had
gone away to find work, and very soon they would hear from him.
Reuben, the eldest, listened gravely to all his mother said, and did
not join in the questions of the others.
Though only ten years old, in many ways he seemed older, being a
steady, studious boy, more fond of learning than of playing. From this
time, he seemed suddenly to grow older still, and to realise that he
must be the helper and comforter of his mother, so in this also the
deserted wife found comfort in her sorrow.
[Illustration]
A TELEGRAM.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"SHE'S dyin'! That's what the telegram's put, and I'm goin' down by the
next train."
There was a pause, for Milly had had a hard struggle, and how to find
the four and eight-pence for the fare she knew not. But the kind
neighbour came to her aid. She searched deep in a drawer, and brought
out an old stocking foot, and from this, she counted out five precious
shillings.
[Illustration]
"I'll pay you, if I work my fingers to the bone," said Milly
gratefully; and then she made her way, just as she was, to the station.
Meantime, down in a country village, far away from the din of London,
Milly's sister lay and watched from her little window.
[Illustration]
"Go out," she whispered to her pretty, tidy children, "and stay by the
church gate; and when you see your aunt, bring her to the door, but no
further. I haven't seen her for twelve years!"
The invalid lay on a neat bed beneath the window of the front room.
And when Milly came, her eyes rested on a face which had once been like
hers, but was not so any longer, for peace and joy shone on the wasted
features, instead of hard care.
"Agnes!" she said, and came forward and knelt by the bed, burying her
face in her hands.
"I could not find your address! I've tried over and over," whispered
Agnes. "Look up, Milly, and kiss me; our time may not be long together."
So Milly got up and kissed her over and over again, stroking her thin
hand fondly.
Both remembered that they had parted in anger twelve years before, and
Milly had said she "would never see her, never, till her dying day!"
Ah! Words too true, as words are sometimes, which we fain would not
have spoken!
"Will you forgive me?" said Milly brokenly.
"And will you forgive me?" asked Agnes. "I know what it is to be
forgiven myself, by Him who loved me and died for me; and since then,
I've never ceased to seek for you that you might be happy too, whether
for life or death."
"Life!" groaned Milly. "That's but a hard, poor thing to me."
"Ah! But if you have my Saviour, it will all be different," whispered
Agnes faintly. "You'll take care of the children—and there's a little
annuity for you besides. God's been very good to me! I felt sure He
would send you in time."
And it was in time. Before Agnes went "Home," Milly had time to go back
to London and pack up her few belongings.
She bid good-bye to her kind neighbour, and thanked her over again
for enabling her to travel down to see her dear sister. And then she
returned to the sweet country home, and nursed Agnes and settled down
to the care of the children, which she was to undertake henceforth.
"What you have been to me," whispered Agnes on the last day, "and what
the Lord has done for me, words cannot say. To think He should let me
'know' that you have come to trust Him! That is worth all the rest."
"I am lost in wonder to think of His love," said Milly.
Hira's Quest.