ETHEL AND HER PASTOR.
NOW that the ordination services had passed, the young clergyman
girded himself up for his work among his people. It was his chosen
work, and, could he have blotted a few pages from the book of his
past life, he would have gone forward with hope as well as with
courage. During the few days preceding the ordination, he humbled
himself before God, asking help of the Divine Spirit to search out
whatever was wrong in his heart and help him to overcome in whatever
tempted him. Still there was a kind of bewilderment in his mind,
a kind of waiting to see whether his Father in heaven, who knew every
event of his life, might not interpose even yet and by his providence
send him back to his work among the poor in the city.
During these days the influence of the sweet child Ethel did much
to quiet him and inspire him to more confidence in gaining the
affection of his people. She used to fix her eyes so wistfully
on his, as she sat opposite him at table, watching and waiting
for the smile which now and then flitted across his features,—
a smile not soon forgotten, so entirely did it change the whole
expression of his countenance. At his bidding she would come and
nestle herself in his arms, never obtruding herself on his notice,
but quietly submitting to having her hand held tenderly and
occasionally put to his lips.
Her brother Joe, or Gardner, as his mother called him, was rather
a saucy boy, the only son, and of course a great pet. When he thought
Mr. Angus was out of the house, he would march up and down the long
hall singing,
Our pastor is a rare, rare man,
He sings so fine you cannot tell,
His smile is bright as bright can be,
But then he only smiles for Ethel.
"Look here, I'll tell you a secret," he said to Annie. "My poetry
will be the making of me. I have succeeded so well in my first effort
I intend to publish a book of poems, and I shall dedicate it to the
Rev. Harold Angus, who first inspired my muse. Isn't that the way
they put it? I shall have, let me see, how many copies printed for
private use, one for mother, Marion, and you,"—counting on his
fingers—"one for Mr. Angus and Ethel, five, and I'll keep one for
myself."
Annie laughed heartily, as she said, "If the rest is as fine as your
first verse, no doubt there will be a great sale. I'm so glad
Mr. Angus is to live here."
"Only for the present. He said he wouldn't ask more, and then he
whispered baby to plead for him. Wasn't it funny how seriously the
little puss took it? When she found there was even a possibility of
his going away, she walked right up to pa and said,"—
"'Do you want your little girl to go way off?'"
"'No, puss, what do you mean?'"
"'Why, you know if Mr. Angus goes I shall have to go. He can't go
alone, and he hasn't any little girl but me.'"
"'In that case,' pa said, 'the matter is soon settled; pa can't spare
his baby any way.'"
In a few weeks the Sunday school was completely reorganized.
Every teacher was obliged to be present at the teachers' meeting
on Saturday afternoon, to be promptly in her or his place every
Sunday; or, if unable to do so, to send a substitute. A Bible class
for adults had beer formed, taught by the pastor, and this soon
outgrew the accommodations in the Sunday-school room, and had
to adjourn into the church.
Here more than anywhere else Mr. Angus felt at home. If it were
a mistake for one with a past like his to stand up in God's place,
it certainly was right for him to help others to study God's word,
and so to study it that the effect on their lives might be for the
honor of Christ.
Honestly and truly, he did try to throw off the burden which often
weighed his spirits to the earth, and yet there were hours when the
agony of his mind was almost more than he could bear, when he could
only cry,—
"Dear Lord, Thou knowest all. Put Thine almighty arm around me.
Hear my prayers and grant me relief. Visit not, O Lord, upon others
the chastening for my deserts. Save me, and I will praise Thy name
for ever and ever."
Day by day he buried himself in study or in visits among his people,
Joe frequently conveying him to the outskirts of the parish in his
father's buggy.
One afternoon he had been alone to a distant part of the town, and
was returning, when he stopped at a small thread and needle store
to purchase a pair of gloves. Behind the counter was a young girl
who attracted his attention by a peculiarly merry expression.
The color deepened in her cheeks as she took down box after box,
searching for the right number, and at last she asked him to excuse
her ignorance, as she was only a new hand.
"This pair seems to be very elastic," she said, striving in vain
to control the muscles of her face, which, in spite of her efforts,
dimpled and beamed in the most mirth-provoking manner. She stretched
the kid across the back of the glove, and held it out to him, when he
put out his hand for her to measure it. He could scarcely help
noticing that the fingers of the shop girl were beautifully tapering,
and that her one ring, though not a diamond, was large and costly.
Just as he was paying for the gloves, a woman, fat and rosy, came
bustling in, exclaiming, as she saw what was passing,—
"Well, I never did! Why, Miss—"
She checked herself suddenly, warned by a glance from the young lady.
The clergyman had scarcely reached the street when he heard the
woman's voice saying,—
"That's the new parson. Folks like him, mostly, though they do say
he's kind o' stiff and proud."
The reflections caused by these words were not pleasant. It was
possible that when his thoughts were dwelling on his own painful
experience his manner might be reticent. "If they consider me proud,"
was his reflection, "how little they know me! Why, I would exchange
gladly with those rough boys playing ball yonder, if by doing so I
would get rid of these harrowing memories. Well, I owe my thanks to
the woman, though I suppose she scarcely intended that I should hear
her criticisms."
Then he began to wonder who the shop girl could be. She was so
evidently out of place there; and what caused her mirth? Alone as he
was, he laughed heartily as he recalled the dimpled curves around
that arch mouth, and wondered whether there had been any reason
personal to himself which brought these dimples into such full play.
Letting himself into the house by his night-key, he went directly
to his chamber, where he remained until summoned by the bell to the
tea-table. Ethel, at sound of his step, rushed to the door to meet
him, her voice ringing joyously as she exclaimed,—
"My Marion has come! I'll show her to you."
Pulling him eagerly forward, she brought him face to face again with—
the shop girl; stood for an instant gazing at them, then, in the
fulness of her content, and wishing to give one grand proof of her
love, she added,—
"I'll let you kiss her if you want to."
A burst of laughter followed, during which Mr. Angus had time to
catch the little girl in his arms and whisper something in her ear,
Marion, meanwhile, growing very rosy as she waited for a formal
introduction from her uncle.
"My niece, Miss Howard, Rev. Mr. Angus, our pastor."
The gentleman cordially extended his hand. Their eyes met and they
both laughed.
After they were seated at the table, Marion, who was sitting next her
uncle and opposite the clergyman, with a merry glance in his
direction, explained:—
"I have met Mr. Angus before."
"Where did you meet him? In the city?"
"I had the pleasure of purchasing a pair of gloves from the store
where Miss Howard is employed. I have tried on the gloves since,"
he added, glancing archly in her blushing face, "and I assure you
they fit extremely well."
Marion threw back her head and laughed heartily, and as mirth is more
contagious than any fever, all present joined in the mirth, though
there were loud calls for an explanation.
"It is only," she said, "that I called on my way from the depot
to see Mary Falkner, and as her mother was very busy, I offered
to sit by Mary's bed while she finished her washing. Some one came
into the shop. Mrs. Falkner was in the clothes-yard, and did not
hear, and I at last went forward, supposing, of course, that I should
be called on for a spool of thread or a paper of pins.
"I am sorry, sir, that I could not serve you better, but under the
circumstances I did as well as I knew how. But I am forgetting my
errand to you. I charged you too much for the gloves, and
Mrs. Falkner trusted me with the change to be returned, which I now
make over to you"; passing twenty-five cents in silver across the
table.
"I shall take an early opportunity to show my appreciation of
Mrs. Falkner's fair dealing," responded Mr. Angus, smiling, as he put
the silver in his pocket. But with an instant change in his tone,
"Who is this Mary Falkner? Does she belong to my charge?"
"Yes, sir; she is a poor cripple; so patient and cheerful, that it is
a lesson to see her. It almost brings tears to my eyes to hear her
talk of God's mercy to her, and how He inclines the hearts of people
to supply her wants. Why, even the coming of customers to the store
for a few pennies' worth of thread is a subject for thankfulness."
"She is, indeed, to be envied. I regret that I have not seen her.
Such calls are needed by a pastor for his own good."
Marion's beaming face bore witness to her approbation of this
sentiment, as she remarked,—
"There is no place in the parish where a visit from you would be more
prized than in poor Mary's chamber."
Dear little Ethel, how hard it was for her, during the few days of
Marion's visit, to divide her favors equally between her two friends.
By this time the friendship between her and her pastor had become
very close. In a small locker under his bookcase were some of her
choicest toys, brought hither from time to time; and with these she
would amuse herself so quietly that he almost forgot her presence.
During his study hours he often rose from his books and paced the
floor while he arranged the topics of his sermons. One glance showed
her he was busy, and she scarcely moved. Sometimes he seated himself
in a large chair for the same purpose, when the little one,
watching every movement, obeyed the motion of his hand, and with
her favorite dolly in her arms, silently crept to his lap, sitting so
quiet that she often fell asleep.
Once her father, coming unexpectedly from his office to the house,
inquired for her, and was told she was with Mr. Angus in his study.
The child heard his voice, and putting her little fat hand on her
mouth to keep herself quiet, went softly from the room.
"I'm afraid you will disturb Mr. Angus," her father said. "What do
you do in there?"
"I keep stiller than a mouse, 'cause they nibble cheese and I don't,
and I make sermons with Mr. Angus."
"Make sermons, eh?" laughing; "well, you'd better come with me and
make the horse go."
Now if she obeyed Marion's invitation for a walk with her,
she watched anxiously for any marks of disapprobation from her other
friend, nor was she quite satisfied until she had made it clear
to him that she loved him just the same, but that her Marion was only
going to be with her a little while, and would feel badly if she did
not go for a walk.
To her cousin she also explained why she did not as heretofore devote
herself entirely to her society.
"I have to take care of him, you know, because he has nobody but me.
He doesn't look as sorry as he did. It always makes me cry to see
tears roll down his cheeks."
"Cry!" repeated Marion, quite shocked.
"Yes; when we're praying to Jesus to make us good, he says we must
always tell Jesus when we have been naughty, and He will forgive us
right off."