"'O Lord, reveal Thyself unto this poor, sad heart, that he may know
what a Saviour he has in Thee, and let him go away from here to live a
new life in Thy strength.'
"I cannot tell you how it touched me to hear this stranger praying for
me so earnestly, and my own heart said,—
"'O Lord, reveal Thyself to me.'
"I believe that was the first time I had ever 'really' prayed.
"I found that my new friend was a colporteur, and as soon as I was well
enough to be left, he began to go his rounds with his books to sell.
"One evening he said to me, 'Brother, do you feel well enough to read a
little? I am but a poor reader myself, but I love to be read to.'
"Of course I said I was quite willing, and asked what I should read.
"He brought me a New Testament in Hindi, and pointing to Luke xv. said,
'Will you read that, brother?'
"I felt quite startled when I saw what it was. It seemed almost as if
he must have known what had been in my mind during those days.
"I began to read, but as I read on, it became more and more difficult.
The words almost seemed to choke me, and my voice trembled again and
again.
"As I read the sentence 'He arose and came to his father,' Sath Guru
Dàs suddenly put his hand on mine, and said in a voice almost of
entreaty, 'Brother, will you?'
"I was wholly taken by surprise. What did this stranger know about
me, that he should understand that I was like the son in the far-off
country? It was true that 'I' knew, but how should 'he?'
"I determined then that I would hide nothing from this true friend, who
had done so much to save my life, and was now praying for my salvation.
So I said, 'Brother, I will tell you all, and you shall judge whether I
am fit to be received into the Father's house.'
"He answered, 'Brother, it is not a question of your fitness, but of
the Father's love; but tell me all.'
"Then I told him the story of my life, and you may be sure that I did
not try to make myself out any better than I was.
"When I finished, he said, 'Brother, one thing I am quite sure of—that
you are just the very one the Lord Jesus spoke of when He said, "The
Son of Man is come to seek and to find that which was lost." You are so
altogether lost that none but He "could" find you. He has followed you
into the "far country," and now, don't you hear His voice calling you
home to the Father's house?'
"I could not deny his words. Surely it was nothing less than a divine
hand which had been leading me on step by step till I stood at the very
threshold of God's kingdom.
"I could not turn back, and so I arose and came to my Father.
"I need not tell you that I was not turned away; that, as I had seen I
was like the son in the parable, so I found that the loving, forgiving
father who ran and fell on his son's neck and kissed him was a picture
of God Himself.
"I found, too, that the son wandering in the far-off country, ragged
and hungry and weary, was just a new man altogether when he came into
the father's house and was clothed and fed and loved. It was indeed
true 'old things had passed away, and all things had become new.'"
"Thank God!" said Mary earnestly as she listened to her husband's
words. And then, after a pause, she asked, "And did you find out who
your friend was, and why he had been so good to you, a stranger?"
"There was not much to find out," was the answer. "He was only a
poor ignorant man, as this world would call him, who had only been a
Christian for a few years, but I feel sure he is a prince in God's
kingdom, and will have a seat very near his Master in the coming glory.
It was for the love of that same Master, he took me in and served me so
faithfully. And when I expressed my wonder at his goodness to me, he
only said, 'Brother, it was for the dear Lord's sake. What am I here in
this world for unless it be to do His work? It is what He himself would
have done, only far more; and what right have we to be called by His
name if we do not follow in His steps?'
"The next day he said to me, 'Brother, what are you going to do now?'
"I had not made any plans or thought what I would do; indeed, my heart
was so full of joy and thanksgiving that my sins had been forgiven
and I received by the Father, that I had not thought much of earthly
things. But my friend's words made me think, and of course I knew that
I could not continue where and as I was.
"So we talked things over, and as I shrank from coming back to be a
burden to you, we decided that I should wait a few days and gain a
little more strength, for I was still very weak. What astonished me
very much was to see the joy of both Sath Guru Dàs and the young doctor
over the change which had been wrought in me. If their own brother had
been raised from the dead, I do not think they could have been more
glad.
"But I must not tell you any more, for mine has been a long story; and
now tell me yours."
So Mary told what had befallen her, which we already know. And as
she finished, her husband exclaimed, "Now I see it all as plain
as daylight; you were praying hard, in the dark, as it were, not
even knowing whether I was dead or alive, and God was listening and
answering, and leading me step by step on the path which was to bring
me home to Himself."
Then together the husband and wife afresh prayed for forgiveness for
all the sins of the past, especially for the great sin of forgetting
Him who had so manifested His love for them. Together they gave thanks
for the great salvation which had become theirs, and gave themselves
anew to be His for ever who had endured the cross for their sakes.
[Illustration]
Jesus Looked round about upon all Things.
AFTER the Lord had been brought in triumph into Jerusalem, and after
the multitudes had done crying out, "Hosanna to the Son of David!"
Jesus entered into the Temple. And it tells us in the Gospel of Mark
that "He looked round about upon all things."
Now it seems to me, children, that this is what we should think the
Lord Jesus is doing now.
He comes into the temple of our hearts, or He comes into our homes,
into every room that we live in, and He looks round about upon all
things.
What does He see?
Here in this picture of the Temple of God, when He was upon earth, He
saw many things which He did not like at all.
The people who had offerings to bring to God, had got careless about
the holiness of God's House, and they began to buy and sell the
offerings within the Temple. The people bargained and cheated, and
bought and sold, without thinking that God was dwelling there, and that
His House was not to be made into a market.
Then some people wanted their money changed, and so tables were set up
where the money was spread out, and those who were buying went to them
to get change to pay for their purchases.
At length, things got to such a pass that the Jews even kept their
oxen and sheep inside the Temple to be ready to be bought by those who
wished to make God an offering for their sins.
Think what confusion, and dirt, and disorder must have been all about.
So the Lord Jesus was very grieved, and the next day, He came and
turned them all out, and told the Jews that God's Temple was meant to
be a House of Prayer, but that they had made it a den of thieves.
Now, before we finish this little story, I want us to look into our
hearts and just think what the Lord Jesus sees there, when He comes and
looks round about upon all things.
[Illustration]
What does He see? Does He see a heart with lots of naughty things in
it? A heart which does not mind telling an untruth? A heart that would
not mind cheating in a game? A heart which does not mind thinking a
naughty thought, or doing a naughty act?
Oh, if He can see any of those things in the temple of our hearts, let
us ask Him to turn them all out, and make it clean and fit for Him to
visit and stay in.
Perhaps, instead of that sad list of things, Jesus can see a heart that
loves Him.
Perhaps He can see a heart that goes, every time it gets soiled by sin,
to His precious cleansing blood to be washed white.
If He does, then Jesus is glad to look into that loving, washed heart,
and He says, "I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that
is of a humble and contrite heart, to revive the heart of the contrite
ones, and to revive the spirit of the humble."
This is what Jesus will do for you, and for me.
HIRA'S QUEST.
CHAPTER XIX.—SUKHIYA'S FALL.
[Illustration]
IT was one day, a few weeks after Mark Dayál's return to his family,
that Sukhiya was sitting in her house alone.
It was a hot, sultry evening, and there seemed to be no air to breathe
in the tiny courtyard and still smaller verandah of her poor abode.
The evening meal had been cooked and put on one side for when it was
wanted, and, having nothing more to do, Sukhiya decided that she would
go on the roof, where it might be a little cooler than it was below.
It was a poor, rickety ladder to climb, but that was nothing to one who
was accustomed to have most things broken and rickety. The roof, too,
looked anything but safe, but Sukhiya never gave that a thought, for
had she not sat on that same roof many and many a time during the past
years and nothing had ever befallen her? So she sat and fanned herself,
and gradually the sun went down and darkness gathered round her.
Suddenly she heard a sound below. Maybe her husband had come back and
wanted his evening meal, or worse still, it might be one of the many
monkeys of the neighbourhood, who had come to help himself to some of
her bread. Anyway, she must not sit fanning herself any longer, but go
quickly to see what was happening.
Alas, poor Sukhiya! She tried to go too quickly, and in her haste
and the darkness, she never saw how near her foot was to the sloping
edge of the roof. There was a cry of distress, a heavy thud, and a
motionless figure lay in the middle of the small courtyard below.
Happily it was not a monkey, but Sukhiya's husband, whose coming in had
disturbed her and brought about this catastrophe.
He was a poor, helpless old man at the best of times, and as he saw his
wife lying at his feet unable to move or lift herself up, he was very
perplexed.
Gradually it occurred to him that if he could do nothing himself, at
least he could call someone who could.
When it was once started, it did not take long for the news to spread.
And in a very short time, the small courtyard was crowded. They lifted
the injured woman, regardless of her groans, on to a bedstead, and felt
her limbs to see what bones were broken.
Each one had some different remedy to suggest, and some of the wiser
ones advised taking her to the hospital, but as others protested
against it, nothing was done.
Presently Sukhiya left off groaning for a minute, and with some
difficulty gasped out, "Bring Hira—I want to see Hira."
Then there followed a discussion as to where Hira was to be found, and
an old woman, who said she knew the house, volunteered to go and bring
her.
"Tell her," gasped the injured woman, "that Sukhiya is dying; then she
will surely come."
So the old woman started on her errand. She had some distance to go and
she could not walk very fast, for her back was bent nearly double, and
it was only with the help of a stick that she could walk at all.
When at last she reached the house, it was some time before she
succeeded in making anyone hear. Rámpál Singh and his daughter were
not at home, Anandi was ill, and Hira was absorbed in her book, which
Shushila was teaching her to read with her fingers.
When the old woman came in, she was so tired with her long walk that
she had to wait a little to recover herself. Then she explained,
"Sukhiya the ghi-seller sent me; she has fallen off the roof. She says
she is dying, and wants the blind girl who lives here to come and see
her."
Hira needed no persuading, and was ready to go at once, but Anandi was
not so sure. What would her master and mistress say if they returned
and found that the blind girl had gone out alone with a stranger who
was quite unfit to protect her? If she could have gone herself, it
would have been quite easy, but that was impossible, for she had no
strength to walk so far.
In the meantime, Hira had thrown a large shawl round her, and was ready
to start. What could Anandi say? So she let her go, but with many
misgivings and entreaties to return as soon as she possibly could.
When the old woman and her charge arrived, the crowd was still there,
indeed it had increased, for as they looked at the face of the
suffering woman, they knew that what she said was true; she was indeed
dying.
They had tried their best to help her; one had brought oil to rub her
with, but she groaned so when she was touched that not much could be
done in that way. Another, who said he knew how to set bones, tried to
show his skill, but Sukhiya's screams soon put an end to his attempts.
A doctor was brought and ordered some medicine for her to drink, which
someone was busy preparing.
In the midst of it all, Hira arrived, and the crowd divided to let her
pass. The past year had wrought a great change in the blind girl's
appearance. She had grown so much taller, and instead of being unwashed
and uncared-for, as in the days of old, everything betokened the touch
of loving hands. In her spotless sari, she formed a great contrast to
the dirty, squalid group into the midst of which she came.
There was no need for anyone to lead her to the spot where Sukhiya lay.
The groans of the dying woman were a quite sufficient guide.
Sukhiya tried to raise herself as she saw the girl coming to her side,
but only fell back with a heavier groan, as she moaned, "All my bones
are broken; that terrible fall has killed me, but I had to see you once
more. Come close, for my eyes are getting dim and I can hardly see you."
Hira stretched out her hands to find a place by her old friend's side,
and then sat down on the edge of the bedstead. She could not see the
look of death creeping over the face she had never seen, and knowing
how little the expression, "I am killed," often means, she wondered
whether the case was really quite so hopeless.
How she wished that Shushila, or even Anandi, had been there with her!
She too had heard of the hospital and what wonders were sometimes
accomplished there, so she also thought that if only the sufferer could
be carried there, even if her bones were broken, she might live and not
die.
But as soon as Sukhiya heard the word "hospital" she only groaned
again and said, "What is the use of a hospital when I am all broken to
pieces? I tell you, child, I am killed, and now that I have seen you I
am quite ready to die and escape from this pain and misery."
At the words "I am quite ready to die," Hira started. Supposing it was
true that her old friend's life was ending, was she ready to die, still
more, was she ready to meet God? If there was nothing to be done to
restore her to life, at least she might try to prepare her for death;
for she knew that of all the crowd assembled there she alone knew that
secret.
Bending over the stricken form beside her, she said softly, "Sukhiya,
you say you are ready to die, but are you quite sure? We must get rid
of sin before we can meet God."
"Child," gasped the woman, "what do I know about sin? I have always
told you I have no understanding for such things. And now I can only
think of this awful pain, and long to get out of it."
Poor Hira, it seemed so easy and simple to her that the dying woman
should stretch out her hand to the One mighty to save, and find life as
she met death. But what could she say when the one for whose salvation
she so longed seemed to care nothing about it herself?
"Shall I sing you a hymn?" she asked, thinking of nothing else to say
or do, and Sukhiya always liked to hear her sing.
"Yes, child, sing," said the voice, growing feebler every moment.
A hush fell on the crowd, and not a sound was heard as the blind girl
sang in a clear, sweet voice the same words that had first told her of
Jesus Christ and His great salvation.
Sukhiya had left off groaning; she had hardly strength even for that.
But the eyes, which were fast closing to the things of earth, rested
lovingly on the face of the blind girl.
"You are never hungry now, little one, and no one ever beats you or
makes you cry," she whispered.
"Oh, no, Sukhiya dear; everybody is so good to me, and I am always
happy," answered Hira, wondering what she meant.
"I would have taken care of you and kept you, but what could I do? I
could not even keep my own children; they all went one by one. Now I am
going too." Slowly came the words, and then Sukhiya lay still.
Hira bent fondly over her. "Sukhiya, Jesus Christ is here; take hold of
Him, and He will save you."
"Jesus Christ, save my soul!" The words were so low that only Hira
could catch them, but surely there was One standing by whom they saw
not, whose ear can catch the faintest whisper, and who never fails to
see the least spark of faith.
There was silence for a few seconds, then someone said, "She is dead,"
and straightway rose a wail of grief and mourning.
[Illustration]
OUR JACK-A-NAPES.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
CHAPTER I.
[Illustration] THAT morning, as Sailor Jem had been busy on the shore
preparing for his fishing expedition, his son Jack had come sauntering
along the sands with his baskets of fish.
"Ain't you sold any more than that?" asked his father in surprise.
Jack hated to be blamed (who does not?), and he answered rather
roughly, "I've sold all I could; it ain't my fault that the folks won't
buy."
"Have you been up to the Vicarage?" asked his father.
"No; the baskets was that heavy I couldn't get as far. I thought when I
had sold some, they'd be a bit lighter."
"And they will have been looking out for you all the morning!" said his
father vexedly. "The cook always likes some fresh fish for lunch, and
you'll be too late! Run off as fast as you can!"
"I'm not agoin' to run," grumbled Jack beneath his breath. "It's a mile
if it's a inch, and it'll take me a good hour, and all for nothing,
perhaps."
"Go at once!" thundered his father. And then he turned to his boat and
went on splicing a rope, his face grave and his heart as heavy as a
piece of lead.
[Illustration: "Ain't you sold any more than that?" asked his father.]
When Jack was at length out of sight, an old man, who had been watching
them both, turned to Jem with a quiet sympathy in his look as he said,
"'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord—' We mustn't get
too disheartened, my son!"
"No—no!" said Jem. "But sometimes one gets so disappointed, father! The
youngster ain't doin' quite as I like. He's lazy, he is. You may work
for 'em night and day, and after all, if it don't go exactly as they
consider it should, then they go and think you're hard on 'em! That's
what I find."
"Yes, Jem, that's so; but I got to learn, as I grew older, that it's a
good thing as the Lord's patience don't run out as soon as ours, for if
it did the rope wouldn't be long enough to pull us to shore!"
"I'll think of that, father." And then he went home to his dinner, and
to wish his wife good-bye.
————————————
CHAPTER II.
"YOU'LL get that net done, I reckon, before I come home again, Minnie?"
"That depends how long ye're gone," his wife answered with a smile,
which in her young days had caught her James's fancy more than anything
else about her.
He laughed now in a good-humoured sort of way, as he turned over the
net and measured it with his eyes.
"And see to that young Jack-a-Napes of yours, and make him a good boy."
His wife put down her netting needle and looked at him. "Do you really
mean that?" she asked gently.
"Of course I do! One can't get a bit of peace with him, first this,
then that—you make him mind, wife! That's what I mean."
"I can make him mind," she said very seriously, "but as to making him
good—"
He stooped and kissed her good-bye. Perhaps he did not guess what a
pang of pain he had given her.
"I'm off," he said cheerily.
But she detained him by an earnest gesture. "Jem," she said, "he's your
'Jack-a-Napes' as much as mine! We must both pray for him that God may
make him all we would have him—it's only He can."
The father nodded, and then, the last moment having come, he made a
bolt for it, and went clattering down the little steps to the shore,
while she stood watching till she saw him get into his boat and start
with the others for his two or three days' fishing.
She did not know why her husband's mind had been specially full of
young "Jack-a-Napes" as he had called their only boy, but she wished he
had not spoken of it at the moment of their parting.
Jack made his way slowly back from the Vicarage. He had been too late,
after all. When he sauntered into the cottage, his baskets were heavier
than he liked, and his pockets were lighter.
"Why, Jack!" said his mother peeping into the basket.
For answer, Jack sat down and burst into tears.
"Aren't you well?" asked his mother.
Jack shook his head, and then sobbed out that father was cross, and he
wasn't going to sell fish any more if people wouldn't buy, and if he
was to be scolded when he did his best.
His mother looked at him for a few moments without speaking, and then
she placed his food near him, and went on with her netting.
Jack wiped his eyes and ate his dinner in silence. He could not quite
make his mother out.
"Jack," she said, when he had finished, "take one of those baskets and
go out again and see what you can do. 'If a man will not work, neither
shall he eat,' is the Bible rule. And I'm not going to have you idle
all the morning, and then think you'll play and eat as usual."
Jack slowly went forth again, but he found most people supplied, and he
had hard work to get even some of his fish sold.
Meanwhile, his mother prayed over her netting. She had been young and
troublesome herself, she knew; and every day, even now, she saw how
much patience God had with her!
————————————
CHAPTER III.
SO when Jack brought his empty basket at last, and laid the money down
on the table, she kissed him, and said a cheery word or two.
"Jack, I see you have done your best to make up for this morning! Now,
have your tea, and then you may go down to see the boats in. There's a
high sea on, and they'll have a job to beach them. I'm glad in that way
that your father won't be in to-night. He's safer out there."
Jack lifted his face to give her a kiss.
"Thank you, mother," he said, more gratefully than was his wont.
And he was off like a shot to the only landing place where, in rough
weather, the boats could be brought up, and there he stood among the
men, ready to catch the rope that was thrown, or to do any little
service with all his might.
"I hope it won't be like this when father lands to-morrow," said Jack
to himself. "Poor father! I wish I hadn't been so rough to him to-day.
But I never can hold my tongue! Perhaps some day, when I get older—"
And then some of his grandfather's words had come back to
him—"Jack-a-Napes, there's nothing like serving Christ for getting rid
of the devil! That's the best way, my boy!"
The next day, however, the wind had risen to a gale, and the waves
dashed against the cliff with the noise of thunder.
Jack did not say much. But he started out bright and early with the
remainder of his fish, and often he cast a glance over the sea and at
the scudding clouds, longing that the wind might abate before the other
fishing boats were expected.
Perhaps he had never spent such an unhappy day. He remembered how he
had wished in his anger yesterday that father never would come back;
and the thought seemed to burn into him like fire.
The moment he could get off, he ran down to the beach, and there he
stood for many long hours, sheltering from the wind behind a big rock,
and watching the sea line with large anxious eyes. What if father never
came back?
It began to grow dusk, but still he watched. Suddenly in his despair,
he thought of praying! He dropped on his knees behind the great rock,
and though his voice was drowned by the thunder of the waves, he felt
sure God heard his broken words.
"Please, heavenly Father, forgive me, and make me a good boy to father,
and bring him safe home, for Jesus' sake."
He rose feeling wonderfully comforted, and then he saw a stir among the
sailors, and on the crest of a wave fast coming in was his father's
boat!
"Thank the Lord!" said grandfather's voice close to him. "For hearing
our prayers and bringing him home, Jack-a-Napes!"
[Illustration]
"PUNCHINELLO."
A TRUE STORY.
GWENDOLINE hugged her doll rapturously, and, looking up in her mother's
face, exclaimed, "I love Punchinello better than 'anything' in the
world!"
So saying, she put him down to go and learn her evening text.
To-night it was, "Little children, keep yourselves from idols."
"What does 'idols' mean, mother?"
"Anything in our hearts that we put in the place God ought to have; or
anything that we love more than we do Him," said her mother softly.
In her own mind, she was learning the text too, and as she gazed at her
little daughter afresh, she was asking that she might love her heavenly
Father more—much more—and her fatherless little girl next.
Gwendoline, unconscious of her mother's thoughts, learned her text, and
then went to bed, returning only for her good-night kiss.
"Mother," said she, as she lay in her arms for her "cuddle," as she
called it, "mother, is God sad if we have an idol?"
[Illustration]
"Why, yes, Gwenny, He is, for He loved us so much as to give His Son to
die for us."
"Then—" with a slight sob—"I mustn't love Punchinello 'best' any more."
"No, darling; and He loves you so much, it will not be hard to love
Him."
"I will, I do," said the child softly. "And, mother, please may I give
Punchinello to the little lame Mary, and that will 'help' me not to
love him too much."
So next day, Gwendoline took her dear Punchinello to little lame Mary,
and added a great brightness and joy to the life of the sick child.
As she put the doll into Mary's hand, Gwendoline whispered, "It is
because Jesus loves me I give you that, and also to help me remember to
love 'Him' best; so you'll remember too, won't you?"
Mary did remember, every time she played with her dear dolly.
And little Gwenny went home and remembered too.
So years passed on, and Gwendoline learned to love Jesus Christ and God
much best, and was content to leave her nice home and go and teach the
heathen of His great love.
And her mother had her prayer answered, and she too learned to love God
best, and was willing to spare her child to do God's great work.
And so their prayer was answered.
[Illustration]
HIRA'S QUEST.
CHAPTER XX.—BEHÁRI LÁL.
DURING the time Rita was singing, a boy who was passing down the lane
had been attracted by the unusual sound. And then, seeing the crowd
gathered, had joined in, and standing on the outskirts listened to
the hymn being sung. At first, he could not see the singer, but by
gradually forcing his way, he at last came in sight of her.
If anyone had been watching him, they would have seen him give a
violent start. He might have seen a ghost, and indeed he thought he
had, for as he looked at the scene before him he felt quite certain
that the blind girl, arrayed in her clean white sari, sitting by the
side of the dying woman, was none other than his cousin Hira, who had
died a year ago.
Had he not been present when Sukhiya had come in and announced her
death, with bitter cries and reproaches?
Anyway, she was sitting there before him—whether in real flesh and
blood or not, he could not tell. He had heard of strange things
happening at the time of death, and even he could see that the woman
lying there was dying, so maybe the girl who had been so loved by her,
though by no one else, had appeared to comfort her at that hour.
Still, being a plain, matter-of-fact boy, he hardly thought this
likely, and was much more inclined to believe that Hira really had
never died; so he determined to wait and see what would happen next.
As soon as Hira knew that her old friend was dead, she began to think
of returning home, for she remembered Anandi's parting injunction not
to stay a minute longer than she could possibly help.
Then the difficulty arose—how was she to get back? The old woman, whose
legs were still aching, did not volunteer to take another walk, and
there was no one else who knew the house.
Here Behári Lál (Hira's cousin) saw his opportunity, and determined
to have a little fun out of the strange event. So coming forward, he
offered the girl to see her safely home.
To Hira's quick ear, the voice had a familiar sound, but when or where
she had heard it, she could not remember. And being only too glad to
find anyone who was willing to be her escort, she was quite ready to
trust herself to the boy's guidance.
But Behári Lál had no intention of taking his cousin to Rámpál Singh's
house. If he had told the truth, he had not the least idea where it
was; rather he meant to take her to his own home, and give those there
a good fright by showing them a ghost. What fun it would be to see
their consternation!
So the two started on their way. Hira's mind was too full of the scene
she had just left, to think of which way she was going, so she the more
easily fell into the trap laid for her.
The boy thought it best to keep silent, lest his voice should betray
him. So nothing was said till they reached the house, and Behári Lál
knocked with the chain on the door.
"Where are the steps?" asked Hira in a bewildered voice, as she felt
for the familiar entrance and did not find it.
"Just wait a minute till they bring a light; it is so dark I can hardly
see where we are," answered the boy. "Perhaps I have brought you to the
wrong door. Don't be troubled; I will see you safely home."
After a further knocking and waiting, the door was opened.
Behári Lál had taken care to have a good grasp of Hira's arm. And
before she had time to think, she was inside the courtyard. Then
followed a scene of great confusion.
"I have brought someone to see you," said the boy.
And his mother, catching sight of the blind girl, whom she had thought
of as dead for more than a year, uttered a loud scream.
By this time, she knew that she had been led astray, that she had not
been brought to Rámpál Singh's house, but to some strange place.
Then, as she began to distinguish the voices, it flashed upon her what
it all meant; the familiar voice was that of her cousin, and he had
brought her to her uncle's house. But why her appearance should have
caused such consternation she could not imagine. Now her heart sank
within her! Suppose they should refuse to let her go, and she had to go
back to the old life of poverty and misery? Gradually the clamour of
voices grew less, and she was able to make herself heard.
"Why have you been so cruel as to bring me here," she asked, "where
no one wants me? You promised to take me home, and this is my home no
longer. I am a Christian and live with Christians. Take me back to
them; they will all be looking for me."
"Tell us first," answered the aunt angrily, "who made up all that fine
story that we had turned you out into the storm and you had died of
cold and wet? Fine Christians those who have taught you to lie like
that, though certainly you did not need much teaching."
Then Hira began to get angry too, for she understood nothing of the
story of her death. "I never said I was dead," she said in a shrill,
excited voice. "I never said you turned me out; I never said anything
about you, and it was you who taught me to lie. Now I am a Christian, I
know better, and I never tell lies. But take me home—do take me home;
they will all be wondering where I am."
"And where is your home but here, where your father left you? And
what will he say when he comes back and hears that you have become a
Christian? Far better that he should hear that you are dead, as we all
thought."
"But I 'won't' stay here," cried Hira, stamping her feet angrily; "if
you try to keep me, I will run away again; you cannot make me stay if I
don't want to. How can a Christian live with Hindus? Oh, do let me go!"
"How do 'we' know where your Christian friends live?" asked Behári Lál.
"So how can we take you there? They are no friends of ours, these new
friends of yours, who steal other people's children."
Hearing this, Hira became more angry than ever, and uttered many bitter
words of anger and scorn. If it had not been for her tall figure and
clean, tidy clothes, it might have been the very same child who had
disappeared a year ago.
"A fine Christian you are!" said her aunt contemptuously. "And nice
friends those must be who have taught you to come back and abuse your
relations like this. We have heard quite enough of you for now, so you
had better be quiet and go to sleep."
Hira's only answer was to sit down on the ground and weep bitterly.
No one took any more notice of her, and when she was exhausted with
crying, she lay down where she was, but no sleep came to her.
Gradually the rest of the household left off talking, and settled
themselves for the night. And in the silence that followed, Hira had a
good opportunity for thinking over what had passed and what was likely
to happen next.
Her anger had begun to subside, and in its place a feeling of shame
begets to steal over her. Again, she seemed to hear the words of her
aunt, "A fine Christian you are, and nice friends those must be."
How often she had been told that it was useless to bear the name of
Christ unless she also had His spirit and did as He would do! Now she
had proved to her heathen relations that the so-called Christian Hira
was no different to, no better than, the Hindu Hira.
Again she wept bitterly, but this time they were not tears of rage and
bitterness, but of shame and sorrow.
She felt so lonely and desolate, for she was not only separated from
her earthly friends, but how could she believe that her heavenly Friend
could be near her when she had so sinned against Him?
"Please, Lord Jesus, forgive me for being so naughty and keep me from
getting angry any more. And oh, do take me home again," she whispered.
And so from that heathen home went up the first prayer which had ever
been offered in it.
We may be quite sure that it was answered, and in spite of her sorrow
and loneliness, a sense of quietness and peace stole into the child's
heart. She knew she was alone no longer, that there was One beside her
able to take care of her under all circumstances, and to save her from
the greatest dangers.
Then she began to wonder what she could do to atone for the wrong she
had done. And finally made up her mind that as soon as her aunt woke,
she would ask her to forgive her. Then, she thought, she will see that
if Christians do naughty things, they are sorry for it afterwards.
After that, with a mind at rest, she fell asleep.
The next morning she woke with a start, roused by the sound of voices.
For a moment, she could not think where she was. How did she come to be
lying on the hard ground? And who were those people who were talking so
loudly around her?
Then it all came back to her: Sukhiya's death, her being brought to
her uncle's house, the stormy scene which had followed, her prayer for
forgiveness, and her determination to confess her fault to her aunt.
Again from her heart went up a cry for divine help.
"Please, Lord Jesus, keep me good and tell me what to say."
Then she listened to what was being said, and found that Behári Lál
was being scolded for bringing her there. Suddenly the voices became
more subdued and she could only just catch the mention of rupees, and
understood nothing of what it meant.
As soon as the discussion had come to an end, she got up from the place
where she had been lying, and groping her way along, called her aunt by
name.
The response she received was not encouraging. But Hira never lacked
courage, and she said bravely, "Please, aunt, forgive me for being so
angry last night; I know it was very naughty. And please send me home."
A sudden silence fell on the group, for all were surprised to hear the
fiery Hira speaking words of such gentleness. It was probably the first
time in their lives that they had ever heard anyone confess themselves
in the wrong, or ask for forgiveness.
The aunt hardly knew how to grant it, never having done so before,
so she only looked at the blind girl with astonishment. And, after a
pause, said, "Let you go home! Why shouldn't we? We have no money to
buy you fine clothes like those; and what would you say to our food
now, I wonder? Besides, how can Hindus and Christians live together?"
"Then you will send me back?" cried Hira joyfully.
"And where are we to send you?" asked the uncle, who was standing by.
"'You' cannot find the way, and 'we' don't know it."
Here was a difficulty Hira had not thought of. She shrank from being
entrusted to Behári Lál's care, but what else could be done? So she
said, "Let Behári Lál go with me, and we will ask and ask until we find
the house. Everyone knows Rámpál Singh and his daughter, because they
are so good."
But Behári Lál thought differently. "No indeed," he exclaimed on
hearing the proposal; "I was abused enough last night for bringing you
here; I am not going to take you anywhere else."
It was difficult for Hira not to give an angry and reproachful answer.
But, remembering her late repentance, she held back the words which
were so ready to come, and said nothing.
In the meantime, her uncle and aunt whispered together, after which the
latter said quite kindly, "Wait patiently a little while, and all will
be settled rightly. Your uncle is going out, and will, maybe, find out
where these people live."
So Hira had to be as patient as she knew how. In a little while, the
men of the household went out, and she and her aunt were left alone.
Then she was glad she had not gone away at once when she wanted to, for
in the talk which followed, she was able to tell all which had befallen
her.
And for the first time in her life, the one who had never heard the
good news of salvation, listened to the sweet story as it was told by
her blind niece.
She listened attentively, and at the end said, with a sigh, "Your words
are very good, Hira, and as I listen, I forget everything else and feel
glad; but they are not for me. It is a good thing for you that you have
become a Christian, for by doing so you have got food to eat and good
clothes to wear; but what can I do? I must just go on as I am."
"But it was not to get clothes and food that I became a Christian,"
cried the girl eagerly; "it was to get my sins put away and be ready to
meet God; and the Lord Jesus will do just the same for you if you ask
Him."
"No, no, child," was the answer. "What time have I to learn these new
things? All my time goes in thinking of food and pice. I will go the
same way as my forefathers have gone, and what I don't know, God does."
Hira was sorely disappointed with this indifferent answer, and wondered
that anyone should hear such good news without being glad.
Just then a woman came in with flour to sell, so there was no more
opportunity for talking. The new-comer was full of the story of
Sukhiya's accident and death, which Hira, so taken up with her
own experiences, had forgotten to mention. She too expressed her
astonishment at the appearance of the blind girl, whom all had thought
to be dead.
This led to Hira's asking for an explanation. And she heard of the
false story which her old friend had invented on her behalf, and how
she had thought and planned for her good.
"Hail, King of the Jews!"
WHEN the chief priests of the Jews had determined to kill the Lord
Jesus, after examining Him for many hours on that dreadful night in
which He had been betrayed by Judas and forsaken by His disciples, as
they did not like to put Him to death themselves, they took Him when
the morning dawned to Pilate, the Roman governor, for they thought he
would do what they wished.
The Jews and the high priest had asked the Lord Jesus whether He really
was the Christ, the Son of God; and Jesus, to leave them without
excuse, told them plainly that He was, and that hereafter they would
see Him sitting in heaven and coming back to earth in the clouds.
At this, they were fearfully angry, and tore their clothes, and led Him
away to Pilate, in the hopes that Pilate would at once order Him to be
put to death.
So Pilate examined Jesus and put to Him many questions. But the dear
Lord, who could have asked His Father to send thousands of angels to be
with Him, stood before Pilate and answered nothing.
Pilate was very much afraid to do anything to the Lord Jesus. His wife
sent to him when he was sitting on the judgment-seat, telling him of a
dream she had had, and begging him to have nothing to do with Jesus,
because He had done nothing wrong.
But the Jews kept on clamouring that Jesus should be crucified, and
Pilate was more afraid of the Jews than he was of displeasing God. So
at last, he ordered the dear Lord to be scourged, and then told the
soldiers they could take Him away to be crucified.
So they led Him into a great hall, and there they gathered together all
the rest of the soldiers, and began to mock at the dear Lord whom we
love so much.
They clothed Him with a purple robe and plaited a crown of long sharp
thorns and put it on His loving head, and then they began to bow to Him
and call Him in mockery the King of the Jews.
Jesus did not mind being called the King of the Jews, because He came
to be their King; He was only sorry they would not love Him or have Him
for their King.
But oh, how it must have cut Him to the heart in all His pain to have
them mock Him, and beat Him on the head, and spit upon Him, and pretend
to worship Him!
If our hearts are filled with grief that He could have suffered so
much, should it not make us love Him more than ever, and hate the sins
which He died on purpose to put away?
[Illustration]
We may not know, we cannot tell, | There was no other good enough
What pains He had to bear, | To pay the price of sin,
But we believe it was for us | He only could unlock the gate
He hung and suffered there. | Of heaven, and let us in.
|
He died that we might be forgiven, | Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
He died to make us good, | And we must love Him too,
That we might go at last to heaven, | And trust in His redeeming blood,
Saved by His precious blood. | And try His works to do.
GRAND-DAD'S ADVICE.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
ROLLO had said only that morning that he wished Clare's brat were at
the bottom of the sea!
And he had wished it just then, for all night long Clare had been
walking up and down her room, while the baby had moaned and cried
ceaselessly.
But now here was Clare coming down over the beach, with white face and
eyes heavy with unshed tears; and surely she looked as if something
were the matter as she came up and showed the babe to grandfather.
Rollo's heart smote him; beneath his rough boyish exterior he had a
tender spot, and that was for his sister Clare who had brought him up
since he was a toddling child.
[Illustration]
"What is it, my dear?" asked grandfather in his sympathetic, cheery
tones, looking in the little face as he spoke.
"I can't think," said Clare despairingly. "The neighbours say I shall
lose him. There was a white dove flew against the window this morning—"
"I wouldn't trouble over that," he said gently, "but think what's best
to be done for the little 'un. I should take him indoors, and give him
a warm bath and keep him wrapped up a bit. And then—"
"Then?" asked Clare, raising her heavy eyes.
"Then I should tell the Lord all about it, and ask Him to bless what
you've done, and make the little 'un better in His own time."
"I wish I could trust Him like you do, grand-dad," she said tearfully,
as she turned and made her way back to the cottage with her treasure.
Rollo stood looking on.
What if his cruel thought that morning were to deprive Clare of her
baby?
"Grand-dad," he said, moving closer, "if you was to wish a wrong thing
in your heart and then be ever so sorry you had, what would you do?"
"I'd run quick and ask the Lord to forgive it; and I'd make what amends
I could, if so be I'd hurt anyone."
Rollo ran after his sister.
"Clare," he said, "I'm ever so sorry I was nasty about the baby—and
indeed, I've asked God to forgive me, and to make him better—"
"Dear old Rollo!" she said, but she felt comforted.
HIRA'S QUEST.
CHAPTER XXI.—BROUGHT HOME.
[Illustration] WHEN Rámpál Singh and his daughter returned home on the
night of Sukhiya's death, they heard, with some consternation, that
Hira had gone out alone with a strange old woman.
They had no heart to reproach Anandi for letting her go, for the old
servant was so distressed herself that they could not add to her grief.
As no one had the least idea where the ghi-seller lived, it was
impossible to go in search of the missing girl, so they could only wait
and pray, hoping that she would soon return.
As night closed in and still she did not come, Rámpál Singh started out
in hopes of hearing some news. But as he took the opposite direction
and went away from, instead of towards, Sukhiya's home, he naturally
heard nothing, and returned as much in the dark as ever.
The night was passed by the whole household in great anxiety, for who
could tell that the story was a true one? It was more than possible
that Sukhiya's accident had been invented as a means of enticing the
blind girl away from her Christian friends.
As soon as morning dawned, the search was begun in good earnest. In
spite of her weakness, Anandi persisted in taking her part, for she
bitterly reproached herself for having let the girl go, and longed to
do all in her power to bring her back.
On her way, she met Reuben Dayál, who was more than ready to help those
who had been such good friends to his family in time of need.
"I know Sukhiya quite well," he said cheerily, "and will soon find out
whether she really fell off the roof or not. If she did, everybody will
know it."
The boy was not at all sure of the house, but he went in the right
direction. And the first person he met told him that it was quite true
that the ghi-seller had fallen off the roof, that she had died soon
after, and even now preparations were being made for her funeral.
Reuben was delighted to think that he was to be the one to restore Hira
to her friends, and hurried on to the house, which had been pointed out
to him.
Here a new difficulty arose. There were several amongst those gathered
to take part in the funeral who bore witness to the fact that a blind
girl had been there the night before, but none could tell what had
become of her. All they knew was that a boy in the crowd had offered to
see her home, and she had left with him.
Reuben was sorely disappointed that he was again thrown off the track.
Still, he determined not to give up, for it was plain that Hira could
not be very far-off.
As he was standing outside, wondering where he should go next, a man
and boy passed him; they were talking very earnestly, and he thought he
caught the name of Rámpál Singh. This might be a clue, so he followed
them, and as they turned a corner, he caught them up and asked eagerly,
"Have you heard anything of a blind girl who was here last night, in
the ghi-seller's house?"
Reuben was a sharp boy, and he knew from the look of warning which the
man gave to his son that he did know something, whether he said so or
not.
"What blind girl are you asking after? And what should we know about
her?" was the evasive answer given.
"Tell us what she is like," said Behári Lál, "for there are many blind
girls, and we might tell you of the wrong one."
Reuben gave a few particulars of Hira's appearance, which the father
and son gravely listened to.
And at the end, the man asked, "And who may 'you' be, that you should
be looking for this girl? Perhaps you are her brother?"
"Oh, no, I am not," answered Reuben; "I am no relation at all. But
Rámpál Singh and his daughter have been very kind to my mother, and as
they are in great trouble about this lost girl, I am trying to find
her."
"And who is Rámpál Singh? And where does he live?" asked the man
carelessly.
Reuben was delighted at the opportunity, and eagerly exclaimed, "Shall
I take you to his house? Then you can tell him all you know."
"What do I know about this girl?" was the answer. "But you can show me
the house; it will do no harm."
So Reuben led the way while the others followed.
When they arrived, Rámpál Singh had just returned after another vain
search.
Reuben introduced his two companions by saying, "I think this man knows
something about Hira, so I have brought him to you."
Behári Lál was ready to contradict this statement, but his father
stopped him.
Then began a conversation, from which Rámpál Singh gathered, with some
difficulty, for he could get no direct answer, that the man "could"
give some information, but he was determined to gain something for
himself by doing so. It was quite evident that if a sufficient reward
was offered, Hira would very soon be produced.
This was a perplexing turn for things to take, for, anxious as Rámpál
Singh was to rescue the blind girl and bring her home again, he
hesitated at taking such means. Besides, if it should be proved that
the man was any relation, and so had a claim on the girl, having once
obtained money on this account, he might try to do so again and again.
Before there had been time to settle this knotty point, suddenly
Shushila and Anandi appeared in sight, bringing Hira with them.
The man's face fell, and Behári Lál gave an exclamation of surprise.
But neither of them revealed the fact that this was the blind girl of
whom they could have given some information if they had chosen.
Rámpál Singh said gravely, "I see my daughter has found the missing
child, so we need not trouble you any more."
And the father and son quietly walked away.
[Illustration]
TO-DAY.
"THERE!" cried Mrs. Rosendale, stopping short in her walk. "I have
never given poor Mrs. Lee that money after all! How stupid of me!"
"You gave her the parcel," said Beatrice; "won't that do for to-day?"
Mrs. Rosendale sighed. She was very, very tired—almost too tired to
contemplate another twenty minutes' walk through the snow, and yet the
money she had taken for Mrs. Lee was urgently needed.
She hesitated still, and Beatrice fidgeted her hoop backwards and
forwards. She knew her mother was weary and that she might offer to go
by herself, but it was dull to go alone.
"Can't they wait till to-morrow?" she said grudgingly. "You are always
doing things for them."
"He that 'seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his compassion
from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?'" said Mrs. Rosendale
thoughtfully. "We know their need, Beatrice. Yes, I must go." She
turned round resolutely and set off at a brisk pace.
"I 'spose I can go," said Beatrice, lagging a step or so behind. "You
go home, mother. Mrs. Lee ought to be very grateful to you, wearing
yourself out like this."
[Illustration]
"I shouldn't like you to go grudgingly, dear," said Mrs. Rosendale,
pausing and looking into the clouded little face, "for to help these
poor ones is to serve the Lord Jesus."
"I said I'd go," repeated Beatrice.
She could not quite conjure up a smile, it did seem such an unnecessary
bother to go back, but she held out her hand for the money, and
strolled slowly away.
She had not intended to do more than pop the money into Mrs. Lee's hand
and return at once; but such a mite of a boy opened the door and told
her to come to mother 'cause baby was a-dying that she felt obliged to
step inside. And once in, she stood fascinated.
Such a poor bare room, such a tiny fire, such a pale, sorrowful mother,
such a tiny, pinched baby lying with closed eyes on her lap.
"Mother sent you this," said Beatrice in a whisper.
Mrs. Lee's eyes brightened. "The doctor has just been, miss, and he
said as how we might still save the baby with proper nourishment.
Will you tell your dear mother, and say I can't thank her enough? The
money's just come in time, please God."
Beatrice went home to find warm shoes and hot cocoa awaiting her, and
she delivered her message, but she said little of all she had seen.
The next day, thought snow was falling fast, she volunteered to go
again and see how the baby did. And an hour later, she came flying into
her mother's room.
"Mother, it's better! It's got its eyes open and smiled at me!" Then
she flung her arms round her mother's neck, and her eyes filled with
sudden tears. "Oh, mother darling, if you hadn't persisted in going
yesterday, it might have been dead."
"I thought 'you' went, my child."
"Yes," said Beatrice slowly, "but I hated going. Now I am so very, very
glad. Mrs. Lee said God must have sent us just at the right minute."
HIRA'S QUEST.
CHAPTER XXII.—"SHE ONLY TOUCHED THE HEM OF HIS GARMENT."
HIRA had much to tell of all which had befallen her from the time when
she left her home under the protection of the old woman.
The child had a natural gift for telling stories, and as she related
her adventures, the whole household listened with the keenest interest.
As she described Sukhiya's death, she felt as if she were living
through the scene, and what had been for a time banished from her mind
by other things, now came back with intense reality.
"I never knew she loved me so much," said the girl tearfully, "but I
see it all now, and that she told that lie—that believing me to be
dead, no one might try to get me back again. If only she had believed
on the Lord Jesus and had been made ready to meet God, I would not
mind, because then I would have been sure of seeing her again; but now
she has gone, and I will never see her any more. Poor Sukhiya!"
"But how do you know that she did not trust the Lord Jesus, and that He
did not make her ready to meet God?" asked Rámpál Singh.
The girl's face brightened. "Oh! Do you think He did? She did not seem
to care, and there was such a little while."
"And how long did it take the Lord Jesus to cleanse the man who was
full of leprosy, or to heal the woman who touched the hem of His
garment? Sukhiya said, 'Lord Jesus, save my soul,' but that woman did
not say one word, and yet she was healed. It takes us a long time to do
a very little thing, but the Lord can do a great work in a very little
time."
"Then you really think," said Hira joyfully, "that I shall see my dear
old Sukhiya again, and be able to tell her that I did really love her?"
"I know this," was the answer, "that the love of our Lord is just as
tender and forgiving and His power is just as great as it was before He
died on the cross, and if Sukhiya asked Him from her heart to save her,
that He never said her nay."
"Then I 'will' believe that Sukhiya has gone to be with God, and that
I shall meet her there. And I am very glad now that I got lost again,
though I was so frightened at the time."
As she continued her story, she told how, after her uncle and cousin
had gone out, and her aunt was bargaining with the flour-seller, she
went and sat close by the door and began to sing, because, she said,
"I knew I could not see if anyone I knew passed by, and my aunt would
have been angry if I had sat with the door open, or on the doorstep, so
that I could be seen. But I thought, 'If I sit and sing, someone who is
looking for me may hear my voice and know that I am here.'"
"It must have been God who put that thought into your heart," said
Shushila, "for that is just how we found you. We did not know where to
go and look for you, but all at once, I heard the sound of singing, and
when I came a little nearer, I said, 'It is surely Hira's voice.' And
when I pushed the door open, there you were."
"And was your aunt willing to let you go?" asked Rámpál Singh.
"No, indeed she was not," said Shushila. "She said Hira must wait till
her uncle returned, to say what was to be done. I think she really
wanted to let her go, but was afraid what her husband would say."
Then Hira spoke. "So I said I was very hungry, and I asked her to give
me something to eat. She said quite angrily, 'Do you think I am going
to feed a Christian?'
"So I asked, 'How can I live here if you will not feed me?'
"Then we came away and she did not try to stop us, only we heard her
talking very loud as we walked away down the lane. Oh, I am glad that
I have come back, for I was so afraid they would keep me, and that I
should get angry again."
There was no need for Shushila and her father to say that they were
very glad too. But there was fear mixed with their joy, for now that
Hira's relatives had discovered where she lived, and were evidently
anxious to make something out of her, it was hardly likely that they
would be left in peace.
However, as the days passed by and nothing more was heard or seen of
Behári Lál and his father, the fear was soon forgotten, and except for
the remembrance of Sukhiya and the closing scene of her life, Hira's
adventure passed from the minds of all.
It was only a few days later that Mary Dayál came to Rámpál Singh's
house to ask for some advice from her friend.
Shushila and her father were not at home, but Hira, recognising the
voice, cried eagerly, "Please don't go away. I am here, and I want you
to listen to something."
Mary, who always had a warm place in her heart for the blind child, was
quite willing to spend a little time with her.
When she had been seated, Hira said, "You must not try to 'see'
anything, you must only listen."
Then a voice began to read, rather slowly and hesitatingly, but quite
clearly, "'In My Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I
would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.'"
It was difficult not to look round and see the reader, but Mary obeyed
her orders. After several verses had been read, Hira came to her
friend's side, and with a beaming face asked,—
"Do you know who was reading? It was I, but you didn't know that blind
people could read before, did you?"
Mary expressed quite enough surprise and pleasure to satisfy the
delighted child, who was then quite willing to fetch her book and show
its wonders.
Suddenly she exclaimed, "And, oh, I want to tell you something I never
knew before. Shushila says that when the Lord Jesus said those words,
'I will come again, and receive you unto Myself,' He meant just exactly
what He said, and that He is really and truly coming back again,
perhaps very soon. Are you not glad?"
There was a thrill of joy in Mary's voice as she answered, "Yes,
indeed, child. Why should we not be glad to see our dear Lord whom we
love so much?"
"But it will be best of all for me," cried the child again, "because
when Jesus comes, I shall have my new eyes and not be blind any more.
And shan't I be just like that blind man? Because the first person he
ever saw was the Lord Jesus, and so He will be the first that I shall
see. It used to make me angry that I did not have my new eyes all at
once, but now I think I am rather glad, because it makes me want the
Lord Jesus to come all the more, and Shushila says it must make Him sad
if we do not want Him to come."
"I am afraid," said Mary sadly, "there are a great many who do not care
about His coming."
Then said Hira thoughtfully, "That must be either because they do
not know and love Him, or else, that they are not ready to meet Him.
Shushila says we cannot be glad unless we are ready, and now I know
what she meant when she said the Lord Jesus would give me something
better than new eyes. He has given me a new heart, and some day I shall
have the new eyes too."
There was silence, and then Mary spoke again. "When I first heard that
the Lord Jesus was coming back, I felt very glad, but sometimes I feel
afraid, because I think I shall be ashamed that I am not more fit to
meet Him."
Neither of the two speakers had noticed that Shushila and her father
had come in, and they started as Rámpál Singh said earnestly, "We know
that when He shall appear, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him
as He is. There will be no need to be ashamed when we are like our own
blessed Lord."
No one spoke till Shushila said joyously, "Oh, how happy and how good
we ought to be, for whether we have much or little in this world, we
have 'everything' in Jesus Christ our Lord; and when we look forward to
what we are going to 'be' and to 'have,' no words seem enough to thank
and praise God for all His wonderful love and goodness."
"And," responded her father, "the very least we can do is to seek to
walk worthily of this high calling, and so to be to the praise of His
glory."
Thus, we leave them. The father and daughter seeking to raise others
to the same height of spiritual life and happiness to which they have
themselves been brought.
The husband and wife starting life afresh, with an almighty hand to
uphold them as they run together the heavenly race. And Hira, the blind
child, whose eyes had been opened already to see the things "which are
unseen and eternal," looks forward with joy to the time when in the day
of perfect vision she will see "the King in His beauty."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SUNSET FOR JAMIE.
BY CATHARINE SHAW.
"WHAT'S father doing now?" asked a little invalid, raising his head
ever so slightly from his pillow.
"I don't rightly know, Jamie; but I see it's near sundown, and he and
the sheep will be making their way home."
The little boy's eyes brightened. "I'm glad of that," he said, with a
weary little sigh. "I'm always glad when sunset comes, and then again
I'm always glad when sunrise comes. Isn't that funny?"
"Not that I know of," said the busy mother, darning in and out over a
big hole in her eldest boy's stocking. She thought she was glad too
when the sunset came, and the day's work was nearly over; and then when
the light came once more, she was glad that the new day was there, with
its new duties and new strength to do them.
Perhaps something else in her thought was reflected in the child's
eyes; for she put down her work and stroked his hair tenderly.
"There's the same Shepherd to lead His little lamb towards Home at
sunset as there is to lead him to the pastures at sunrise, Jamie. He
loves you, and will not give you more to bear than He will give you
strength for."
Jamie's eyes watered in sympathy with hers. He knew that his mother had
learned the lesson herself, or she would not have said it.
"And what is father doing 'now?'" he asked, when she took up her
darning again.
"He is getting near home, I should think; and the sheep and lambs are
hurrying a little to reach the fold before nightfall. And father is
thinking of his Jamie, and praying that his pain may be better—"
Jamie nodded ever so little; he was sure of all that too.
"You can tell him that I think it is—a little," he whispered; "that
will make him eat his supper better—"
Then there was a stir in the yard, and the sheep-dog came barking up
the path. And in a moment, a kind, weather-beaten face peeped in, and a
cheery voice, which was music to Jamie's heart, said—
"And how's my little laddie to-night? Here's father come back, and all
the sheep are in the fold, Jamie!"
[Illustration: END.]