THE OLD SOLDIER AND HIS YOUNG PUPIL ON SUNDAY EVENING
On his return home after these visits, he placed Mary on Charlie's
chair, beside himself, resolving, although the other members of the
class were still absent, that he would nevertheless teach Mary as their
representative, as well as for her own sake. There had come into his
possession one of those small books of guidance and instruction which
many intellectual people--so called by men, but probably not so
recognized by the angels, who minister even to children--affect to
despise, just as they would despise any "still small voice" when
compared with the loud storm, the brilliant fire, and the powerful,
rock-moving earthquake. This book was but a number of texts wisely
arranged by a bedridden Christian, for each day of the year, with one of
special and deeper import for its Sabbaths. The text for this Lord's
Day was--"They who know thy name will put their trust in thee"; and Adam
said to Mary, when she had repeated it as the lesson for the day, "Do ye
understan' what is meant, my dearie, by trusting God?"
"I'm no sure," she replied.
"But ye surely ken what it wad be to trust _me_, Mary?" continued the
Sergeant.
Mary looked up and smiled. She made no reply, but was evidently puzzled
by an attempt she was unconsciously making to understand the possibility
of want of trust in the Sergeant. So, finding no response, he again
asked, "Wad ye trust me, my wee woman?"
Mary seemed vexed, and said, "What wrang hae I dune? Ye telt me aye to
ca' you faither; I canna help; sae ye maunna be angry, for I hae nae
faither but you."
"Richt! verra richt!" said the Sergeant; "but, Mary dear, wad ye trust
God as weel as me?"
"No!" said Mary, very decidedly.
"What for no'?" asked the Sergeant, kindly.
"I'm awfu' frichtened for him," said Mary.
"Why are ye frichtened for _Him_?" asked Adam.
Mary seemed to be counting the buttons on his coat.
"Tell me, bairn!" he continued.
"Because," said Mary, sorrowfully, yet encouraged by his tone, "Mrs.
Craigie aye telt me He wad sen' me to the bad place; and when I got my
fit burned she said that I wad be a' burnt thegither some day, as I was
a bad lassie; and I'm sure I wasna' doing her ony ill to mak' her say
that."
"God will never," remarked the Sergeant, reverently, "send ye to the bad
place, unless ye gang yersel'."
"I'll never do that!" exclaimed Mary.
"I hope no', my lassie," said Adam, "for I wish you no' to be bad, but
to be good; and to trust God is the way to be good. Noo tell me, Mary,
why wad ye trust me?"
"Because--jist because," said Mary, looking up to his face, "ye're
faither."
"Weel dune, Mary!" continued the Sergeant. "Noo tell me what's the
beginning o' the Lord's Prayer?"
"Our Faither which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy name. Thy----"
"That'll do, Mary," interrupted Adam. "But can ye tell me noo wha's yer
Faither as weel as me?"
After a pause, Mary said, as if she had made a discovery, "Our Faither
in heaven!"
"That's a clever woman! _Faither!_ that's God's _Name_. And noo that
ye ken his Name, ye maun trust Him faur mair than me: for He lo'es ye
mair than I can do, and is aye wi' ye; and never will forsake ye, and
can aye help ye; and He has said that when faither and mither forsake
you, he will tak' ye up. That will He, my lassie!"
"But," said Mary, "my mither and faither, they tell me, dee'd wi' fever,
but didna forsake me."
"That's true; but I mean, my bairn," said Adam, "that ye can never be an
orphan lassie wi' God as yer Faither."
"But," said Mary, "for a' that, ye maun aye be my faither as weel. Oh!
dinna sen' me back to Mrs. Craigie."
"Dinna fear, Mary," replied Adam; "but maybe I maun hae to leave you.
God may tak' me awa', and tak' yer mither there awa' too; and then when
ye're alane in the world, ye maun trust God."
"I'll no' trust Him," replied Mary; "if you and mither dees, I'll dee
tae, and gang wi' ye." And she fairly broke down, and clung to him as
if he was about to leave her.
The Sergeant took Mary on his knee. "Be cheerie, Mary--be cheerie!" he
said. "If ye kent God, ye wad aye be cheerie, my lassie. Mrs. Craigie
has frichted ye."
"Ay, awfu'!" said Mary.
The Sergeant felt as if Mary had not quite learned her lesson, and he
continued:--"D'ye mind what I telt ye ae nicht aboot mithers bringing
their bairns to Christ?--and hoo some folk that didna ken Him were for
keeping them awa'?--and hoo Jesus was angry at them?--and hoo the bairns
gaed till Him----"
"And did they no' squeel wi' fricht?" asked Mary.
"Did ye squeel, Mary," asked the Sergeant, with a smile, "when I took ye
into _my_ arms?"
"No. What for should I?" replied Mary.
"Aweel, my lassie," argued Adam, "why do ye think that bairns like
yersel' should be frichted to trust that same Jesus wha was Himsel' a
bairn and kens a bairn's heart? He wad be unco sorry, Mary, if ye didna
trust Him, when He dee'd, as ye ken, on the cross to save you and me and
ilka body, and aye thinks aboot us and prays for us."
Mary sighed, and crept closer to the Sergeant.
Adam, taking her little hand in his, said, "Mind what I tell ye, my
bairn. Learn ye to speak aye to God and tell Him yer heart in yer ain
prayer, and never gang ony road He wadna like; and stick till Him as ye
wad to me if we were gaun ower the muir thegither at nicht, or through a
burn in a spate; and never, Mary, in the hour o' distress think that He
doesna care for you or has forgotten you. For nae doot whan ye grow up
to be big ye'll hae mony a distress, like ither folk, ye dinna ken aboot
yet."
Mary turned her face to his bosom as if to sleep, but never was she less
inclined to sleep.
The Sergeant added, with a sigh, "Think, my wee dearie, on what I tell
ye noo, after I'm dead and gane."
Katie, seated on the opposite side of the fire, had been reading
Boston's _Crook in the Lot_. She seemed not to have heard a word of her
husband's lesson; but her ears drank in the whole of it. The Sergeant
had evidently forgotten her presence, so quiet was she, and so absorbed
was he with Mary, who was to him a new life--his own child restored.
But as Katie caught his last words, she put down her book, and looking
almost in anger at her husband--could she have felt jealous of
Mary?--said, "Tuts, Adam! what's the use o' pitting me and Mary aboot
wi' discoorsin' in that way! It's really no' fair. I declare ane wad
think that Andra Wilkie, the bederal, was diggin' yer grave! What pits
deein' in yer head e'enoo? An' you an auld sodger! Be cheerie yersel',
man!"
"I daursay ye're richt, gudewife," said Adam, with a smile, and rather a
sheepish look, as if he had been caught playing the woman with an
unmanly expression of his feelings and dim forebodings. "Gie Mary her
piece," he added, "and sen' her to her bed. She has dune unco weel."
He passed into the bedroom, closing the door while Katie was putting
Mary to rest.
It was a peaceful night. He sat down near the small window of the
bedroom, from which was a pleasant peep of trees, their underwood now
hid in darkness, but their higher branches, with every leafy twig,
mingling with the blue of the starry sky, partially illumined by a new
moon. He had felt during these last days an increasing dulness of
spirits. But this evening he had been comforting himself while
comforting Mary; and remembering the lesson he had given her, he said to
himself, "Blessed are all they who put their trust in Thee". And
somehow there came into his mind pictures of the old war--times in
which, amidst the trampling of armed men and words of command, the
sudden rush to the charge or up the scaling-ladder, the roar and cries
of combat, the volcano of shot and shell bursting and filling the
heavens with flame and smoke and deadly missile, he had trusted God, and
felt calm at his heart, like a child in the arms of a loving parent.
These pictures flashed on him but for a second, yet they were sufficient
to remind him of what God had ever been to him, and to strengthen his
faith in what He would ever be.