CHAPTER V.

Eighteen months have passed away since my story began; and it is no

longer dull, foggy, November, but May, beautiful even in London,

where the squares and parks are green and fresh, and the lilacs and

laburnums in bloom, and the girls sell lilies-of-the-valley and wall

flowers in the streets, and trucks with double stocks and narcissus

"all a-growing and a-blowing" pass along, leaving a sweet, reviving

scent behind them. The sky is blue, with great soft masses of

cotton-wool cloud; and the air is balmy and pure in spite of smoke

and dirt; and sweet spring is making his power felt, even in the very

midst of London. It is blossoming time in the heart as well as in

the Kentish apple orchards; and the heart cannot help feeling gay and

singing its happy little song even though its cares, like the poor

larks in the Seven Dial's bird shops, ruffling their soft breasts and

knocking their poor brown heads against their cages in their ecstacy

of song.

[Illustration: (Dr. Carter and Violet)]

Dr. Carter had good cause for happiness that day, though, indeed, he

was moving among sickness and suffering in a great London hospital.

He had some lilies in his coat that Violet fastened there with her

own hands; and as she did so he had whispered, "Only another week,

Violet;" for their wedding day was fixed in the next week. And was

not that a thought that suited well with the lovely May weather, to

make him carry a glad heart under the lilies? The wedding had been

long delayed from one cause and another, but principally because the

search for the old mother had been altogether fruitless, in spite of

the confidence of the police.

"We will find her first," Violet would say; "we must find her,

Laddie." She adopted the old name quite naturally. "And then we

will talk of the wedding."

But the time rolled on, days, weeks, and months, till at last it was

more than a year ago that she had gone; and though they never gave up

the hope of finding her, or their efforts to do so, still it no

longer seemed to stand between them and give a reason for putting off

the marriage, but rather to draw them nearer together, and give a

reason for marrying at once. But on Dr. Carter's writing table

always stood the pair of pattens, much to the surprise of patients;

but he would not have them moved, and in his heart lay the pain of

regret, side by side with his love and happiness.

The doctors were making their rounds in the hospital, with a crowd of

students about them. There was a very interesting case in the

accident ward, over which much time was spent, and much attention

paid. I am not doctor enough to describe what the nature of the case

was; and if I were, I daresay you would not care to hear; but it was

a very interesting case to the doctors and nurses; and that means

that life and death were fighting over that bed, and science bringing

every re-enforcement in its power in aid of the poor battered

fortress that the grim king was attacking so severely. An easy

victory on either one side or the other is very uninteresting to

lookers-on, though of deepest moment to the patient. And so the

doctors passed on with hardly a word by the two next beds, in one of

which life was the conqueror, hanging out his flags of triumph in a

tinge of color on the cheeks, brightness in the eyes, and vigor in

the limbs; in the other, death was as plainly to be seen in the still

form and white, drawn face.

After the doctors and students had passed by, and finished their

round, Dr. Carter came back alone to No. 20. He had taken deep

interest in the case, and had something to say further about it to

the nurse. He was a great favorite with the nurses, from his

courteous, gentle manners; so they were not disposed to regard his

second visit as a troublesome, fidgety intrusion, as they might have

done with some. He had not been quite pleased with the way in which

a dresser had placed a bandage, and he altered it himself with those

strong, tender fingers of his, and was just going off better

satisfied, when he found the flowers had dropped from his coat. If

they had not been Violet's gift it would not have mattered; but he

did not like to lose what she had given, and he looked for them.

They had fallen, by some quick movement of his, on the next bed,

where death was having an easy victory.

The old woman's arms were stretched outside the bed clothes, and one

of her hands, hardworked hands, with the veins standing up on the

backs like cord, had closed, perhaps involuntarily, on the flowers,

the lilies and the dainty green leaf.

"Here they are, sir," said the nurse; "they must have dropped as you

turned round." And she tried to draw them from the woman's hand, but

it only closed the tighter. "She doesn't know a bit what she's

about. Leave go of the flowers, there's a good woman," she said

close to her ear; "the gentleman wants them."

But the hand still held them.

"Well, never mind!" Dr. Carter said, with just a shade of vexation;

"let her keep them. It does not matter, and you will only break them

if you try to get them away."

"She's not been conscious since they brought her in," the nurse said;

"it's a street accident; knocked down by an omnibus. We don't know

her name, or nothing, and no one's been to ask about her."

The doctor still stopped, looking at the lilies in the old hand.

"She is badly hurt," he said.

The nurse explained what the house surgeon had said: "Another day

will see an end of it. I thought she would have died this morning

when I first came on; she was restless then, and talked a little. I

fancy she's Scotch, for I heard her say, 'Laddie' several times."

The word seemed to catch the otherwise unconscious ear, for the old

woman turned her head on the pillow, and said feebly, "Laddie."

And then, all at once, the doctor gave a cry that startled all the

patients in the ward, and made many a one lift up her head to see the

cause of such a cry.

"Mother!" he cried, "mother, is it you?"

Dr. Carter was kneeling by the bed, looking eagerly, wildly, at the

wan white face. Was he mad? The nurse thought he must be, and this

sudden frenzy. And then he called again.---

"Mother, mother, speak to me!"

A childless mother near said afterwards she thought such a cry would

have called her back from the dead, and it almost seemed to do so in

this case, for the closed lids trembled and raised themselves a very

little, and the drawn mouth moved into the ghost of a smile, and she

said,--

"Eh, Laddie, here I be."

And then the nurse came nearer to reason with the madman.

"There is some mistake," she said; "this is quite a poor old woman."

And then he got up and looked at her, she said afterwards, "like my

lord duke, as proud as anything."

"Yes," he said, "and she is my mother. I will make arrangements at

once for her removal to my house if she can bear it."

Ah! that was the question, and it wanted little examination or

experience to tell that the old woman was past moving. The nurse,

bewildered and still incredulous, persuaded him not to attempt it;

and, instead, her bed was moved into a small ward off the large one,

where she could be left alone.

Love is stronger than death; many waters cannot drown it. Yes, but

it cannot turn back those cold waters of death, when the soul has

once entered them; and so Dr. Carter found that with all his love and

with all his skill, he could only smooth, and that but a very little,

the steep, stony road down into Jordan.

He got a nurse to attend specially upon her, but he would not leave

her; and the nurse said it was not much good her being there, for he

smoothed her pillows, and raised her head, and damped her lips, and

fanned her with untiring patience and tenderness. Once when he had

his arm under her head, raising it, she opened her eyes wide and

looked at him.

"Ah, Laddie," she said, "I'm a bit tired with my journey. It's a

longish way from Sunnybrook."

"Did you come from there?"

"Yes, sure; I've never been such a long way before and I'm tired out."

"Why didn't you write?" he asked presently, when she opened her eyes

again.

"I wanted to give you a surprise," she said; "and I knew as you'd be

glad to see me at any time as I liked to come."

And then it dawned on him that the past eighteen months had been

blotted clean out of her memory, and that she thought she had just

arrived. Then she dozed and then again spoke, "And so this is your

house, Laddie? And mighty fine it be!" looking round on the bare

hospital room; "and I'm that comfortable if I wasn't so tired, but

I'll be getting up when I'm rested a bit. But it do me good to see

you when I opens my eyes. I've been thinking all the way how pleased

you'd be." All this she said a word or two at a time, and very low

and weakly, so that only a son's ear could have heard.

As the evening came on she fell asleep very quietly, such a sleep as,

if hope had been possible, might have given hope. Dr. Carter left

the nurse watching her and went away, got a hansom and offered the

man double fare to take him to Harley Street as fast as possible.

Violet had just come in from a flower show, and looker a flower

herself, with her sweet face and dainty dress.

"I have found her," Laddie said. "Come." And she came without

asking a question, only knowing from Laddie's face that there was

sorrow as well as joy in the finding.

"She is dying," he said, as they went up the hospital stairs

together. "Can you bear it?"

She only answered by a pressure of her hand on his arm, and they went

on to the quiet room. There was a shaded light burning, and the

nurse sitting by the bedside.

"She has not stirred, sir, since you left."

But even as she spoke, the old woman moved and opened her eyes,

looking first at Laddie and then on Violet.

"Who is it?" she asked.

And then Violet knelt down with her sweet face close to the old

woman's, and said very softly, "Mother, I am Laddie's sweetheart."

"Laddie's sweetheart;" she echoed; "he's over-young to be wed--but

there! I forgot. He's been a good son, my dear, always good to his

old mother, and he'll be a good husband. And you'll make him a good

wife, my dear, won't you? God bless you."

And then her trembling hand was feeling for something, and Laddie

guessed her wish, and put his own hand and Violet's into it; two

young hands, full of life and health and pulsation, under the old,

worn, hard worked hand, growing cold and weak with death.

"God bless you, dears, Laddie and his sweetheart. But I'm a bit

tired just now."

And then she dozed again, and the two sat by in the dim, quiet room,

drawn closer together and dearer to each other than they ever had

been before, in the presence of the Great Angel of Death who was so

near the old mother now. And very tenderly he did his work that

night! Only a sigh and then a sudden hush, during which the

listeners' pulses throbbed in their ears, as they listened for the

next long-drawn, painful, difficult breath that did not come; and

then the weary limbs relaxed into the utter repose and stillness of

rest after labor, for the night had come when no man can work,--the

holy starlit night of death, with the silver streaks of the great

dawn of the Resurrection shining in the east.

For a moment they sat spell-bound; and then it was Laddie, he had so

often seen death face to face, who gave way, throwing himself on the

bed with an exceeding bitter cry, "O mother, mother, say you forgive

me!"

What need for words? Did he not know that she forgave him? If

indeed she knew she had anything to forgive. But she was "a bit

tired."

Don't you know when bedtime comes, and the nurse calls the children,

how sometimes they leave their toys, which a few minutes before

seemed all in all to them, without a look, and the cake unfinished,

and are carried off with their heads bent down, and their eyes heavy

with sleep, too tired even to say good night, or speak a pretty,

lisping word of the play-time past, or the pleasures coming in the

morning? And so it is often with us bigger children; when the nurse

Death calls us at our bedtime, we are "a bit tired," and glad to go,

too sleepy even for thought or farewell.

They laid her by the old master in Sunnybrook churchyard; and the

village folks talked long afterwards of the funeral, and how Dr.

Carter, "he as used to be called Laddie," followed her to the grave,

"along with the pretty young lady as he was going to marry; and,

bless my heart! wouldn't the poor old soul have felt proud if she

could have seen 'em? But she's better where she is, where there

ain't no buryin' and no pride neither."

MISS TOOSEY'S MISSION.

CHAPTER I.

Miss Toosey always wore a black silk dress on Sunday, and went three

times to church. Morning, afternoon, and evening, as soon as the

bell changed at the quarter, that black silk dress came out of Miss

Toosey's little house in North Street, turned the corner into High

Street, crossed the Marketplace, passed under the archway into the

churchyard, in at the west door, and up the middle aisle, past the

free seats, which occupy the lower end of Martel church, and stopped

at the second pew on the left-hand side, one sitting in which has

been rented by Miss Toosey for many years. This pew is immediately

in front of the church-wardens' seat, where those two dignitaries sit

majestically, with a long rod placed conveniently on either hand,

ready to be seized at a moment's notice, to execute judgment on

youthful offenders in the free seats, though the well-known fact that

generations of paint and varnish have made them fixtures somewhat

takes off from the respect and awe felt for them. Miss Toosey is

short, and the pew-door has a tendency to stick; and when you have a

Bible, prayer-book, hymn-book, spectacle-case, and umbrella in your

hands, you cannot enter into a struggle on equal terms; and so when

Mr. Churchwarden Wyatt happens to be in church in time, he leans over

and opens the pew-door for Miss Toosey, "and very kind of him, too, a

most gentlemanly man Mr. Wyatt is, my dear."

The black silk was quite a part of Sunday in Miss Toosey's mind, and

therefore holy, to a certain extent. She would have considered it

disrespectful to the day to put on any other dress, and no stress of

weather could prevent her wearing it; indeed, she thought it

decidedly a want of trust in Providence to fear the heavy rain or

deep snow might injure it.

She would pin up the skirt inside out round her waist with a reckless

disregard of appearance, so that you could hardly guess she had any

dress on at all under her shawl; but nothing would have induced her

to put on another. Of late years, too, she had not felt it quite

right to wear it on week-days when she was asked out to tea; it

seemed to her inappropriate, like reading a regular Sunday book on

week-days, which has something profane about it. It had been through

many vicissitudes; not even Miss Toosey herself could accurately

recall what it was in its original form; and the first distinct

incident in its existence was the black crape with which it was

trimmed, in respect to the memory of Miss Toosey's father--old

Toosey, the parish doctor. This was fifteen years ago; and since

then it had been unpicked and re-made several times, turned, sponged,

dipped, French-chalked, cleaned, trimmed, and altered, till it would

have required vast ingenuity to do anything fresh to it.

As the black silk was part of Sunday to Miss Toosey, so was Miss

Toosey part of Sunday to many of the Martel people. The Miss Purts,

the draper's daughters, in the Market-place, knew that it was time to

put on their smart bonnets (the latest Paris fashion), when they saw

Miss Toosey pass the window, so as to insure their clattering into

church on their high heels, tossing and giggling, not later than the

_Venite_.

Old Budd, the clerk, with his white beard and wooden leg, always said

"Good morning, Miss Toosey; fine day, mum," as he stumped past her

pew-door on his way to the vestry, which made her feel rather

uncomfortable as he said it out loud, and it did not seem quite

right; but then Mr. Budd is such a good man, and being a church

official, no doubt he has a right to behave just as he pleases. Even

Mr. Dodson, the late curate, after baptizing fifteen pugnacious

babies, all crying lustily, said, as he passed Miss Toosey on his way

back to the reading-desk, wiping the beads of perspiration from his

good-natured red face, "Warm work, Miss Toosey."

I think that both Mr. Peters the rector, and Mr. Glover the curate,

would quite have lost their place in the service if Miss Toosey's

seat had been empty, as they neither of them could have preached with

comfort without the fat, red-velvet cushion with the tassels, on

which they laid their books.

I do not think it ever occurred to Miss Toosey that there was

anything amiss in Martel church or its services. She was proud of

the fine, old gray stone tower, which had been built when men gave

willingly of their best for the service of God, and so built "for

glory and for beauty;" and she loved the roof of the nave, which was

rich in oak carving, bleached white by time, with angels and emblems

of wonderful variety and ingenuity. And all the rest of the church

she took for granted, and did not wonder at the narrow, uncomfortable

pews, where, as Mr. Malone, the Irish curate, said, "it was quite

impossible to kneel down, and very difficult to get up again;" or at

the free seats, put behind all the others; or at the large, steep

galleries; or at the high pulpit rich in red velvet and dusty fringe

on one side, and the reading-desk to match on the other, with the

clerk's desk underneath where Mr. Budd did his part of the service,

i.e., the responses, as a clerk should do, in a strident, penetrating

voice, and took a well-earned nap in the sermon when his duties were

discharged. It did not strike her as curious that the seats in the

chancel should be occupied by the Peters family on one side and by

the Rossitters on the other, while the ladies and gentlemen of the

choir displayed their smart bonnets or Sunday waistcoats to great

advantage in front of the organ, where, in return for their vocal

exertions they were privileged to behave as badly as their fancies

led them. You see, Miss Toosey was not critical, and she had not

been to any other church for many years, and custom draws a soft

curtain over imperfections, and reverence is not quick to see

irreverence in others, and prayer fills the air with clouds of

incense through which we cannot easily see bonnets, but only Heaven

itself; and as Miss Toosey knelt, being very short, you remember, and

the pews high she could only with her outward eyes see the angels in

the roof and her prayer-book. And it was just the same with the

sermons: as church was church to Miss Toosey, so a sermon was a

sermon. Whether it was Mr. Peters, Mr. Glover, or Mr. Malone, Miss

Toosey looked out the text in her little brown Bible, and put the

bookmarker, with "Love the Jews," into the place, and gave her head a

little nod, as if to show that the text was there, and no mistake

about it; and then took off her spectacles, wiped them, put them into

a case, gave her black silk skirt a slight shake to prevent creases,

and then settled down to listen. I will not undertake to say that

Miss Toosey entered into all the subtleties of doctrine set forth

over the red velvet pulpit-cushion; I will not even deny that

sometimes the lavender ribbons on Miss Toosey's bonnet nodded,

without much connection with the arguments of the discourse, and that

the words "election and grace" grew faint and dreamy in her ears, and

Mr. Peter's gray hair or Mr. Glover's whiskers disappeared from her

sight. I am disposed to think that she did not lose very much; but

Miss Toosey took it much to heart, so much so that she could hardly

believe herself capable of it, and even contended that she was

listening all the time, though she closed her eyes to pay greater

attention. But sometimes the sermons kept Miss Toosey awake

effectually, and made her feel very uncomfortable for some days

afterwards; and this was when they were on the subject of conversion.

Mr. Malone was especially strong on this point; and, after one of his

powerful discourses, Miss Toosey would have a wakeful night, going

through the course of her peaceful, uneventful life, trying to find

that moment of awakening which other Christians seemed to find so

easily, wondering if she might date her conversion from a day when

she was a little child, crying and being comforted at her mother's

knee; or in the quiet, sober joy of her Confirmation; or when she

followed her mother up the aisle, one Easter Day, in trembling awe to

her first Communion; or in the days of her simple, girlish romance

long ago, when her heart was overflowing with pure happiness; or to

the days following so quickly when it came to an untimely end, and

she sobbed herself to sleep, night after night, with her cheek (it

was round and smooth then) pressed to that same little brown Bible,

with some faded flowers between the leaves; or could it have been

when her father died and she stood alone by his grave? None of these

events seemed quite to answer to Mr. Malone's descriptions, and

sometimes Miss Toosey was driven to fear that she must rank herself

with the unconverted, to whom a few scathing words were addressed at

the conclusion of the sermon.

On one occasion there was a revival at Martel, and meetings were held

at the schoolroom, one of which Miss Toosey attended. There was much

heat and hymn-singing and excitement; and Miss Toosey was agitated

and hysterical and impressed; but when the presiding clergyman, in an

impassioned manner, invited all those who were conscious of

conversion to remain and the rest to leave, Miss Toosey, without a

moment's hesitation, went out and found her way home, sobbing and

broken-hearted.

Then, too, the doctrine of assurance troubled her sorely, feeling (as

she did) sure only of her own weakness and God's great mercy. And so

she grew very nervous and uncomfortable when people began to talk of

their religious experiences, which seemed so much more satisfactory

than her own.

You must not, however, suppose that Miss Toosey was at all High

Church; on the contrary, she had a horror of Puseyites and of the

opinions which she fondly imagined them to hold; such, for example,

as works being the only means of salvation, without the faintest

mixture of faith, which, as Miss Toosey said, is so directly opposite

to the teaching of the Bible. She also spoke of the danger of the

"multiplication of ordinances," a well-sounding sentence which Mr.

Glover was rather fond of; and Miss Toosey always gave a little

triumphant sniff after saying it, for it is not every one who can

make use of abstruse, theological expressions of many syllables. It

is true that she went to church herself whenever there was an

opportunity, and would have done so if Mr. Peters had largely

increased the services, but that, of course, was different. She also

regarded with suspicion the efforts of some of the young ladies of

the parish, who had "high" tendencies, to introduce crosses

surreptitiously into the decorations at Christmas, cunningly

disguised with evergreens, and of odd and ornamental shapes. She was

firmly persuaded that the emblem of our faith had something Romish

about it, and that it was safer to keep to circles and anchors and

triangles; indeed, she distrusted the decoration excitement among the

young ladies altogether, and looked back with regret to the days when

the pew-opener used to put sprigs of holly in the windows, and fasten

bushes of the same to the lamps in the chancel.

CHAPTER II.

Now I must tell you about Miss Toosey's Mission, and I think it will

surprise you to hear that her Mission was the conversion of the

heathen,--not the heathen at Martel, though there were enough and to

spare, even in that favored spot; not the heathen in London, or our

great towns even; but the heathen in foreign parts, real _bona fide_

black heathen, with war-paint and feathers, and strings of beads, and

all the rest of it. Her Mission began in this manner: A missionary

Bishop came to preach at Martel. I do not know quite how it

happened, as he certainly did not pronounce "Shibboleth" with the

same distinct and unctuous intonation which was deemed essential at

Martel; but I have been told that he met Mr. Peters out at dinner,

and that the rector, always good-natured, offered his pulpit,

red-velvet cushion and all, for the Bishop's use on the following

Sunday evening.

The Bishop gladly accepted the offer. He was not quick to see

microscopic differences of opinion; the cut of a coat, a posture, or

the use of a cant word, did not seem to him of such vital importance

as he found attached to them among Churchmen at home; and he was

fairly puzzled at the hot blood and animosity that arose from them,

bidding fair even at times to rend the woven garment without seam.

He had been used to a clearer, simpler atmosphere, a larger horizon,

a wider span of heaven overhead, than we can get in our streets and

lanes, making it easier, perhaps, to look up steadfastly, as those

should whose lives are ever teaching them how far, how terribly "far,

the heaven is from the earth," where the earth lies in darkness and

idolatry. To one who was used to the difference between Christian

and heathen, the difference between Churchman and Churchman seemed

unutterably small; so that he was fain to say with Abraham, "Let

there be no strife between us, I pray, for we are brethren."

He had come home with his heart burning within him with the urgency

of the work he left behind, confident that he could not fail to find

help and sympathy in happy, rich Christian England. In his waking

thoughts, as well as in his dreams, there always stood by him a man

of Macedonia, the Macedonia of his far-off labors, saying, "Come over

and help us;" and he found that the love of many had waxed cold, and

that indifference and scarcely concealed weariness received him

wherever he went.

So he was glad to accept Mr. Peters's invitation, and thought Mr.

Malone looked rather sourly at him in the vestry, and even the rector

was not quite so cordial to him as he had been at the dinner-party,

still he scaled the heights of the pulpit with alacrity, to the

enlivening strain of "From Greenland's Icy Mountains," which not even

the "Mitre Hymn-book" and the Martel choir can rob of its charms.

The text which Miss Toosey found out in her little brown Bible was

from St. John, the 6th chapter and 9th verse: "There is a lad here

with five barley loaves and two small fishes; but what are they among

so many?" The Bishop began by describing the scene where the miracle

occurred,--the barren hillside; the blue sea of Galilee; the towns in

the distance, with their white, flat-roofed houses, nestling in the

green valley like "a handful of pearls in a goblet of emerald;" the

sun setting behind the purple Galilean hills, and the soft evening

light touching the mountain-tops with gold, and casting long shadows

on the quiet sea, where the fishing-boats were going forth to their

nightly work. And then he told of the weary, foot-sore crowd,

gathered on the slope of the hill, far from home, and hungry and

fainting,--women and little children, as well as men,--many of whom

had come from far-away Capernaum and Cæsarea, skirting the north side

of the lake for many a weary mile, on foot, to meet the ship that

bore our Lord across the sea.

Whence can they buy bread in this wilderness? But among that hapless

crowd there is One, footsore and weary and fasting like them, yet Who

is the Creator himself. "He Who maketh the grass to grow upon the

mountains, and herb for the use of man," Who "feedeth the young

ravens," and Who "filleth the hungry soul with good things;" and he

is looking with infinite compassion on their want; and He says to His

disciples, "Give ye them to eat." And then, abruptly, the Bishop

turned from the story of the miracle to his own work, and he told of

the great extent of mountain forest, and plain, of the mighty rivers,

of the rich and fertile land, and the luxuriant beauty all around,

fair as the promised land of which Moses said, "The eyes of the Lord

thy God are always upon it, from the beginning of the year even unto

the end of the year." But the people of this fair land are, like the

weary crowd on the hillside, far from home--ah! how far from heaven,

with the deep, deep sea of ignorance rolling between; they are

hungry, sinking for the want of the Bread of Life; but civilization

and knowledge and light are far away from them across the ocean, and

"how can we satisfy these men with bread here in the wilderness?" It

is evening too; surely the sun of this world is getting near its

setting, and casting long shadows, if we would but see them. Shall

we send these poor souls away fasting?--these women and little

children? Will they not faint by the way? How can they hope to

reach their heavenly home without the Bread of Life?

But the Lord is looking on them with the same infinite compassion,

and He is saying to me and to you, "Give ye them to eat." Is there

not here this evening, among you Martel people, a lad with five

barley loaves and two small fishes for the Lord's use? It seemed so

little to the disciples, scarcely worthy of mention. "What are they

among so many?" Merely enough for two or three, and here are five

thousand and more. But the Lord said, "Bring them hither to Me." He

had no need of them. He could have commanded the stones to be made

bread; He could have called manna down from heaven; He could have

satisfied them with a word; but He was graciously pleased to take

that poor and humble little store in His all-powerful hand; and it

was sufficient; the people were filled, they had as much as they

would, and there were yet fragments that remained. Never think of

the smallness, the poorness of the instrument, when it is the

Master's hand that uses it,--He who made this lovely world out of

chaos, and formed the glorious light out of utter darkness. Do not

be kept back by false humility, by thinking too much of the

insignificance and worthlessness of the gift. Give your best,--give

your all. "Bring them hither to Me," saith the Lord. What have you

to give? Turn over your store,--yourself, that is best of all, most

worthy offering, poor though it may be--your money, your time, your

influence, your prayers. Who so poor but what he has one or more of

these barley loaves of daily life to offer to Him Who gave us all? I

am not here to beg and entreat for your money, though to our dim

sight it seems sorely needed just now, when, from village after

village, the cry comes to me for teachers and for light, and I have

no men or means to send them; and worse still is the silence of those

who are in such utter darkness; they do not know their own need. But

still we know and believe that it is the Lord's work, and it will be

done. It may not be by me or you, but in His own good time it will

be done. He does not need your money; He only offers you the

glorious privilege of being fellow-workers with Him. Yours is the

loss if you do not heed; the work will not suffer; only you will have

had no share; only you may not have another opportunity given you;

only the time may come when it will be said to you, "Forasmuch as ye

did it not to these" (who are indeed poor and sick and in prison),

"ye did it not to Me."

It was not by any means what the almshouse men called "a powerful

discarse;" the old men belonging to Frowde's charity, in their

snuff-colored coats, each with a large F on the left shoulder,

clustering round the north door after service, shook their heads in

disapproval.

"He don't wrusstle with 'um," said old Jacobs; "he ain't fit to hold

a candle to old Thwackum, down at Ebenezer. Why, I have seen him

punish that there pulpit cushion till the dust came out like

anything, and he had to take off his neckcloth, it were that wet;

that's what I calls preaching now, and to think of the likes of this

'un being a Bishop."

Miss Baker, too, of the firm of Silver & Baker, drapers in High

street, expressed her opinion in a high key, under an umbrella, as

she went home along Church lane, "that he did not preach the gospel;"

but then she was very particular, and the Apostle Paul himself would

scarcely have come up to her standard of "gospel" sermons.

There was not a very good collection either. You see, it was partly

from its being a wet evening, so that the congregation was altogether

small; and it had not been given out on the preceding Sunday; and no

bills had been printed and posted on the church doors and principal

public houses in the town, as was always done in the case of sermons

in aid of the Irish Church Mission, or the Jew's Society. So people

had not been attracted by the announcement of a real live Bishop; and

those who came had not had time to get small change; and so at the

end of the sermon, with the best intentions and a natural dislike to

pass the basket without giving anything, they found themselves devoid

of the necessary threepenny-bits and sixpences. So, when Mr.

Mackenzie, the tall lawyer, who always held the basket lined with

green baize at the north door, emptied its contents on the vestry

table, and the other baskets added their quota, there was but a poor

show; and Mr. Peters, kind man, when Mr. Malone was not looking,

slipped a sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket to add to the heap,

more for the honor of Martel than from interest in the Mission; and

he explained that unfortunately some of his best people were not at

church, and that they had had a collection so very recently, and that

he hoped that next time the Bishop was in those parts--but here a

warning glance from Mr. Malone cut him short, and he did not commit

himself further.

What a fortunate thing it was that Mr. Peters had a curate of such

high principle!

"Who was the old woman sitting in front of Wyatt?" John Rossitter

asked his mother, when the brougham door was closed and they were

going down High Street slowly, with the drag on, for it was very

steep, with a blurred view of lights and moving umbrellas through the

rainy windows.

"My dear John, do you suppose I know every old woman in Martel?"

"No; but I thought you might have noticed her; her face was a sight

to see in the sermon."

"Well, John," Mrs. Rossitter answered rather fretfully, feeling

conscious of a temporary oblivion on her own part in the middle of

the sermon, "it was no wonder if any one went to sleep; the church

was so hot; I felt quite faint myself."

And she felt whether her bonnet had got pushed on one side, and hoped

she had not wakened with a snore.

John laughed: "I don't mean a sight to see that way, mother; that's

not so very unusual at Martel; but it was her absorbed interest that

struck me as something out of the way."

"It must have been one of the young women at Purts."

"My dear mother, don't insult those elegant creatures by supposing

they would put on anything half so respectable as my old woman's

bonnet; they would rather die first."

"Then I don't know who it could have been, unless it was Miss

Toosey--lavender ribbons and hair done in a little curl on each side?

Ah, then it is. Her father was old Toosey the doctor; he was parish

doctor when we first came to Brooklands: and she was a pretty young

girl, in a green spencer; and your father used to say"--

And here followed reminiscences unconnected with Miss Toosey's

Mission, which I need not chronicle.

Mrs. Rossitter lived two miles from Martel, at Brooklands, and she

attended church regularly, twice on Sunday, "because it is a duty to

set a right example to the lower orders." So the lower orders around

Brooklands--mostly, as far as the men were concerned, smoking their

pipes in their shirt sleeves, hanging over a pigsty, or nursing their

babies; mostly, as far as the women were concerned, waxing fierce in

preparations for dinner, or gossiping with their next-door

neighbors--saw the Brooklands brougham pass four times on Sunday; and

the children ran after and shouted "Whip behind!" and the babies were

possessed with suicidal interest in the horses' feet, and toddled, or

crawled, or rolled into imminent danger, according to their age or

walking capacities.

When John Rossitter was down from London, he went with his mother;

and when he was not, she went alone, because Humphrey altogether

declined to go.

"It was more than any fellow could stand," he said, gnawing his

yellow mustache, and looking down at his mother with those handsome,

idle gray eyes of his, which were the most convincing of arguments,

before which all her excellent reasons for attending church--such as

"what people would say," and "how would it look," and "what a bad

example it would set," if he did not go--crumbled to ashes. She

found John more amenable; but I do not on this account credit John

with any great superiority to Humphrey only that he had greater

powers of endurance, and was not so sure as Humphrey that the very

surest way to please his mother was to please himself. Then, too,

Sunday mornings at Brooklands were apt to hang heavy on his hands,

for he had not the resources of Humphrey. He could not spend an hour

or two in contented contemplation of a family of fox-terrier puppies;

he found that "the points" of the very cleverest little mare in

creation palled after five minutes' serious consideration, and that

the conversation of grooms and stablemen still left a good deal to be

desired in the way of entertainment; in fact, he had none of the

elevated and refined tastes of an English country gentleman; so John

Rossitter went to church with his mother, and endured, with equal

stoicism, sermons from Mr. Peters, Mr. Glover, or Mr. Malone. He did

not yawn in the undisguised manner of Dr. Gardener Jones opposite,

who let every one see what a fine set of teeth he had, and healthy

red tongue, at short intervals; he did not go to sleep and snore like

old Mrs. Robbins, and one or two more; but when the regulation half

hour was over, his eyebrows would rise and the calm inattention of

his face became ruffled, and his hand move quietly to his waistcoat

pocket and his watch appear, an action which Mr. Glover felt acutely

in every fibre, though his back was turned to John Rossitter, and he

would grow red to the very finger-tips, and his "finally," "lastly,"

and "in conclusion" would get sadly muddled in his nervous efforts to

make short cuts to the end. So strong had this habit of inattention

become, that it would have required something much more striking than

our missionary Bishop to startle him out of it; and it was only the

sight of Miss Toosey's face that brought back his thoughts from their

wanderings, to Martel church and its sleepy congregation, and the

Bishop's voice from the high pulpit. He could see her through a

vista of heads between Mr. Cooper's bald head and Miss Purts's

feathers and pink rosebuds; now and then the view was cut off by Mrs.

Robbins giving a convulsive nod, or one of the little Miss Coopers

fidgeting up a broad-brimmed hat.

[Illustration: (Church-goers)]

"Was the sermon so eloquent?" John Rossitter wondered. Certainly

that listening, rapt face was--quite a common, little, wizen,

old-maidish face, with nothing intellectual or noble about it, and

yet transfigured into something like beauty with the brightness of a

reflected light. Don't you know how sometimes a scrap of broken

glass on a dust heap will catch the sunlight and shine with quite

dazzling brilliancy, and how a little smutty raindrop in a London

court will hold the sun and a gleaming changing rainbow in its little

mirror?

CHAPTER III.

"Where does Miss Toosey live?" said John Rossitter on Monday morning.

"I think I may as well go and call on her, as I have nothing else to

do."

I do not know what impelled him to go. It is impossible to define

motives accurately, even our own. We cannot say sometimes why we do

a thing; every reason may be against it--common sense, habit,

inclination, experience, duty, all may be pulling the other way, and

yet we tear ourselves loose, and do the thing, urged by some

invisible motive of whose existence we are hardly conscious. And if

it is so in ourselves, how much more difficult to dissect other

people's motives! and it is generally safer to leave the cause alone

altogether, and only regard the effects produced. So it is enough to

say that, on that Monday morning, Miss Toosey heard the rattle of

wheels along North Street, and, looking out, saw the Rossitters'

dog-cart and high-stepping chestnut mare, which, to her extreme

surprise, stopped in front of her door.

"Something wrong with the harness," she concluded, as the little

groom flew out and stood at the horse's head, with his arms crossed.

"Bless the child!" Miss Toosey said, "as if the creature could not

have swallowed him at a mouthful, top-boots and all!"

But her observation of the groom from the bedroom window was

interrupted by a loud knock at the door, and before she had time to

tie her cap-strings, or put a pin in the back of her collar, Betty

came rushing up, out of breath and red-faced, with a card held in the

corner of her apron, bearing the name, "Mr. John Rossitter."

"And he said he hoped as how you'd excuse his calling so early--and a

flower in his button-hole beautiful," added Betty in a snorting

whisper, distinctly audible in the parlor below.

Then followed some hasty opening and shutting of drawers, and hurried

footsteps; and then Miss Toosey descended, rather fluttered and

nervous, with her Sunday cap on, and a clean pocket handkerchief.

"I must introduce myself, Miss Toosey," John said, "for I dare say

you have quite forgotten me."

"Forgotten you, Mr. John? Why I knew you long before you were born,

or thought of. Oh, dear!" said Miss Toosey, "I don't mean that, of

course; but I knew your mamma before _she_ was born"--

"I ought to apologize," John struck in, anxious to save Miss Toosey

from any further floundering in the bogs of memory, "for coming so

early; but the fact is, that I am going up to London this evening;

and my mother tells me that Dr. Toosey had a very capital cure for

toothache, and she thought you would very likely have kept it, and

would let me have it."

Impostor that he was! looking at her with such serious, earnest eyes,

when he had composed this ridiculous and barefaced excuse for calling

as he came along.

Miss Toosey racked her brain to remember this renowned remedy, and

could only recall an occasion when she had toothache, and her father

dragged out a double tooth, with great exertion and bad language on

his part, and great pain and many tears on hers.

"I cannot quite remember the remedy your mamma means; but I have a

book full of very valuable prescriptions, which I will find at once."

"Pray don't trouble, Miss Toosey; I have no toothache at present; but

if you would let my mother have it some time at your leisure, I

should be greatly obliged."

And then they talked for five minutes about toothache; and John,

smiling, showed such white, even teeth that you would have fancied

that he had not had much trouble with them; and you would have

fancied right.

"What a curious book you have here," John Rossitter said, looking at

a book lying open on the table. It was an old book called "Voyages

and Adventures;" and it was open at an awful picture of a cannibal

feast, with a man being roasted in front of a fire, and a group of

savages dancing ferociously around, in all the horrors of war-paint

and feathers, and in a simple but effective costume of a necklace, a

fringe round the waist, a ring in the nose, and a penny in the under

lip.

Miss Toosey blushed; she was not used to fashionable picture

galleries where Eves and Venuses, in unadorned beauty, are admired

and criticised by the sensible young people of the present day.

"Though to be sure," she said afterwards, "it's not so bad, as the

poor things are black, so they don't look quite so naked; and I

always think a white pig is a more indecent looking creature than a

black one."

So she turned his attention with great tact to the atlas that was

also lying open on the table. It was the atlas that was in use fifty

years ago, and which had been bought for Miss Toosey when she went to

Miss Singer's "Academy for Young Ladies" to be finished. At this

abode of learning, she had been taught to make wax flowers and do

crochet, to speak a few words of what was supposed to be French, and

to play a tune or two laboriously on the piano, an education which

was considered very elegant and elaborate at that time, but would

hardly, I am afraid, qualify her for one of the Oxford and Cambridge

local examinations, or even for a very high standard at a national

school. She had also learnt a little geography and the use of the

globes, but not enough to survive for fifty years; and she felt quite

at sea this morning, when she reached down the long-unused atlas to

find the position of the diocese of Nawaub, and, after long study,

had arrived at the conclusion that it must be on the celestial globe,

which had always been a puzzle to her.

It was no wonder that she had not been able to find Nawaub, for where

the towns and rivers and mountains and plains stood, which the Bishop

had described, there was only marked on the map "Undiscovered

territory," a vague-looking spot altogether, gradually shading off

into the sea without any distinct red or blue line to mark the extent

of terra firma, as in other parts of the world.

John Rossitter showed her where he imagined Nawaub to be, and then

inquired if she were interested in Missions.

"Well, Mr. John," Miss Toosey said, "I don't mind telling you, though

I have not told any one else, except Betty; but I've made up my mind

to go out to Nawaub as soon as I can arrange everything."

"As a missionary, Miss Toosey?"

"Yes, Mr. John, as a missionary."

She spoke quite quietly, as if she were not sixty-five, with a

tendency to asthma, and more than a tendency to rheumatism,--a

nervous, fidgety old maid, to whom a journey to Bristol was an event

to flutter the nerves, and cause sleepless nights, and take away the

appetite for some time beforehand. I think the very magnitude of her

resolution took away her attention from the terrible details, just as

we lose sight of the precipices, chasms, and rocks that lie between,

when we are looking to the mountain top. The way to Bristol was

beset with dangers, such as losing the train, getting wrong change

when you take your ticket, the draughtiness of the waiting-room, the

incivility of the porters, the trains starting from unexpected

platforms, the difficulty of opening doors and shutting windows, the

constant tendency to get into smoking carriages by mistake, not to

speak of railway accidents, and murderers and thieves for traveling

companions; but these were lost sight of in the prospect of a journey

to the other end of the world, full of real, substantial dangers of

which she was ignorant. This ignorance was no doubt a great help to

her in some ways; she could not form the slightest idea of what a

missionary's life really is; nor can you, reader, nor can I, though

we may have read missionary books by the dozen, which Miss Toosey had

not. But this same ignorance, while it covered up many real

difficulties, also painted grotesque horrors before Miss Toosey's

mind, which might well have frightened any old maiden lady of

sixty-five. She mixed up "Greenland's icy mountains" and "Afric's

coral strands" with great impartiality in her ideas of Nawaub,

forming such a frightful combination of sandy deserts and icebergs,

lions and white bears, naked black savages and snow drifts, that the

stoutest heart might have quailed at the prospect; and yet, when Miss

Toosey came down to breakfast that morning, with her mind firmly made

up to the venture, her little maid, Betty, did not notice anything

remarkable about her, except that her cap was put on wrong side in

front,--which was not a very unusual occurrence--and that she stirred

up her tea with her spectacles once. Her interview with Betty had

been rather upsetting. Betty was not quick at taking in new ideas;

and she had got it so firmly into her head that Miss Toosey was

wishing to administer a reproof to her about the handle of a certain

vegetable dish, "which come to pieces in my hand as was that

cracked," that it was some time before she could be led to think

differently; but when at last a ray of the truth penetrated her

mental fog, her feelings can only be described by her own

ejaculation, "Lor, now!" which I fear may offend ears polite. She

had not been at church the evening before, having stepped round to

see her mother, who was "doing nicely, thank you, with her

fourteenth, a fine boy, as kep' on with fits constant, till Mr.

Glover half christened him, which James Joseph is his name, and

better ever since."

So it required all Miss Toosey's eloquence to put her scheme before

Betty's plain common sense, so as to appear anything but a very crazy

notion after all; and it was not till after half an hour's severe

talking, and more than one tear falling on the two and a half pounds

of neck of mutton that Betty gave in, which she did by throwing her

apron over her head, and declaring, with a sob, that if Miss Toosey

"would go for to do such a thing, she (Betty) would take and go too,

that she would;" and Miss Toosey had to entreat her to remember her

poor mother before making up her mind to such a step.

But to come back to John Rossitter. He was a barrister, you must

know, and used to examine witnesses and to turn their heads inside

out to pick out the grains of truth concealed there; and then, too,

he had a great talent for listening, which is a rarer and more

valuable gift even than that of fluent speech, which he also had at

command on occasion. He had, too, a sympathetic, attentive interest

in his face, if it was assumed, would have made a great actor of him,

and that opened the people's hearts to him, as the sun does the

flowers. And so Miss Toosey found herself laying her mittened hand

on his coat sleeve, and looking up into his eyes for sympathy, and

calling him "my dear," "just for all the world," she said, "as if he

had been an old woman too."

[Illustration: (John Rossitter and Miss Toosey)]

And what did he think of it all? Was he laughing at her? Certainly

now and then there was a little twitch at the corner of his mouth,

and a sparkle in his eye, and once he laughed aloud in uncoupled

amusement; but I like John Rossitter too well to believe that he was

doing what Dr. Gardener Jones called "getting a rise out of the old

lady." It was so very easy to make fun of Miss Toosey, and draw her

out and show up her absurdities,--even Mr. Glover, who was not a wit,

could be exquisitely funny at her expense. But John Rossitter was

too much of a sportsman to aim with his small-bore rifle at a little

sparrow in a hedgerow; he left that sort of game for the catapults

and pop-guns of the yokels.

And so Miss Toosey confided to him all the difficulties that had

already come crowding into her head as she sat over her work that

morning, any one of which would have occupied her mind for days at

any other time,--the giving notice to leave her house, the disposal

of the furniture,--"and you know, Mr. John, I have some really

valuable pictures and things;" and she could not trust herself to

glance at the portrait of old Toosey over the fireplace, in a black

satin waistcoat and bunch of seals, a frilled shirt, a high

complexion, and shiny black hair, with Corinthian pillars behind him,

lest her eyes, already brimful, should overflow. She even consulted

him as to whether it would be worth while to order in more coal, and

lamented that she should have taken her sitting in church for another

whole year only last Saturday. And then, without quite knowing how,

she found herself discussing that all-important subject, dress, with

John Rossitter.

"Though to be sure, Mr. John, how should you know about such things?"

"Indeed, Miss Toosey, I'm not so ignorant as you think; and I quite

agree with you that nothing looks so nice as a black silk on Sunday."

And Miss Toosey at once resolved to put a new braid round the bottom

of the skirt as a good beginning of her preparations.

"I've got upstairs," Miss Toosey said reflectively, "a muslin dress

that I wore when Rosina Smith was married. You remember Rosina

Smith, Mr. John? No, of course not! She must have married before

you were born. Sweet girl, Mr. John, very sweet! That dress has

been rough dried for thirty years, and it's not quite in the fashion

that ladies wear now; in fact, the skirt has only three breadths,

which is scanty, you know, as dresses go; but I thought," and there

Miss Toosey glanced timidly at the picture of the cannibals, which

still lay open, "that perhaps it would not matter out there."

"No, indeed, Miss Toosey," John answered, "I should think that three

breadths would appear liberal and ample allowance among people whose

skirts"--he was going to say, "are conspicuous from their absence,"

but from Miss Toosey's heightened color he changed it to "are not

court trains."

The next question was whether she had better have it got up before

leaving Martel.

"It might get crumpled in packing; but then, how can one guess what

sort of laundresses one may find at the other side of the world,--not

used, most likely, to getting up fine things."

"I have heard," said John very seriously, "that in some parts

missionaries try as much as possible to become like the nations they

are wishing to convert, and that the Roman Catholic priests in China

shave their heads and wear pigtails."

"Yes, Mr. John, I have heard that," Miss Toosey said; "and their

wives" (you see she did not rightly understand the arrangements of

our sister Church as to the celibacy of the clergy) "cripple their

feet in small shoes, blacken their teeth, and let their finger-nails

grow."

"I suppose," says John, drawing "Voyages and Adventures" nearer, and

looking at the pictures reflectively, "that the Nawaub missionaries

don't go in for that sort of thing."

Miss Toosey grew red to the very finger-tips, and her back stiffened

with horror.

"No, Mr. John, there is a point beyond which I cannot go!"

"To be sure! to be sure!" said John consolingly, "and you see there

were no signs of anything of the kind about the Bishop."

"Then there is the food," Miss Toosey went on, reminded of the

subject by a whiff of roast mutton from the kitchen; "I'm afraid they

are cannibals, and I don't think I ever could get used to such a

thing, for I have never been able to touch sucking pig since an uncle

of mine said it was just like a baby, though of course he was only in

joke."

John reassured her on this point. But now he presented quite a new

difficulty to her mind.

"Do you understand the Nawaub language? I am told it is difficult to

acquire."

It had never occurred to Miss Toosey that these mysterious people,

who were a sort of combination of monkey and chimney sweep, spoke a

language of their own which she could not understand, and that they

might not be able to comprehend the pure Somersetshire English with

which she meant to convert them. She had never been brought much in

contact with foreigners, so that she had never realized fully the

effect of the Tower of Babel. One day a French beggar had come to

the door, and Miss Toosey had summoned up courage to pronounce the

magic words, "_Parlez vous Francais_," which was one of the sentences

she had learned at Miss Singers's; and the beggar (the French being

proverbially quick-witted) had recognized his native tongue; and

thereupon ensued such a torrent of rapid speech and violent

gesticulation, such gabbling and grimacing that Miss Toosey was quite

frightened, and relapsed into plain English when she could edge in

another word. But then this impudent fellow pretended he did not

understand, and kept on saying, "Not know de English vot you mean,"

though Miss Toosey spoke slowly and very loud, and even finally tried

a little broken English, which must be easier to foreigners than the

ordinary style of speaking. But the man was obstinate, and went away

at last shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders in a way which

Miss Toosey felt was very impudent; "but then, poor creature, he may

have been a papist."

"I've not thought about that, Mr. John; but I know that savages

always like beads and looking-glasses, though what pleasure such

remarkably plain people can get out of a looking-glass I can't

imagine. But I've a lot of beads put away in one of my boxes

up-stairs when I've time for a regular good turn-out; and as for

looking-glasses, I saw some the other day at Gaiter's, with gilt

frames, for a penny, that make one's nose look crooked, and one eye

larger than the other, that I think will do nicely."

"By Jove!" says John, "an uncommonly good idea--the very thing! I'll

take a look at them as I go home, which I must do now, or I shall be

late for lunch."

But before leaving he advised her not to do anything in a hurry, but

before taking any decided step, such as having her dress starched, or

giving notice to leave her house, or laying in a stock of

looking-glasses, to consult some old friend, on whose opinion she

could rely.

"There's Mackenzie," he said, "why not go to him?"

But Miss Toosey had an uncomfortable feeling about lawyers,

connecting them with verses in the gospels beginning with "woe;" and

though the little Mackenzies were her great friends and constant

visitors, she avoided their father. She suggested Miss Baker; but

when she added that she was "a really Christian person," John

discouraged the idea, and they finally agreed that she should consult

Mr. Peters, who had known her nearly all her life.

"He's not a bad sort of old fellow out of church," John said, rather

shocking Miss Toosey by his want of reverence for the rector; "and he

has got some sense in his head as well as good nature. So you go to

him, Miss Toosey, and the next time I come home, I'll come in and

have another crack with you, if you are not off to the North Pole or

the Moon."

John Rossitter smiled more than once as he drove home in the

dog-cart, at the recollection of Miss Toosey's confidences; but I

fear my readers may have grown impatient of the absurdities of an

ignorant old woman, who had got a craze in her head. Yes, she was

old and poor and weak and ignorant, it is quite true. It was a very

contemptible barley-loaf which she had to offer, compared with your

fine, white, wheaten cake of youth and riches and strength and

learning; but remember she offered her best freely, willingly,

faithfully; and when once a thing is offered it is no longer the

little barley-loaf in the lad's hand, but the miraculous satisfying

Bread of Heaven in the hand of the Lord of the Harvest, more than

sufficient for the hungry multitude.

CHAPTER IV.

"You are making fun of me, Mr. John."

"I am incapable of such an action, Miss Toosey."

Six months have passed since my last chapter, and John Rossitter has

paid many visits to the little house in North Street. Indeed, he

rarely came to Brooklands without going to see Miss Toosey, drawn by

a strange attraction which he hardly understood himself; though he

once told his mother that he had fallen in love, and asked her how

she would like Miss Toosey for a daughter-in-law.

Miss Toosey is still at Martel, and likely to remain so. Her

interview with Mr. Peters put an end to her idea of becoming a

missionary, as John Rossitter quite expected, and also provided the

rector with a good joke, over which he laughs till the tears run down

his cheeks. It was a very alarming interview to Miss Toosey

altogether, as the rector was seized with an attack of coughing in

the middle, and sputtered and choked till Miss Toosey longed to pat

him on the back, if she had dared to venture on such familiarity with

a Church dignitary; and for many months she puzzled Mrs. Peters by

anxious inquiries after the rector's cold and the sad delicacy of his

throat, and advised gargling with port wine and alum, and other

decoctions of marvellous efficacy.

Miss Toosey's missionary ardor was by no means damped, only it was

turned into a fresh channel. "Your money," the Bishop had said, "was

another of those barley-loaves of every-day life that most people had

in some proportion to offer;" thinking principally of the luxury and

extravagance of fashionable life, and of the superfluity that might

so well be cast into his empty treasury. There was not much luxury

or extravagance in the little house in North Street; indeed, it was

only by close management that two ends could be brought to meet; and

even in little charities to poor neighbors (infinitesimally small

though they might be) she was never in danger of offering to God that

which cost her nothing. So it was an unsatisfactory thing to review

her expenditure, with a view to greater economy, "with butchers' meat

quite a fancy price, and everything else to match;" but she was not

easily daunted, as you know, and she applied to Mr. Peters to procure

her a box in which to collect for the Nawaub Mission. She did not

allow him to forget it or to convince her that a Church Missionary

box, or one for the Irish Society, would do quite as well; and when

at last she had it, she carried it home with great pride, and gave it

the place of honor in the centre of her table on the bead mat, in

place of the lava inkstand that had been one of Mrs. Toosey's wedding

presents.

It was this box that was now forming the subject of conversation

between her and Mr. Rossitter, for she was to take it that very

afternoon to the rectory to be opened, and the contents were to be

forwarded to the Bishop. John had been commenting on its weight, and

had told Miss Toosey that she would be obliged to have the omnibus

from the "Hare and Hounds" to take it to the rectory, or at any rate

a wheelbarrow and a strong man. And so it came that she accused him

of laughing at her.

"But it really is very heavy. I wonder you are not afraid of thieves

coming to carry it off at night."

"Well, Mr. John, I was rather nervous now and then. There have been

very odd noises at night, and though Betty says it's the mice, I

can't always quite believe it. I always hide the box when I go out,

and now and then I forget where I put it; and, oh, dear! what a

search we had the other day! I was in such a fright, and where do

you think it was? Why, behind the shavings in the fireplace. Wasn't

it a capital place? No thief would have dreamt of looking there."

"It's a good thing that you are going to empty it to-day, or I might

have been tempted to play burglar to-night."

"Well, you see, Mr. John, it's not really so valuable as you might

think, for it's chiefly pence and a good sprinkling of farthings, and

they don't come up to much of a sum. You see I have been obliged to

take a little here and a little there, not being rich, Mr. John, or

having much to spare. One thing I always put in, 'Your change, with

thanks;' don't you know those pretty little envelopes that they put

pence in at Knight's and Jones's and one or two other places, with

'Your change, with thanks,' in mauve on the back? I always took that

for my box, and I felt quite pleased when they had not a threepenny

bit, so that I got more pence. And then, when the butcher's book

came to five and sixpence half penny, Mr. Barker often says, 'Never

mind the halfpenny, Miss Toosey,' and I put it into my box; and

sometimes I get a halfpenny on the washing. Of course it seems very

little, but it all helps. And then I fine myself. I got a good deal

that way. A halfpenny if I lose my spectacles. A penny if I go to

sleep in church; yes, Mr. John, I'm sorry to say I do drop off now

and then. I know it's very wrong, but it's wonderful how it cures

you of such habits if you have to pay for them; I don't lose my

spectacles half so often as I used to, indeed I feel quite vexed

sometimes that I don't get more fines; but I don't think it fair to

lose them on purpose. I might save a good deal more if it wasn't for

Betty. She's a good girl and honest, and much attached to me; but

she's very obstinate and wrong-headed. The fuss that girl made about

my letting the fire out now and then of an afternoon, for the winter

has been mild, Mr. John, and coals such a price! After I'd done it

once or twice, she found out it was not an accident, and she would

come bouncing in and put on coals every half-hour, till there was a

fire fit to roast an ox, and once she gave warning because I did not

take a second helping at dinner. But there's one thing I can do

without another year, which no one can object to, and that is my

sitting in church. The free seats are so comfortable that it really

would be a change for the better, except perhaps as to the hearing."

Just at this point some fresh visitors arrived, and John prepared to

go; but, finding the passage blocked by a double perambulator, and a

smiling nurse and nursemaid exchanging confidences with Betty at the

door, and hearing the tallest of the visitors (who was about as high

as the table) declare that "Mamma said they were not to stop, but she

sent her love and the _Graphic_," he resumed his seat, and offered a

knee and an inspection of his watch to the two nearest young

Mackenzies. There were nine young Mackenzies, of all ages; every

year a fresh curly head or Sunday hat appeared in the square pew by

the north door, which Mr. Peters compared to a pigeon pie, till at

last it ran over altogether into another seat by the pulpit, which

could hardly contain them now.

Miss Toosey's present visitors were the younger detachment, all of

them pretty more or less with that beauty which has been called "the

sacrament of goodness and innocence,"--cheerful souls, not tall

enough to see troubles,--very well contented with life as seen from

near the ground, which is, I fancy, a much more amusing point of view

than we enjoy. They had a good deal of information to give,

unintelligible to John, but Miss Toosey gave a free translation,

which enlightened his darkness. Life was more than usually cheerful

that morning, for they had met that walking money-bag, papa, as they

went out, whose store of pennies was inexhaustible when he could be

cajoled or teased into feeling in his pocket. To-day in a moment of

lavish generosity, he had given a penny all round, even to Kitty, who

had conveyed it at once to her mouth, without waiting for the visit

to Mrs. Goodenough's, which transformed pennies into all that heart

can desire.

"Mine penny!" says Mabel, who is rather solemnized by her position on

John's knee; and she allows him to catch a glimpse of her treasure,

clasped tightly in her soft knitted glove, in which the fingers live

all together in dimpled friendliness, and the thumb only enjoys a

house to itself.

"What are you going to buy?" asks John.

"Bung," is the decided answer.

Meanwhile the other children are examining the money-box on the

table, rattling its contents in a manner deafening to older ears,

till Miss Toosey begins to tell them of the poor little black

children who never go to church or say their prayers, which rouses

great interest.

"Naughty, wicked little children" is the universal opinion.

"Poor little things!" says Miss Toosey reprovingly, "they have not

any church to go to, and they have never been taught to say their

prayers."

[Illustration: (John Rossitter, Miss Toosey, Mackenzie children)]

I am afraid some of the little Mackenzies were disposed to envy the

little black children, who could go straight into their cribs when

they were sleepy, and play at dolls any day in the week. But they

were discreetly silent while Miss Toosey explained that the money in

the box was to go out to make them good little black boys and girls.

"Make them white," says Ben decisively.

Miss Toosey is embarrassed, regarding things from a severely literal

point of view; but John comes to the rescue.

"Yes, that's about it, young man."

And just then Maudie discovers the "dear little darling hole" at the

top where the pennies go in, and all the children admire it and feel

it, and Mabel pats with her woolly gloves, repeating gravely, "Make

black boy white."

I don't know quite how it happened, for all the other children were

under the sofa, trying to catch Sammy the cat, and Miss Toosey

distracted by her anxiety lest they or the cat should get hurt, and

Mabel was placidly tapping the box with her penny, repeating, "Make

black boy white" at intervals; when John heard a sudden rattle, and,

looking down, said, "Hullo!" for the knitted glove was empty, and

Mabel looked up at him with rather an awe-struck face, repeating,

"Make black boy white."

"O Mr. John!" Miss Toosey exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears,

"the dear, sweet little angel, giving her little all to the Mission!

How touching!--how beautiful!"

John, however, whose eyes were not full of tears, saw an ominous

quivering about the little angel's under lip, and an anxious feeling

of knitted gloves around the "dear, darling little hole," as if the

penny might yet be recovered, and as if the giver had not realized

the fatal and irretrievable nature of putting into a missionary-box.

The full sense of her loss at last overwhelmed her, and she burst

into uncontrollable grief, "I wants my penny" being the burden of the

tale.

It was in vain John handed her over to Miss Toosey who quickly

supplied her with another penny, and supplemented it with a biscuit

and a lump of sugar; it was not "mine penny, what papa gave me!" and

at last she was carried off sobbing, and casting looks of fear and

aversion at the missionary-box on the table.

That afternoon, as John was on the way to the station, he saw Miss

Toosey wending her way thoughtfully up High Street, and he crossed

over and joined her. She was on her way home from the rectory, and

her first remark to John Rossitter was, "Do you believe in miracles,

Mr. John?"

"As described in the Bible?"

"Oh, no; of course every one believes in them. I mean miracles now."

"Well, Miss Toosey, if you mean winking Virgins and hysterical

peasant girls, I am afraid I am rather skeptical."

"Ah, Mr. John! that's what I thought to myself. It's popish to

believe in such things nowadays,--all superstition and such like,--so

I'm glad I did not tell Miss Baker what came into my head."

"May I ask what it was? I don't think you are at all popish."

"Well, I'll tell you. It's my missionary-box. Now, Mr. John, how

much do you think there was in it?"

"I have not the least idea."

"Well, there was six pounds nine and seven-pence three farthings."

Miss Toosey's voice sank to an impressive whisper, and she stood

still, looking at John as if he might be so overcome by surprise as

to drop his bag and umbrella, or require support to prevent him from

falling. But he only said,--

"You don't say so," in a very ordinary tone of voice.

"Six pounds nine and sevenpence three farthings," repeated Miss

Toosey, emphasizing the six pounds, as if he had not appreciated the

vastness of the sum.

"Ah!" said John; "I'm sure it does credit to you, Miss Toosey; who

would have thought that 'Your change, with thanks' would have added

up so. I am afraid you must have gone to sleep in church very often."

"But it could not have been that," went on Miss Toosey solemnly.

"One pound nine and seven-pence three farthings were principally in

coppers, and any sixpenny or fourpenny bits I could account for. But

the five pounds were in a note, so it could not have been change or a

fine."

"You must have slipped it in some day by chance with other money."

"No, for I never have notes. When I draw my money I always get it in

gold, for I am always afraid of notes blowing into the fire or

getting torn up. And, besides," went on Miss Toosey, "I am not so

rich, Mr. John, that I could lose even sixpence without knowing it."

"It is very strange," said John.

"Strange!" seemed a mild expression to Miss Toosey, to whom it

appeared miraculous. "I don't know how to account for it, Mr. John.

I suppose it's wrong to think it a miracle, but I could not help

thinking of what happened this morning."

"What was that?"

"Why, don't you remember that dear child putting her penny into the

box?"

"Oh, yes; and making such a hullaballoo afterwards."

Miss Toosey did not wish to recall that part of the affair. "It was

so sweetly done."

"Yes; but you gave it back directly."

Miss Toosey felt quite cross at such inconvenient remarks

interrupting her miracle; but she continued, relapsing into a

confidential whisper,--

"You see, Mr. John, it was a lad that brought the five barley-loaves,

and I thought perhaps the baby's penny might have been turned into a

five-pound note."

John made no comment, and she went on as much to herself as to him,--

"I suppose it's popish to think of such a thing; and besides one

would have thought if it had been a miracle it would have been quite

a new Bank of England note; but it was one of Tuckey's, crumpled and

dirty, that had been cut in half, and joined down the middle with the

edge of stamps, and it had Mr. Purts's name written on the back. But

still," said Miss Toosey wistfully, as they came to the station-road,

and John shook hands in parting, "it's God that gives the increase

anyhow, miracle or not, and He knows all about it."

CHAPTER V.

Miracles do not happen every day; and Miss Toosey's money-box did not

contain a bank note the next time it was opened, or any sum that Miss

Toosey could not well account for; indeed, it was rather less than

more than she expected, even though the cost of her sitting in church

was added to it. She did not, however, carry out her plan of sitting

in the free seats, for when she spoke to Mr. Budd about giving up her

seat, Mr. Peters happened to be present, and he would not hear of

such a thing. "Why, Miss Toosey, we should not know ourselves if you

were not in your usual place." And Mr. Budd added, that "Some one,

as did not wish to be mentioned, had offered to pay the rent rather

than Miss Toosey should give it up." So it was arranged that she

should still occupy the seat, at any rate till it was wanted for some

one else; and as the Martel congregation were not overflowing, Miss

Toosey was not likely to be turned out. She did not quite like this

arrangement: she felt rather like an impostor as she passed the free

seats, and Mr. Wyatt opened the pew-door for her; and it took off

much of the pleasure when she dropped the money (that would otherwise

have been paid to Mr. Budd) into her box; for, as she said, she did

not feel the want of it, so it hardly seemed like giving at all.

I must not stop to describe at any length Miss Toosey's other

missionary efforts, though she did not forget the other barley-loaves

of which the Bishop had spoken,--"her time, her influence, and her

prayers,"--or I could tell you of her numerous disappointments in

answering advertisements such as,--"To those of either sex anxious to

increase their income;" and "£2 weekly easily realized;" and of her

venturing a 5_s_. subscription to a "Ladies' Needlework Society,"

which entitled her to send six articles for sale to a shop in a

fashionable part of London; and how she accomplished an antimacassar

of elaborate design to send up there. As to her influence, that was

a puzzling matter to one who had such a humble opinion of herself as

Miss Toosey; and she nearly worked herself into a nervous fever

through her attempts to mention the subject to some of the wealthy

shopkeepers or others in Martel; and at last she adopted the plan of

distributing leaflets, and invested in a small bundle on missionary

subjects, which she left about in a surreptitious, stealthy way, in

shops, or at the railway station, or slipped between the pages of a

"Society" book, or even sometimes on the high road, with a stone to

keep them from blowing away. Even with these precautions she managed

to give great offence to Mrs. Gardener Jones, who found a leaflet in

a book sent on from Miss Toosey's, and who, being of a very dark

complexion and Eastern cast of countenance, took the matter as a

personal insinuation about her birth. So it was quite a relief to

Miss Toosey to run to the last barley-loaf that the Bishop had

mentioned,--"her prayers;" at any rate, she could give that with all

her heart. She found a missionary prayer in an old magazine, written

in an inflated, pompous style, with long words and involved

sentences, as different as possible from the great simplicity of that

prayer in which children of all ages and degrees of learning through

all time are taught to address "Our Father;" but she was not

critical; and the feeling she expressed in those words was not

rendered less simple or earnest by its pompous clothing.

"Where is Miss Toosey?" John Rossitter asked his mother one Sunday

morning, as they drove home from church; "she was not there this

morning."

"Well, I think I heard some one say she was ill. Yes, it was Mr.

Ryder told me she was laid up with cold or something. She has not

been at church for several Sundays; and really the draught from the

vestry door is dreadful."

After church that evening, a sudden impulse seized John to go and see

how Miss Toosey was; and when he had packed his mother into the

brougham, with her rugs and furs, he turned off towards North Street,

among the groups of people returning from church. It was a cold

October evening, with great, solemn, bright stars overhead, and a

frosty stillness in the air, which sets one listening for something

above the trifling noises of this little world. Sunday visitors were

rare at Miss Toosey's and, as Betty said, "It give her quite a turn"

when John's sharp knock came at the door.

"She's very middlin'," she said, in answer to John's inquiries; "and

she've been terribly low this evening, as ain't like her."

"What's the matter?"

"Well, Mr. Ryder do say as it's the brongtypus and indigestion of the

lungs," said Betty in an awful voice, feeling that so many syllables

must prove fatal; "and as I was setting by the latching fire last

night a coffin popped right out, and"--

"All right," said John. "Is she in bed?"

"No; she ain't kep' her bed a whole day, though she did ought to.

But come in, doee now; it will cheer her up a bit to see you."

John Rossitter was quite shocked to see the change in Miss Toosey

when he went into the parlor. She was sitting in the arm-chair by

the fire, wrapped up in a big shawl, looking so small and shrunken

and old and feeble that you could hardly have recognized the brisk

little lady who was prepared to cross the seas and enter on the toils

and perils of a missionary life; indeed, she looked more ready for

the last short journey across Jordan's narrow stream, which ends all

our travelling days, and to enter into the life where toils and

perils are replaced by rest. She had been crying too, and could

hardly summon up a wintry smile to receive John; and the tears

overflowed more than once while he talked of his journey down, and

his mother's rheumatism, and the tree that had been blown down the

night before in their garden, trying to interest her and distract her

thoughts by talking on indifferent subjects. His hand was resting on

the table as he spoke, and, without thinking, he took hold of the

missionary-box close by, and weighed it in his fingers. He hardly

knew what he had in his hand till Miss Toosey burst out crying, and

covered her eyes with her handkerchief.

"It is nearly empty," sobbed the poor old lady; "nearly empty!"

And then John Rossitter pulled his chair nearer to hers, and laid one

of his warm, strong hands on her poor little weak cold one, and said,

"What is it you are fretting about? Tell me."

And then she told him, sometimes interrupted by her sobs, sometimes

by the fits of coughing that left her very breathless and exhausted.

It had all failed, all the five barley-loaves she had had to offer;

they were all worthless. She was too old and foolish and ignorant to

give herself for the work; she was too poor to give any money, and

the little she had saved with much care must go now for the doctor's

bill; she had tried to give her time, but her anti-macassars would

not sell, and she could not paint photographs; then she tried her

influence; but she did not think she had any, for every one laughed

when she spoke to them about the missions, and Mrs. Gardner Jones was

offended when she gave her a tract with a negro's face on it, and "Am

I not a man and a brother?"

"Then there was only my prayers, Mr. John, and I did think I could

have done that at least; and I did keep on regularly with that prayer

out of the magazine, but the last three nights I've been so tired and

worn out that Betty would make me say my prayers after I was in bed;

and I don't really think I could have knelt down; and every night

I've dropped off to sleep before I got to the poor heathen. So I've

failed in that too. And I've been thinking, thinking, thinking, as I

sat here to-night, Mr. John, that perhaps the Lord would not take my

barley-loaves, because they were so good-for-nothing; but I'd nothing

else, nothing else!"

I do not think that John Rossitter had ever spoken a word on

religious subjects in his life; he avoided discussion on such matters

like the plague; and he was one of those reserved, deep natures who

shrink from letting curious eyes peer into the sanctuary of their

faith, and from dissecting their religious opinions with that clumsy

scalpel, the tongue. Uninspired words seemed to him to be too rude

and unwieldy to convey the subtle mysteries of faith, to break with

their jarring insufficiency into the harmony of praise, to weigh down

the wing of prayer that is struggling towards Heaven, to trouble the

waters where we are trying to see the reflection "as in a glass

darkly." There is but one power can open the close-sealed lips of

such a nature, and that is when the angel takes a live coal from the

great Altar of love and lays it on his mouth; and then he speaks, and

with a power wanting in the glib outpourings of a shallower nature.

And so John Rossitter found himself speaking words of comfort to Miss

Toosey, which seemed like a new language to his unaccustomed lips;

telling her how small, how poor everything earthly is in God's sight,

and yet how nothing is too small, nothing too poor for the good

Lord's notice; how the greatest saint is, after all, only an

unprofitable servant; and how He can take a loving, humble heart in

His hand and make it as much as He would.

"And you're sure, quite sure, that it's not because He's angry with

me that He has not made use of me?"

"Dear old friend, He may make use of you yet."

She was coughing badly just then, and when the fit was over she shook

her head. "Not very likely now Mr. John; but He knows I was willing,

so it doesn't matter."

She got more cheerful then, and asked him to come and see her again

before he went back to London, which he promised to do; and then he

rose to go away.

"You must not fret about the empty box," he said, "or I shall scold

you next time I come. And look here, Miss Toosey, you have never

asked me to subscribe, though I have often teased you by pretending

to put buttons and rubbish into the box."

"Will you really?" she said. "I always fancied that you did not hold

with missions, and thought them rather nonsense, though you were so

kind to me about it; but if you would it would be a comfort to think

the box was not quite empty."

He felt in his pocket, but his purse was not there. "You must give

me credit, Miss Toosey," he said, smiling; "I shall consider it a

debt. I promise to give--let me see--I must think how much I can

afford. I promise to give something to your Mission. And now make

haste to bed, and get well."

She was collecting her things together to go upstairs,--her

spectacle-case, Bible, and one or two books; and out of one of them a

printed bit of paper slipped and fluttered to John Rossitter's feet

as he stood at the door. It was the prayer for missions cut out of

the magazine. He picked it up.

"And don't fret yourself about the prayer either," he said; "let me

have it, may I? And suppose I say it for you? And don't you think

that 'Thy kingdom come' will do for your missionary prayer till you

are better?"

And she smiled and nodded just like her old self as she went out.

"She will soon be better," John said to Betty, as he passed her in

the passage; but he did not guess how soon.

"Mother," he said next morning, coming into the breakfast-room with a

large bunch of bloomy grapes in his hand, "will you make my peace

with Rogers? I have cut the best bunch in his house, and I go in

fear of my life from his vengeance."

"My dear John, how very inconsiderate you are! He will be so vexed!

Why could not you have asked him for it?"

"It was a sudden temptation that overtook me when I passed through;

and I am going to take them to Miss Toosey; and if there is anything

else nice you can suggest for that poor little soul, I'll take it

along with them."

Mrs. Rossitter was kind-hearted and liberal, and she promised to send

one of the maids into Martel that afternoon with some invalid

dainties; but John insisted on taking the grapes himself, and marched

off with them after breakfast, regardless of the expostulations of

his mother and Humphrey, who had other views for passing the morning.

As John Rossitter turned the corner into North Street he ran up

against Mr. Ryder, and stopped to talk to him about the

pheasant-shooting in the Rentmore coverts. "I am just going to ask

for Miss Toosey," he said, as they were parting.

"Miss Toosey? Then you need not go any further; she died last night."

"Died!"

"Yes, poor old soul; and it was only a wonder that she lived so long."

John Rossitter turned and went on without another word, leaving the

doctor staring after him in surprise. He went on to the house

mechanically, and had knocked at the door before he recollected that

there was no longer any object to his visit. Betty opened the door,

with a red, swollen face and burst out crying at sight of him, and

threw her apron over her head in uncontrolled grief.

[Illustration: (John Rossitter and Betty)]

"All right," he said, "I know;" and passed by her and went into the

little parlor, and sat down in the same chair that he had sat in the

night before, and again involuntarily lifted the missionary-box in

his hand. Presently Betty, having partly recovered herself, sidled

into the room, glad of company in the "unked" quiet of the house. He

asked no questions; and by and by she summoned courage to tell him

how the quiet end came at midnight. "Miss Baker have been in this

morning already, asking me no end of questions; and she were quite

put out with me because I hadn't nothing to tell, and because Miss

Toosey, poor dear! hadn't said a lot of texes and fine things. She

says, 'Was it a triumphal death?' says she. And I said as how I

didn't know what that might be; and then she worrited to know what

was the very last words as ever Miss Toosey said, and I didn't like

for to tell her, but she would have it. You see, sir, the old lady

said her prayers just as usual; and when I went in to see as she were

all right on my way to bed, she says, 'I'm pretty comfortable,

Betty,' says she; 'good-night to you; and you've not forgotten to

give Sammy his supper?'--as is the cat, sir. And them's the last

words she uttered; for when I come in half an hour after, hearing her

cough, I see the change was a-coming. But Miss Baker she didn't like

it when I told her, though it were her own fault for asking; and she

says, 'So she didn't testify to her faith,' says she. And I didn't

know what she might mean, so I says, 'She were always good and kind

to me and every one,' says I; and so she were," added Betty, touching

unknowingly on a great truth; "and if that's testifying to her faith,

she've done it all her life."

And then she left him sitting there and musing on the quiet close of

a quiet life, or rather the quiet passing into fuller life; for what

is death but "an episode in life?" There was nothing grand or

striking in Miss Toosey's death--there very rarely is; it is only now

and then that there is a sunset glory over this life's evening;

generally those around see only the seed sown in weakness and

dishonor; generally when the glad summons comes, "Friend, come up

higher," the happy soul rises up eager to obey and leave "the lower

places" without giving those left behind even a glance of the

brightness of the wedding garment, or a word of the fulness of joy in

the Bridegroom's presence.

And presently John Rossitter came away; and though he held the

missionary-box thoughtfully in his hand, he put nothing into it. Had

he forgotten his promise to Miss Toosey, which he said he regarded as

a debt, to give something to her Mission?

* * * * * * * *

"And so there is an end to poor Miss Toosey and her Mission!" said

Mr. Peters a few days later, as he met Mr. Glover returning from her

funeral at the cemetery; and Mr. Glover echoed the words with a

superior, pitying smile: "So there is an end of poor Miss Toosey and

her Mission!"

Poor Miss Toosey! Why do people so often use that expression about

the happy dead? Surely they might find a more appropriate one for

those who have left the sordid poverty of life behind them and have

entered into so rich an inheritance! Of course they do not really

mean that it was "an end of Miss Toosey," for did they not say every

Sunday, "I believe in the resurrection of the body and the life

everlasting"? and how could they call than an end which was only the

beginning of new life? So this was only a figure of speech. But

perhaps you will echo Mr. Glover's sigh over the end of her Mission,

and regret that such zeal and ardor should have been wasted and

produced no results. Wait a bit! There is no waste in nature,

science teaches us; neither is there any in grace, says faith. We

cannot always see the results, but they are there as surely in grace

as in nature.

That same evening John Rossitter wrote to the Bishop of Nawaub, and

very humbly and diffidently offered himself, his young life, his

health and his strength, his talents and energies, his younger son's

portion, all that God had given him, for his Master's use; and the

Bishop who never ceased to pray "the Lord of the Harvest to send

forth laborers into the harvest," "thanked God and took courage."

[Transcriber's Note: Illustration captions in round brackets were

added by the transcriber.]