ALTHOUGH Hira fully made up her mind that henceforth she was going to
"try His works to do" who had so loved her, yet she found it was not
always easy to leave off doing those very different works which she had
been doing all her life.
It was not easy always to ask, "What would the Lord Jesus like me to
do?" for one who had been accustomed to ask, "What would 'I' like to
do?"
Shushila looked on and prayed much as she saw daily battles being
fought, in which her little charge was sometimes defeated and sometimes
victorious.
She understood that every contest was a clear proof that a new
principle had been introduced into the child's life which was trying to
subdue the old one.
There could be no doubt that, though still weak and faulty, Hira was
really a new child in Christ Jesus.
Shushila began to wonder how she could best explain to the little girl
the next step to be taken, so as to make her baptism a very real and
lasting blessing to her.
So one day she read to her the story of the woman who touched the hem
of Christ's garment and was made whole. And as she finished, she asked,
"Hira, why do you think the Lord Jesus asked who it was who had touched
Him? Because He must have known."
Hira considered a minute, and then she said, "Perhaps it was because
He wanted her to say 'Thank you,' just like you teach me to say 'Thank
you' when you give me anything."
Shushila smiled as she answered, "Yes, I think that was one reason, and
besides that, I think He wanted her to let all those other people know
how good He had been to her. When we were in church to-day, I thought
that perhaps if the Lord Jesus had been there, as He was that day, He
might have asked, 'Where is that little girl whom I have made ready to
meet God?'"
"But, sister, if He had, I would have said directly, 'Here I am.'"
Then Shushila explained how the Lord Jesus had appointed a way by which
His followers could confess Him before men, and let it be known that
they belong to Him.
Hira listened gladly, then she said, "I am so glad, because I would not
like anyone to think that I am a little heathen girl when I am not, and
really belong to the Lord Jesus. Please let me be baptised very soon."
Shushila did not answer at once, then she said, "Hira, I want very
much that you should be, but supposing after you have been called by
the name of Christ and received into His Church you tell lies and get
into those naughty tempers, those who see you will say, 'Is that what
Christians do? Hira is no better than heathen girls'; and so the name
of our Lord Jesus will be dishonoured."
The little girl looked very sad and grave, then she said, "Sister, do
let me be baptised, and I will ask the Lord Jesus to put His hand on my
lips so that the lies will not be able to come out, and another on my
heart to keep the naughty tempers away."
"Yes, Hira," was the answer, "He surely will if you trust Him, for that
is just what He came down from heaven and gave His life on the cross
for. You have learnt that verse, 'Thou shalt call His name Jesus: for
He shall save His people from their sins.' You are one of His people,
and these are your two special sins, so I am sure He will save you from
them; it is just what He came to do."
Hira gave a little sigh as she said, "I wish I could be cured like that
leper was you told me about, his leprosy went away all at once. I wish
my naughtiness would go like that."
Shushila could not help sympathising with the child's wish. "Do not you
think, little sister," she asked, "that if you want to tell a lie, or
to be angry, and you do not because you want to please the Lord Jesus,
that is one way of showing that you love him, and that He is really
able to save you? Those who are in no danger do not need to be saved,
do they? You are going to be made a soldier of the Lord Jesus, and
soldiers always have to fight."
"But you do not have to fight," said Hira.
Shushila smiled. "Yes, indeed I do," she answered; "sometimes I have to
fight very hard not to be impatient with a little girl who will not do
as she is told."
At this point someone came in, and so the conversation ended.
A few Sundays later, Hira had her wish and was baptised. It was a day
never to be forgotten in her experience, for it was the "visible" line
which separated the old life from the new, darkness from light.
Besides Rámpál Singh and his daughter, there were two others among
those who were present who watched the ceremony with strong feelings of
interest.
Of these, one was Mary Dayál, who had been much interested in the blind
child ever since she came into their midst.
As she saw her openly confessing her faith in the Lord Jesus, and being
received into His church, there was some regret mixed with her joy. She
thought to herself, "Hira is a precious jewel which the Lord gave 'me'
the opportunity of seeking and finding for Him, but I was unfitted for
the work, and so He has given the honour to another."
As she thought of this, she determined that she would with all her
heart seek for other jewels which should adorn her Master's crown.
The other spectator was of a very different appearance, and had very
different feelings. Soon after the service began, there crept into the
church a poor woman, who looked as if she was little accustomed to
enter such places. Without looking for a seat, she sat down in a corner
on the ground. No one noticed her except those who were sitting close
by, and while the last prayer was being read, she got up and went out.
Then Mary Dayál saw her and recognised Sukhiya.
Her fears had been to some extent realised. It was quite true that
Hira, in the days of her comfort and prosperity, did not feel the need
of her old friend as she had done when she was her only friend.
This was quite as much the woman's fault as the child's; for, partly
because she thought she was no longer needed, and partly because she
feared to let it be seen on what familiar terms she had been with
the blind girl, she kept out of her way, and except when she came
occasionally to sell her milk and butter, Hira saw nothing of her.
Still, it had occurred to her that she would like her old friend to be
present at her baptism, and so she had begged her to come.
Sukhiya had promised, and that is why she was there; but to her, it
was a time almost as sad as when her last child died. It was the final
severing of the link which had bound her to the child who had filled
the empty place in her heart, and been the one bright spot in her sad
life.
Now Hira was a Christian, and to Sukhiya's mind that meant that
henceforth she lived in another world to her own.
It was very true that every time the child had had an opportunity she
had pleaded with her, "Sukhiya, do believe on the Lord Jesus, and let
Him make you ready to go to heaven, for I do want you to come too."
But she had always shaken her head and said, "Child, I am too old
and stupid to understand these new things. All my sense has gone in
weeping. I will go on selling butter and milk a little longer, and then
my days will end."
Hira grieved over the indifference of her old friend, for one of the
first lessons taught her was that, having come to Christ herself, she
should now seek to bring others; and who so likely to be the first as
the one who had done so much for her in the darkest days of her life?
After leaving the church, Sukhiya went to her home, and that day no
food was cooked, and no milk and butter sold, for the poor woman cared
nothing for those things.
All that day she sat and wept. The next, she went out with her basket
as usual, and her husband found his food cooked, and from that time,
all went on as before, only that Sukhiya never talked of the blind
child, and went to see her even less frequently than before.
There had been some discussion as to whether Hira's name should be
changed at her baptism. It was Harnáth Singh's custom to let each
convert choose for himself or herself, and child though she was, Hira
was quite capable of knowing her own mind.
When she was told what was the meaning of her name, she said, "Then,
please, let me keep it always, for I like to be a jewel belonging to
the Lord Jesus; and some day, He will make me as shining and beautiful
as a real diamond."
So Hira she remained.
A LIGHTENED LOAD.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
CHAPTER I.
"IT'S so fearfully cold to-day, Mary! I do not seem to be able to get a
bit of warmth!"
Mary looked at the fire, warm still, but dying down on the hearth. How
fast the wood did die down, she thought, with a sigh. How many little
things there were to do even to keep moderate comfort round her mother.
"I'll get some more wood, mother," she said patiently.
"Yes, do," said the invalid, not thinking much of the tired legs of her
little nurse, nor noticing the pale cheeks which lately had grown so
thin.
Mary put away the cups she had been washing, and took off her apron.
"Is there any wood outside?" asked her mother.
"Only a stick or two," said Mary. "It does burn away so fast!"
"I wish there were, I'm that cold, Mary! Be quick, child, and get some,
will you?"
She cowered over the red embers, and Mary, thus urged, put on her hat
and went out into the November mist.
She would not have disliked this if her legs had not ached so much, and
if she had not felt so faint and hungry. She had been cleaning up all
the morning; and then she had cooked mother's gruel. But the invalid
had never asked her if she had had anything to eat.
Poor little Mary!
[Illustration]
She took a piece of cord in her hand and slowly left the cottage door.
She knew she would have a good way to go, for she and her mother,
before she became ill, had picked up every scrap of wood that they
could find near the house.
"I wish mother would get into bed; she would not feel the cold there,"
she thought, and then she ran back to suggest this.
"Oh, no, any dear; I'd a deal rather sit by the fire," said the
invalid. "Only you be quick with the wood."
Thus bidden, Mary started once more. She walked and ran, walked and
ran, till she had reached a spot in the forest where the wood began to
lie about, and there she halted out of breath.
The autumn grass was strewn with leaves and bits of the branches
blown off by the wind; and instead of gathering them up eagerly and
returning, the little burdened girl sat down on the damp leaves and hid
her face in her hands.
It was so hard—so hard! And she was so tired, and mother only thought
of how bad she felt herself, and never guessed how tired and dispirited
little Mary was.
Was there no help? Had she only to wipe away her tears and get up and
go on again?
Mary sobbed hopelessly for a few minutes, and then a thought came over
her, which, to her surprise, brought a sense of relief and comfort. How
could it be? She was as hungry, as tired, as hopeless as before, and
yet—
The words were, "Jesus wept."
She had a tiny text-book given her when for a few months she had lived
in the town and had gone to Sunday-school, which contained a selection
of the shortest texts in the Bible. Mary had promised her teacher she
would read it, and occasionally she glanced in it to keep her word.
To-day, her eyes had lighted upon those two short words, and she had
wondered, and closed the book.
Now they came over her with a sense of sweetness.
"Jesus wept"? That meant then that when He was on earth, He had been
sorrowful like her! Was He? That was a nice thought, because then He
would know something of how sad and lonely she felt.
"Jesus wept"! Then He felt for her, she was sure He did; for she
remembered her teacher had told her that the Saviour knew all that was
passing on this earth, even though He is in heaven.
[Illustration]
Mary sat very still, while she thought of all this; and as she thought
of it, she felt, without knowing how, that she had had an interview
with the King of Glory, and that earth was a changed place.
Then her eyes fell upon the scattered wood, and she quickly gathered a
large bundle, tied it together, and set off homewards.
She had not taken many steps before she heard a voice, and turned to
find a neighbour calling to her to stop.
"Mary, I'll help you along with that bundle. Why, see, child, it's all
coming undone! Lucky for you I overtook you. Why, child, what a pale
face you have! I guess you've thought a goodish bit more of your mother
than you have of yourself by the looks of you! I'll help you home with
that wood."
————————————
CHAPTER II.—CHANGED.
SO, helped by the kind neighbour, Mary brought the wood into the shed,
and, carrying a few sticks in her hand, she entered the cottage once
more.
Had a change come over her own heart only, or was there something
different in her mother's too?
Was it only the unexpected bright blaze of the firelight that made
Mary's blue eyes shine?
"See, Mary! Dick brought home this wood all of his own accord, and I've
got nice and warm; and I've made a cup of tea ready against you came
in. Why, child, how pale you look!"
Mary's blue eyes, which had been shining in the firelight, were shining
in tears now, the solicitude was so unexpected—and so sweet.
"Thank you, mother," she said gratefully; "but where is Dick?"
"Dick's gone out again to fetch in some more. Come right along and have
a cup of this steaming tea. It will put some life into you, child!"
[Illustration]
Mary took the tea, and stood by the fire warming herself and looking
down on her mother.
"Are you better, then, mother?" she asked quietly.
"I don't know as I am, my dear. But while you were out in the forest,
and I sat thinkin' by those few embers, I kind of dreamed that I heard
someone a-knockin' at the door. It was different from our neighbour's
knock, and somehow I knew it wasn't her; and I sez, 'Come in, Lord,'
afore I thought as this ain't no place to ask Him into."
Mary looked up startled, while her mother went on—
"And He said some words like these, which it seems to me as I've heard
long ago, 'Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear My
voice, and open the door, I will come in and sup with him, and he with
Me."
"How nice!" whispered Mary. Had her mother seen a vision of Jesus too?
That Saviour who wept with the sorrowful, would He come in and sup with
those who welcomed Him?
She bent and kissed her mother's forehead.
"So I seemed to wake from my dream, and I said, 'Lord Jesus, if you are
knocking at my heart, I'm willing.'"
Mary's eyes shone again.
"I have not thought of these things as much as I ought," she went on
musingly, "but there was a time when I did. Perhaps this illness, Mary,
has been sent to lead me back to Him. If so, I'm glad on it!"
That night when Mary went to bed, she knelt down in the moonlight and
looked up to her pitiful Saviour, and thanked Him for letting her feel
His sympathy, and for bearing her through so wonderfully.
When she came down the next morning, Dick had already lighted the fire
and set on the kettle.
"Why, Dick!" she exclaimed.
"Do you like it?" smiled her brother.
"Oh, Dick, you can't think how a little thing is a help. Thank you so
much."
So they set about getting the breakfast together, and it took half the
time, of course, to Mary's great satisfaction.
They did all very quietly so as not to wake their mother in the next
room. And when they sat down, Mary whispered, "Do you know, Dick, who
it was, I think, that told you to help me?"
Dick shook his head. "Nobody did," he said, stuffing a piece of bread
into his mouth.
"Ah, but I know better," said Mary, smiling; "and, Dick, I like to tell
you, because He'll help you too—it was Jesus our Saviour, Dick!"
IN THE PRISON.
YOU have most of you heard the story of Joseph: how his jealous
brothers sold him for a slave, and how he was carried away from his
loving father to a country, a long way off, called Egypt.
Yes, you smile and say you have heard all about Joseph: how God was
with him and made him ruler over the land, and how his father and his
brothers all came down to Egypt, and how he forgave his brothers and
gave them nice fields for their flocks, and made them as happy as ever
he could.
But there is one thing which I wonder whether you have ever heard about
Joseph.
You ask what that can be, because you have read the history in Genesis
so many times.
This picture tells you what it is.
In the 105th Psalm and the 17th and 18th verses we read: "He sent a man
before them, even Joseph, who was sold for a servant: whose feet they
hurt with fetters: he was laid in iron."
Now, I think this verse is a great comfort to people who are in any
trouble.
Perhaps you ask—Why? Because it tells me that though it was hundreds of
years after when God told David to write that psalm, yet "God" had not
forgotten that His faithful Joseph had been laid in iron and had his
feet hurt with fetters.
So it seems to me that there are numbers of places in the Bible which
show us that God is watching over us all at all times; that whether our
troubles are very great or very small, He notices them, and remembers
them, and sends us deliverance out of them.
Joseph was cast into prison and bound by his angry master, though he
had done nothing wrong, yet God soon delivered him from the chains and
fetters.
We read that the Lord was with Joseph, and showed him mercy, and made
the keeper of the prison kind to Joseph, so that he began to trust him
and gave him charge of the other prisoners, and whatever Joseph thought
best to be done, they did.
Joseph was in the prison for quite two years, but God was watching over
him, and at the end of that time caused Pharaoh the king to have a
wonderful dream; and he sent for Joseph to explain it to him.
Perhaps you remember how Joseph had told Pharaoh's butler and baker the
meanings of their dreams when they were in the prison with him? At any
rate, when Pharaoh had his dream, the chief butler suddenly remembered
how he had promised when he was set free to speak to the king about
Joseph.
[Illustration]
So he asked Pharaoh to send for him, which he did. And God told Joseph
all about the dream, and Pharaoh was so astonished and delighted that
he released Joseph from prison, and made him a great ruler in the land
of Egypt.
See what it is to be "God's" servant!
HIRA'S QUEST.
CHAPTER XV.—HUNGER AND THIRST.
[Illustration]
MANY days had passed without bringing any news of Mark Dayál, but still
his wife watched and prayed, believing that sooner or later she would
see the answer to her second petition, as she had done to the first.
In the meantime, the school had been opened and Mary installed as
teacher. At first, it hardly seemed as if this could be work for God,
teaching the alphabet to children who at first seemed to make no
progress, and only wished to play and tear their books.
When it came to the Scripture lesson, it was not much better; either
they "could" not or "would" not remember, and every day the same thing
had to be repeated.
But as time went on, a change came. The teacher found that if "some"
of her pupils were dull and stupid, "all" were not, and as she saw
their faces beginning to brighten with interest, and their eagerness to
answer the questions put to them, her courage began to rise.
Perhaps one great secret of the change was this: Miss Elsemere came
to the school one day, and seeing the teacher looking very depressed,
and hearing her words of discouragement, she said as she was leaving,
"Shall I tell you what has often helped me very much in my work? When
I have had to teach those who seemed careless and indifferent, I have
prayed,—
"'Lord, help me to love these children as Thou dost love them; give me
love like Thine.'
"And you know love makes everything easy."
Having proved the help of prayer in other difficulties, Mary was quite
ready to try it in this also. She was not disappointed, and as she
began to love her little pupils, she wondered how she could ever have
thought them dull and unlovable.
But it was not only in her new work that Mary Dayál found that knowing
Christ, and seeking to follow Him, had not changed the world in which
she lived, though it had entirely changed her relationship towards it.
Like Hira, she too proved that a soldier must fight, and many a hard
battle she had to engage in.
Like Hira, too, she turned to Shushila for help and guidance. Doubtless
they both felt, without saying so, that one who lived so near to God
must know His will and be able to help others to do it.
One day Shushila found her friend looking more than usually downcast,
and without waiting to hear the cause, asked, "What new trouble is it,
Mary, which is making you look so sad to-day? Have the children been
more troublesome than usual?"
"Oh, no, it is not the children; I think they get better every day. It
is myself I am troubled about, for I seem to get worse daily. I thought
that when I let the Lord Jesus come into my heart, He would turn all
the evil straight out, and I would find it quite easy to be good; but
it is not so. I have been doing my own works so long that it is almost
impossible to leave them off and do only His works, though I do want
to."
"That is just what Hira says," answered Shushila, "and I am sure all
the followers of the Lord Jesus have to learn the same lesson. We have
to find out our own utter weakness before we can prove the greatness of
His power. It is not enough to commit ourselves to Him; we must also
believe that He is able to 'keep' that which we commit.
"It often seems to me that many of our difficulties arise from this,
that we so little know and comprehend the unspeakable 'love' and
'power' of our dear Lord. We are so inclined to think of Him as being
like ourselves."
Mary did not speak, so Shushila spoke again.
"I have learnt so many new lessons since Hira came to live with us.
She can do so little for herself, poor little one, and yet she is so
anxious to that, she often gets into trouble.
"Only to-day she wanted to take a message to my father alone. I let her
go, but she fell and hurt herself; presently she came to my side, and
slipping her hand in mine, said, 'Sister, you take me.' I thought, 'Is
not that just how it often is with us and the Lord Jesus?' We try to go
our way alone, and do what we have to do without Him. If we would only
in the beginning, put our hand in His and say, 'Lord, do Thou take me,'
He would indeed fulfil His promise and keep us from falling."
Mary's face brightened as she said, "I am sure it was the Lord Himself
who sent you to me this afternoon, for it just seemed as if I had come
to such a difficult place that I could not go on any farther. Now I see
that it does not so much matter if the place is difficult, if the Lord
Jesus leads me over it."
Then after a pause, she said again, "It seems as if I have so much to
learn, because all my life I have been doing things and seeing others
do them which I did not think were really sins, but now I see they must
be for those who are called by the name of Christ and profess to follow
Him."
"What sort of things do you mean?" asked Shushila.
Mary paused a minute, and then answered, "I feel almost ashamed to tell
you, because you are so good, but I have never thought it any harm to
tell a lie sometimes, if it seemed necessary, or to go into debt. And
as for grumbling and complaining if things did not go right, or getting
angry if others did not please me, why, I have done it constantly, and
never thought I was sinning against God."
"But what makes you think that these are sins now?" asked Shushila.
Mary smiled as she said, "Knowing you for one thing, for I see quite
plainly that you do not do them, and if they are not right for you,
they cannot be for me either. Then, too, I read so much in the Bible
which I never noticed before about being holy. I cannot think now how I
could ever have thought that I could be a Christian and yet do just as
I like."
Shushila took up a Bible which was lying on the table, and opening it,
read, "'The great God and Saviour Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for
us, that He might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto Himself
a people for His own possession, zealous of good works.' Whatever we
or others may think it means to be a Christian, that tells us quite
plainly what the Lord Jesus means by it, and why He gave Himself for
us—not just to take us to heaven that we may be happy there, but 'to
redeem us from all iniquity, and to make us a people for His own
possession.'"
"But that must mean after we get to heaven," said Mary.
"I do not think it can mean that," answered Shushila, "because listen
to what is written, 'For the grace of God hath appeared, bringing
salvation to all men, instructing us to the intent that, denying
ungodliness and worldly lusts, we should live soberly, and righteously,
and godly "in this present world," looking for the blessed hope and
appearing of the glory of our great God and Saviour Jesus Christ, who
gave Himself for us that He might redeem us from all iniquity, and
purify unto Himself a people for His own possession, zealous of good
works.' You see, it says quite plainly what we are to be in 'this
present world,' not at any future time."
"But surely there are very few who do this," said Mary, with a sigh.
"Then all the more reason that 'we' should," was the answer. "Does it
not seem very sad that the dear Lord should not see the accomplishment
of His purpose? We may be quite sure that nothing less will satisfy Him
than that for which He gave Himself. 'He died to make us good.' Does
not the thought make us long to be so?"
Shushila found it was now time for her to return home, but she left a
bright ray of light behind her. And as Mary thought over what had been
said, she began to realise that what the Son of God had given Himself
to accomplish, must be possible.
Then there came to her mind a text she had often repeated in her
childhood, but little understood the meaning of, "Blessed are they that
hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled."
With all her heart, she thanked God for the hunger and thirst of her
own heart, which brought with it the blessed assurance of future
satisfaction.
[Illustration]
THE RINGLEADERS.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"THAT'S our master!" said Jim.
"It isn't! He ain't a bit like that."
"You do it better, then!" said Jim.
"All right," said Ned, "so I will."
He took the chalk, and, with his companion jeering at him all the time,
he rubbed out the first attempt and accomplished a second, much to his
own satisfaction.
"Now I'll put him on his hat," exclaimed Jim, "and then we'll walk away
and watch to see the old bird coming along. Won't he just be mad?"
[Illustration]
There was a lot of loose wood piled up in the corner of their
playground, which afforded delight to the boys at all times. Sometimes
it served for a lion's den, at another for a castle, at another for a
palace most rare and beautiful.
To-day, as the two hastened towards it, their imagination made it into
a cave in which fierce robbers lurked, and they stealthily made their
way behind some of the slanting pieces, and crouched down to watch for
their victim.
It seemed a long ten minutes, and their patience was almost exhausted.
They could hear the other boys racing and tearing and shouting in the
field on the other side of the wall; and they almost thought of giving
it up and joining the more lively game beyond.
Just as they had reached this conclusion, and were whispering it to
each other, the head master came out into the empty playground. He
glanced round, and then slowly began to pace up and down in the shade,
his head bent and his hands clasped behind him.
"He's up to mischief," said Jim.
"No, he ain't; that's the way he walks mostly when he's thinkin'. He's
not a bad sort," said Ned.
"N-o-o," assented Jim; "if you don't come across 'im too much. Hush—"
The master turned their way, and walked straight to where their sketch
stood out boldly in the sun. The master came to a stand in front of it,
and still he kept his quiet hands clasped behind him. Then he walked
briskly towards the wood pile.
Jim and Ned shook in their shoes, or would have if they had had them.
But Ned bethought himself that he had done no wrong. And when the
master peeped down beneath the boards, his eyes met a candid pair of
brown ones that somehow touched his heart with a sort of tender stab.
"Hullo!" he said. "What are you two doing here?"
Jim was covered with confusion, and could think of no ready answer.
But Ned, still looking into his master's face, added naïvely, "We was
waitin' for someone, sir—"
"I suppose it is meant for me," said the master, smiling slightly.
"Nobody else wears a hat quite like mine. Was it meant for a
compliment?"
He sat down on one of the logs, and took Ned's soiled little hand in
his. "You are the two boys who love to be called pickles! I was wanting
to ask you both if you'd be my right-hand boys. I once had one such as
you," he said, glancing at Ned, "and I wish I had him now, pickles and
all!"
After that, the head master had no firmer friends than Jim and Ned,
and somehow, when the ringleaders in mischief turned good, the rest
followed.
The master never forgot that pair of brown eyes, and years afterwards,
Ned became his greatest comfort, as his love that day had been Ned's
greatest help.
[Illustration]
HIRA'S QUEST.
CHAPTER XVI.—HOME AT LAST.
MONTH after month glided quietly on, till a year had elapsed since Mark
Dayál left his home.
His children had almost forgotten the time when they had a father—all
except Reuben, who had grown a tall, manly boy, and was the chief help
and support of his mother.
Those who spoke of the missing man shook their heads and whispered
mysteriously that there must have been more in his disappearance than
they had imagined; if he were living, he would surely have sent some
news of himself before this.
Mary heard nothing of these hints and suspicions, and it was well for
her she did not. In spite of her faith that God would hear and answer
her prayer, her heart sometimes failed her, and she grew weary of the
long waiting and watching.
It was true that this year of sorrow and anxiety had also been one of
great blessing; that was evident to all.
The family had been obliged to move into a smaller house, at a lower
rent, but it was kept so much more clean and tidy that no one could
regret the change. Mary herself in her busy life, teaching her school
and looking after her own children, could hardly be recognised as
the untidy, discontented woman who had done so little in past days.
The children too, though it needed more than a year to correct the
negligence and bad management of former years, were learning to be
obedient and less self-willed.
The heavy burden of debt under which it would have been almost
impossible for the lonely wife to have made her way had been taken off
her by the united efforts of several kind friends on condition that
nothing should ever induce her to go into debt again.
To this Mary readily agreed, especially when it was pointed out to her
that "Owe no man anything" is one of the commands of God's Word, and
cannot be broken by His own obedient children.
Harnáth Singh had undertaken the education of Reuben, while another
friend had shown the same kindness to Julius, the second boy. And thus
the burden had been lightened, and with great care, it was possible for
Mary to provide for the needs of her family.
The school had prospered under her charge, and as she listened to the
children joining eagerly in Christian hymns and repeating texts so
willingly, and realised that only a year ago they had not even heard
the name of Christ, she thanked God for having given her the honour
and privilege of making known His great salvation to these little ones
outside the fold.
If it had not been for the cloud which always rested on her heart and
life on account of her husband, Mary Dayál would have counted herself a
much-favoured and happy woman.
One day she was returning home from school, when, just as she reached
her door, a postman came up, "Can you tell me anything of a Mrs.
Dayál?" he asked. "Here is a letter with that name, but the address
does not seem to be right, for I cannot find it anywhere."
"I am Mrs. Dayál," said Mary, her heart beginning to beat. Could it be
that news had come at last?
She held out her hand for the letter and recognised her husband's
handwriting at once.
The postman, relieved at having found the rightful owner, went on his
rounds, while Mary turned into her house, and with eager hands opened
the much-longed-for letter.
Her hands trembled so that she could hardly read it, and the letters
seemed to dance before her eyes. Gradually she became calmer and was
able to read what was written.
"MY DEAR WIFE,
"I am almost ashamed to write the word because I feel I no longer
deserve to call myself your husband, and that is one reason why I am
writing this letter instead of coming myself. Another reason is that I
cannot come to be a burden on you. After these many days of silence, my
own fault I know, the other day I heard news of you and my children,
and from what I heard, I know that my going away did you no harm, but
rather good.
"I am told that my wife has become so good and industrious that I
should hardly know her, and my children so well-behaved and obedient
that they are favourites with all. I might tell you that I am changed
too; but how will you trust me when I have so often deceived you? I
shrink from coming to the home which 'you' have made for yourself and
the children. I would rather make a home to which I could fetch you,
but that may take time, and there is much I want to tell you.
"First of all, I ask you to forgive me for forsaking you as I did, and
I leave it for you to decide whether I shall return.
"Your affectionate husband,
"MARK DAYÁL."
By the time Mary had finished her letter, she could hardly see for
tears, but they were tears of joy, not of sorrow. Was not this letter
a proof that her prayer had been answered? What but the grace of God
could have transformed her husband so as to make him write a letter
like this?—He who had always been so quick to blame her, but never
himself.
No time must be lost in sending an answer. And though writing materials
were not abundant or often used in this house, a sheet of paper was
found, and the few words necessary quickly written.
"MY DEAR HUSBAND,
"Come home as quickly as you can. I forgive you all; please forgive me
too. The new house is very near the old one.
"Your loving wife,
"MARY DAYÁL."
Just as the letter was finished, Reuben came in and was at once
despatched to buy a stamp and post the letter.
"It is to your father; he is coming home," was all the explanation
given to the astonished boy as he was hurried off on his errand.
It was difficult for Mary to give her mind to her work the next day.
However much she tried to keep her attention to what she was teaching,
she constantly found herself wondering by what train her husband would
arrive, and would she be there to receive him.
Happily for her, Miss Elsemere paid a visit to the school that day,
which relieved her for a time and also gave her an opportunity to say,
"I am expecting my husband home to-morrow."
Miss Elsemere knew enough of the teacher's story to understand how much
that one sentence meant, and her heart went out in loving sympathy to
the wife who had borne her grief so bravely.
"Then you must have a holiday," she said at once; "so do not think of
coming to school, and I will arrange for someone to take your place."
This removed a great difficulty, and as Mary saw her pupils depart and
started for home, she felt she was now free to give herself up to the
thought of meeting her husband and hearing all he had to tell her.
"How much 'I' shall have to tell," she thought to herself; "and even if
he has not yet come back to God, surely when he hears of all the Lord's
goodness to me and the children, it will touch his heart and bring him
back."
But something seemed to tell her that her husband, like herself,
was already "a new creature in Christ Jesus." Had not this been her
constant prayer all through the year? And why should she not believe
that it had been heard and answered?
Very little sleep came to Mary Dayál that night. And when it was still
scarcely morning, she was awake and active, for it might be that the
traveller would arrive by some very early train.
When school-time came, the children begged that they might have a
holiday as well as their mother, and so all the family waited in
readiness to welcome the father home.
It proved to be a long wait, and when four o'clock came and still no
arrival, Mary's heart began to sink. Perhaps the letter had not been
received, or she had not said enough to show that he would be welcomed
back.
Suddenly the door opened, and the long-expected wanderer was present in
their midst.
In a moment, Mary saw how much her husband must have suffered during
those days of absence; he looked so thin and ill, and at least ten
years older than when he went away. But the change in his words and
manner was even greater than that in his appearance, and again came the
thought, "What but the grace of God can have accomplished this?"
The children, who had forgotten so much of the past and felt no fear of
this quiet, gentle man, clustered round him, while baby Rose very soon
held out her arms, and claimed the place of honour.
It was just as well that the little ones were so ready to talk, for
their parents found their hearts too full to say very much at present,
and each was longing to hear the story the other had to tell, but as
yet there was no opportunity.
For some months, Mary had made it a custom to gather her children round
her after the evening meal, and read and pray with them.
As the time drew near, she began to wonder what she should do. She felt
too shy to pray before her husband, and yet she could not be quite sure
that he would be willing to take her place if she asked him.
Reuben solved the problem. It was always his part to fetch his mother
the Bible; this evening, he hesitated a moment, and then handing it to
his father, said, "Will you read to-night, father?"
Mark Dayál took the book with a look of surprise and pleasure, and
after turning over the leaves, began to read Psalm ciii.
Then they knelt down, and as Mary heard her husband pray, she knew
without the shadow of a doubt that her own prayer had been answered.
These were not the words of one going his own way and seeking to do
his own will, but rather the reconciled and forgiven son telling out
the gratitude of his heart to the loving Father who had so wonderfully
cared for and guided His children.
As Mark's prayer ended, Mary's heart was too full to remain silent, and
she added her petition and thanksgiving to that of her husband, and so
it came to pass that each learnt of the change in the other, and of the
blessing received, as they knelt at the feet of Him who had done so
much for them.
As they rose from their knees, Maggie whispered, "Sometimes we sing a
hymn; would you like to hear us, father?"
A ready consent was given, and after a little discussion, "mother's
most favourite one" was chosen. And so the first message which Mark
Dayál heard from his children's lips was the one which had gone home
with such power to the heart of his wife. As they heard together the
words—
"Oh, dearly, dearly, has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood,
And try His works to do—"
each determined afresh that, because of that great redeeming love which
had done so much for them, they would, with all their hearts, and to
their life's end, "try His works to do."
LOOKING FOR FATHER'S BOAT.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"COME along, Hans!" said his sister, pushing back the bowl which had
held his porridge. "What a time you have been!"
Hans looked rather discomfited. He glanced at his spoon, and then at
the empty bowl, taken so far away, and finally deciding that it was
very unpleasant to be spoken to so roughly, he began to cry.
"Hullo!" exclaimed his sister sharply. "What's that for? You leave off,
or you'll get a slap, I tell you!"
She paused abruptly, for slowly and painfully their invalid mother was
making her way into the kitchen, and Minette had not intended her to
hear such talk as that.
The mother bent over her little boy, and kissed his forehead, and then
stood smoothing his hair with her thin white fingers. Minette often
thought how white they were for a working woman.
She did not speak, but her presence soothed both her children—the
eldest and the youngest. Hans left off his sobs, and Minette busied
herself in finding her bonnet and a fish basket, preparatory to going
down to meet her father's boat.
[Illustration]
"Run outside, Hans," said their mother's gentle voice, "and Minette
will come in a minute."
The girl moved towards the door, but a gesture from her mother stopped
her.
The child ran out, and their mother sat down by the fire and beckoned
her daughter to her side.
"What is it, dear?" she asked, raising her eyes anxiously to the
clouded face above her.
"Nothing," answered Minette, abruptly.
"Nothing, when you treat your good little brother so?" asked her
mother. "What if I were not here, Minette?"
Minette felt a great inward pang, but she replied gruffly, "You're
always fancying things, mother! One can't be sweet all the time—at
least, I can't—and Hans has been half an hour over his porridge, and
you said he must not go till it was done."
"Well?" asked her mother, gently.
"Well! I wanted to go quickly," said Minette, frowning, "and Hans
always spoils everything. You're so faddy with him, mother! It would
not have hurt him to go a little short for once—"
"I think he would often go short if it were left to you, dear," said
her mother, patiently. She ceased to look up, for her eyes were
filling, and she could not.
"May I go?" asked Minette, edging towards the door.
"Yes, dear," answered her mother. "Someday, you will understand how
patient we have to be with the little ones—"
And then Minette took Hans by the hand, and they went to the shore,
while the wind blew in their faces and moaned round the boats.
The fishing boats were long in coming, and Minette had time to think
over her mother's words. Surely "she" had had patience shown her all
those twenty years she had lived in that little cottage! Could she not
bear with her little brother?
"Poor mother," she thought, with fresh tenderness, "poor, dear, mother!
How hard it must be to be so ill, and to know that she'll have to leave
little Hans to—such as me! But when I go back, I will kiss her and tell
her I'm sorry, and that I'll never behave so again—never!"
[Illustration: Eileen stood and waited under the lych gate.]
Under the Lych Gate.
[Illustration] THERE were voices in the doctor's hall, and Eileen
Lanyon sprang from her seat and opened the drawing-room door to peep
out. Was it her father at last?
But no! A tall, awkward boy stood there facing the old housekeeper.
There was a pitiful ring in his voice, though it was angry too.
"I tell you it'll be too late!" he said. "Can't ye tell me where I'll
find the doctor? My mother's dying! The doctor might save her."
"I don't know!" said the housekeeper's voice. "I can't say what I don't
know, I s'pose."
"Then it will be too late!" The boy turned away, and the housekeeper
went back to her kitchen grumbling. "It's all nonsense about dying,"
she muttered; "it's all dying if their little finger aches. They'll
kill the doctor between 'em."
Eileen shut the drawing-room door and pondered. Where was her father?
Why, he had said he would finish putting up the Christmas motto in the
church at five o'clock! Like a flash, she was across the hall and had
flung open the front door. But the boy was gone. Nothing but the white
snow and the dark, bare trees lay between her and the road. It was
getting dark, and only the red sunset still lingered in the west, but
Eileen's resolution was taken. She would go down to the church herself
and tell her father. She could still hear Dick Donovan's despairing
"Too late!"
In three minutes, Eileen was dressed and on her way. Such a little girl
to be out alone on that snowy Christmas Eve! However, the loneliness
did not daunt Eileen.
But the church was still and dark. Evidently her father had not come
yet. Eileen stood and waited under the lych gate. How lonely it was!
How still! Eileen's heart seemed to stand still as the trees creaked in
the breeze. Once she turned to rush home, but then the thought of Mrs.
Donovan checked her, and she looked up into the quiet sky. After all,
Christ, whose birthday they would celebrate to-morrow, was near her. No
harm could happen to her, and He could keep Mrs. Donovan alive till her
father could come.
So busy was she with this thought that she did not hear her father's
step till he spoke her name: "Why Eileen!"
She sprang into his arms and poured out her story, and the doctor went
at once.
Late that night, when the Christmas bells were pealing joyfully, the
doctor bent over Eileen's bed.
"Mrs. Donovan is saved," he whispered. "Half an hour later and I should
have been too late."
[Illustration]
"ME TOO."
THE glory of the setting sun streamed across the wide sea, and one long
ray crept through a port-hole in a ship and lit up a tiny cabin.
In the narrow berth, a young seaman lay dying, and he spoke to the
sailor who knelt beside him.
"The sun's setting," he said. "I'd have liked to die at home, but it
doesn't matter now—I'm nearly home, John. Ask Sandy Miller to see me
before I go."
John rose obediently and passed out of the little cabin, but he felt
it was on a fruitless errand, and he wished George had been satisfied
to die without asking for Sandy. George had been no favourite with the
elderly Scotchman, and if Sandy had an enemy—well, the enemy was apt to
have an unpleasant time, and George had had no peace since the day when
he had openly confessed before the men that he was a Christian.
And now George was dying—they had hoped to reach England before the end
came, but the disease had come with a gallop, and he would not see home
again. He had always been John's "protégé," but John was astonished now
to see how the other sailors rallied round George. They nursed him,
watched by him, read his little Bible to him, and vied with each other
in serving him; and yet he was the youngest and most insignificant on
board, and he had dared to speak to each of his Saviour.
[Illustration]
Sandy alone never visited the lad, Sandy alone never asked of his
welfare, and now George had begged for him to be fetched.
Sandy leant on a rail watching the setting sun. He started as John
touched him.
"What do you want?" Sandy growled.
"George is dying, and he wants to see you," said John briefly.
Sandy's face turned to a dull red. "Let him die," he shouted hoarsely.
"How dare you come to me with his messages? Let him die, and the sooner
the better; there'll be one less to ask if you're saved. Saved, indeed!
I wish I had thrown him overboard before he asked me."
He flung off John's hand and turned his back.
Well might he wish that he had thrown George overboard before the lad
spoke about his soul's salvation, for not one minute's peace had Sandy
had since.
John went away, and Sandy leaned on his rail and watched the sinking
sun. A sort of hush came over the ship, and he knew that George was
dead. And if he were, where was he gone, and what made him happy to go
into that unknown world?
Sandy shivered as his eyes followed the pathway of crimson that
stretched away to the far-off sun. What a long way away heaven was! And
how could one be sure of going there?
Then like a whisper of the sea wind came back to his memory the words
George had said that day he spoke to Sandy: "This Man receiveth
sinners."
And Sandy's proud heart bowed itself.
"Me too, Lord," he whispered. "I have been a sinner and a rebel all
these many years, but if I'm not too bad, take me and make me clean."
And somehow a sweet assurance that Christ Jesus had accepted him came
to his heart.
Sandy did not keep his change of heart to himself. That very night, he
told his mates that he was a Christian like George now. And when he had
done speaking, one by one his mates rose up and shook his rough hand.
"George has done us all good," they said.
"MASTER, REBUKE THY DISCIPLES."
WHEN the time was getting very close for the Lord Jesus to be
crucified—that He might die for our sins instead of us—He went up to
Jerusalem, willingly going among the Jews who, He knew, would take Him
and kill Him. He did all this because He loved us so very much.
As He got near to the city, He sent on two of His disciples to find a
colt for Him to ride on.
Jesus knew everything beforehand, and He told them just where the colt
was tied and what they should say to the man to whom it belonged.
This man must have loved Jesus, for directly the disciples said "The
Lord hath need of him," he let the colt go at once.
No one had ever ridden that colt before, but Jesus, the Lord of Glory,
did not have any trouble with him. They put their garments on him for a
saddle, and Jesus sat on him, and so they went along towards the city.
The people who had been healed, and who had seen some of the wonderful
things Jesus had done, began to rejoice very much as they saw Him
riding there so gentle and lowly, and with such tender compassion in
His face.
They ran before Him, casting down their clothes for Him to ride over.
Others cut down branches of trees and strewed them along the path;
while even the children ran along by His side shouting, "Hosanna!
Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord."
And the whole multitude, as they went down the hill from the Mount of
Olives, began to praise God with a loud voice for all the mighty works
which they had seen.
But some of the Jews were very displeased indeed, and they asked Jesus
to stop His disciples.
But Jesus told them that if the disciples were to hold their peace the
very stones would cry out for joy.
And why do you think that was? Because He was coming to save us.
"He knew how wicked men had been; | So out of pity Jesus said
He knew that God must punish sin; | He'd bear the punishment instead."
Do you feel, children, that you wish you were good, or that you are
sorry that you did something that was naughty, perhaps to-day, or
yesterday, or a long time ago?
[Illustration]
Well then, think of His love in dying for you, and be comforted.
You can say to yourself: "Jesus came to save even me. He lived on this
earth for thirty-three years, and at last died on the cross that I
might be forgiven and made God's happy, holy child."
There is a very short little prayer that you can pray every day:
"Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."
That little prayer has made little children, and old people too, so
happy. For if we ask God from our hearts to wash us in our Saviour's
precious blood, we shall be whiter than snow, and we "shall" be ready
to go and be with Him in heaven.
[Illustration]
HIRA'S QUEST.
CHAPTER XVII.—ANOTHER PRODIGAL SON.
WHEN the children, in spite of the excitement of the day, had at last
fallen asleep—all except Reuben, who had his lessons to prepare for the
next day—Mark Dayál proposed to his wife that they should go and sit on
the roof, where they could talk together without disturbing anyone, or
being overheard, and Mary was only too glad to comply.
The first question to be settled was, which was to be the first to
relate the story of the past year.
The wife insisted that Mark must have his turn first, because, she
said, "You can see that we are all quite well and have not suffered,
but when I look at you, I know that you must have gone through much
trouble and distress, and I long to hear all about it."
Mark could not deny his wife's words, and consented to tell his story
first, which shall be related as he told it.
"I expect you soon guessed why it was that I went away—that once more I
had lost my employment and felt ashamed to come home and confess it.
"I was angry with my master, and spoke rudely to him, so he dismissed
me at once, saying that he already had had no intention of keeping me.
"I felt still more angry then, and I thought, What would be the use
of going home to be scolded by you and hear the children crying for
food? You had had trouble enough with me, now I would see how you would
get on without me. So I determined to go away. I had no intention of
staying away so long, or of sending no news. I thought I should soon
find work elsewhere, and then I would send you word where I was and
what I was doing.
"But the time never seemed to come when I could give a good report of
myself. If I found work, I lost it again sooner than ever. I just lived
from hand to mouth, and every day my condition seemed to get worse.
"I could not write and tell you this, so I thought I had better not
write at all. Then I began to think it would be better if I never
wrote. It was much better that you should have no husband than a bad
one, and that the children should have no father than such a one as I
was.
"I knew that you had good friends in Harnáth Singh and his brother, and
that they would never let you starve; indeed, they would find it far
easier to help you when I was out of the way.
"So the time passed on, and more and more I became weary of my life and
weary of myself. I did not always stay at the same place; again and
again I persuaded some kind person to pay my fare to another town, on
the plea that if I could only get there, I was sure of obtaining work.
But it was not often that my hopes were realised.
"In this way month after month passed by, till at last I felt as I
think one must do who has fallen into some deep pit.
"I was sinking, sinking lower and lower; below me was ever dense
darkness and above me appeared no gleam of light.
"I little thought that my very depth of need was to bring me
deliverance.
"During all those days of want and misery, I had very seldom been
inside a church.
"At first, I did not care whether I went or not, for I had hard
thoughts against God, and considered that He had favoured me less than
others, and less than I deserved.
"Later on, if I had wanted to go, I should have felt ashamed. My
clothes were so old and ragged, and, as you know, I had always liked to
'look' tidy and respectable, whatever I might be.
"That particular Sunday I was going to tell you about, I felt more than
usually wretched and miserable. I was really ill, although I did not
know it, and if I was ill in body, I was still more so in mind.
"Then I heard the church bells begin to ring, and suddenly it came into
my mind, 'I will go into the church to-day.' I know now that it was God
who sent that thought to me.
"I never considered how I looked, I had got past caring about that;
besides, no one would know me. So I started in the direction the sound
of the bells seemed to come from, for this was a strange place to me,
and I had never seen the church. When I tried to walk, I found how weak
I was, but though I had to stop and rest every now and then, still I
kept on—something seemed to say that I 'must' get to that church.
"At last I arrived, but the service had begun, so I just slipped into a
seat at the back, where I thought no one would see me. At first I was
too tired to take much notice of anything, and though someone was kind
enough to offer me a prayer-book, I felt too weak to stand up and join
in the service. Suddenly I found my attention drawn to what was going
on; before that I had only been thinking about myself and my own misery.
"A young man from the congregation was reading the Second Lesson, and
as he read, I could not help listening, every word sounded so real. It
was not that he was reading any thing new and strange; it was only the
story of the Prodigal Son, of which I had learnt every word by heart
when I was a boy at school.
"But somehow as I listened that Sunday morning, it seemed as if I was
hearing my own story, as if I was that very prodigal son myself.
"I could just see that poor fellow in his rags and hunger, having come
to the end of everything, and he was a perfect picture of myself. As
I heard the words, 'Father, I have sinned against Heaven and in thy
sight,' I just caught another sight of myself which I had never seen
before. I was no longer the poor, unfortunate, ill-used man, to be
pitied and helped, but I was a guilty sinner before God, bearing a name
which I had no right to, and bringing dishonour on Him whom it ought to
have been my greatest delight to honour and obey.
"My life, so full of sin and failure, passed before me, and in my
shame and sorrow of heart, I forgot to think of my physical weakness
and misery. Surely it was God who drew me to that church that Sunday
morning and then met me there.
"It would have been well for me if I had said then and there, 'I will
arise and go to my Father'; but though I heard the words, I did not
make them my own. Surely I was the son in the far-off country, but I
had no strength to turn my steps towards the Father's house.
"I don't remember anything of the rest of the service; I had heard my
message, and nothing else mattered to me.
"The closing hymn had been sung, the last prayer read; then the
congregation began to disperse, but still I sat on. I seemed to have no
strength left to get up and go away.
"By-and-by, someone came and touched my arm and said, 'Brother, I fear
you are ill. Can I do anything to help you?'
"I lifted my head and saw that it was the young man who had read the
Second Lesson, which had so much impressed me, who was standing by my
side.
"'Yes, I am ill,' I answered with some difficulty; and then I could say
no more, I was too faint and dizzy.
"I hardly know what happened next; I heard voices which seemed to me
far away in the distance, then I felt a strong arm put round me, and I
was led out of the church. After that came a perfect blank, of which I
can tell nothing.
"One day I came back to life and found myself lying on a bed in a
strange house. At first I thought I was quite alone. But after a while,
I heard a sound as of someone moving about, and presently a man came in
sight.
"I was still more puzzled, for I knew I had never seen him before, and
had no idea as to who he was. He did not notice that I was watching him
till he came to my side with a cup of soup, then he looked very pleased
and surprised.
"I drank the soup without a word, for I felt too weak to talk, though I
longed to ask where I was and what had happened.
"Then I fell asleep, and was awaked by the sound of voices. And when I
opened my eyes, I saw standing by my bedside, not only the man who had
given me the soup, but also the young man who had read the lesson in
church.
"I soon found that he must be a doctor, for he felt my pulse and asked
many questions about me. He evidently thought me much better and seemed
very pleased. Then, turning to the other man, he said, 'You will be
willing for him to go to the hospital now? He is so much better that it
will be quite easy.'
"'Why should he go to the hospital,' was the answer, 'now that he is
getting well? In a few days, there will be nothing wrong with him.'
"'You are an obstinate man, Sath Guru Dàs,' said the young doctor, 'and
evidently determined to have your own way, so I suppose I must let you
keep your patient. You have done a good deal towards saving his life,
so it is only right you should.'
"I said nothing, but I wondered more than ever what it could all mean.
"When the doctor had left, I called the other man, whose name I found
was Sath Guru Dàs, to my side and asked him to tell me what it all
meant, and how I came to be there.
"Then he said, 'When you came into church last Sunday, I saw you, and
I thought to myself, "That is some brother in trouble." I watched you
all through the service, and felt sure that you must be very ill and
weak. When the congregation left and you still sat on in your place, I
asked the young doctor who was here just now to come and speak to you.
He said you were very ill, and as my house was close by, we brought you
here, and here you have stayed.'
"'Why did you not take me to the hospital?' I asked.
"After a pause my new friend answered, 'That I can hardly tell myself,
only I think the Lord must have put it into my heart to bring you here
and care for you myself. Perhaps some day we may understand why it was.'
"Then I said, 'If you had known what a worthless fellow I am, you would
never have taken me in.'
"There was a tone of rebuke in his voice as he said, 'Brother, you are
worth so much that the dear Lord came down from heaven and gave His
life on the cross for you; that which cost Him so much can never be
worthless to His followers.'"
[Illustration]
SUNDAY LESSONS.
[Illustration: Gladys is the little teacher.]
IT is peaceful Sunday morning, | 'Tis the story of the shepherd,
Stillness in the air, | Who his lambs doth guide,
Only all the birds are making | In the pastures green and happy
Music everywhere. | By the waterside.
|
In the nursery too are voices, | Gladys is the little teacher,
Earnest, low and sweet, | Bob the scholar small,
As the children to each other | And the Shepherd is the Saviour,
Holy words repeat. | Who has loved us all.
HIRA'S QUEST.
CHAPTER XVIII.—THE FATHER'S HOUSE.
[Illustration] "AFTER that I did not answer, but I lay and thought. Of
course I knew all about the life and death of Christ; indeed, I know it
so well that it had become like an old story to me. I had never doubted
that Christ gave His life to save the world, but this man seemed to single
me out as if it had been only for me that the great sacrifice was made.
"Then there came back to me the words I had heard read in the church,
and how I had felt myself to be the prodigal son who had wandered far
away from the Father's house.
"I was too weak to think it all out, but this much I knew and
understood, that I had sinned against Heaven and in God's sight; and
now here was another great fact, heard from the lips of the man who
had taken me, a needy stranger, into his own house: 'The dear Lord
came down from heaven and gave His life on the cross for you.' If it
was true I was a great sinner, it was true also that there was a great
Saviour.
"From that day, I began to improve rapidly. The young doctor came to
see me regularly, and Sath Guru Dàs never seemed to weary of attending
to me.
"I used to look at that man and wonder what made him so different to
other men. I could see that he had not had much education, for it was
with difficulty that he could spell out the words of his Bible, which
he seemed to love to read. Another thing I noticed was that he seemed
to do nothing without praying about it first; I got to know that when
he went away and left me, as he did sometimes quite suddenly, it was
that he might go into a little room alone and pray. And so I began to
understand that this man, who in himself was neither clever, nor great,
nor better than others, possessed a wonderful power, because he lived
his life with God and in constant touch with Him.