It was a rainy Sunday afternoon. A few lumps of coal burned in the
dingy grate in Alec's room. He had slept for several hours, had
finished reading his last library book, and now, as he clasped his
hands behind his head, yawning lazily, he remembered that he had not
written home for two weeks. Letter-writing had become a dreaded task
now. What was there to tell them of himself that he cared for them to
know? Only that he worked from seven until six, ate, slept, and rose
to work again with the dreary monotony of a machine.
For seven months he had not been inside a church door. The only
people he met now were the workmen at the factory and the boys with
whom he spent his evenings. He could not mention them. Long ago he
had exhausted his descriptions of the city. There was nothing for him
to write but that he was well and busy, and to fill up the pages with
questions about the people at home. It taxed his ingenuity sometimes
to evade Flip's straightforward questions, and he often thought that
his letters had an insincere ring.
"I wonder what they are doing at home now!" he exclaimed, looking
thoughtfully into the coals. "It's just a year ago to-day that I
left. I can't imagine them living in the new house. It's always the
old sitting-room I see when I think of them. Mack is probably down on
the hearth-rug, popping corn or roasting apples, and Flip's curled up
in the chimney-seat, telling him stories. And Aunt Eunice--I know
what she's doing; what she always does Sunday evening just at this
time, when the twilight begins to fall. She has gone into her room
and shut the door and knelt down by the big red rocking-chair that we
used to be rocked to sleep in. And she's praying for us this very
minute, and doesn't know that the dust is half an inch thick on my
Bible, and that a prayer hasn't passed my lips since last February.
Dear old Aunt Eunice!"
An ache clutched his throat as he thought of her, and a tender mood,
such as he had not known for weeks, rushed warm across him. One after
another the old scenes rose up before him, until an overwhelming
longing to see the well-known faces made the homesick tears start to
his eyes.
The twilight shadows deepened in the room, but, lost in the rush of
tender memories, he forgot everything save the pictures that seemed
to rise before him out of the glowing embers in the grate. In the
midst of his reverie, there was a noise on the stairs--a familiar
noise, although he had not heard it for months, a tread and a double
tap, as if a foot and two canes were coming up the steps.
"Old Jimmy Scott!" thought Alec, looking round as if awakening from a
dream and discovering that the room was nearly dark; he stirred the
fire until it burst into cheerful flames.
"Well!" he exclaimed, cordially, throwing open the door in answer to
old Jimmy's knock, "of all people! Did you rain down? Here I sat in
the dumps, feeling that I hadn't a friend in the town. Come in! Come
in!"
He pulled a chair hospitably toward the grate for his guest, and put
another lump of coal on the fire.
"Knew you'd be surprised to see me a day like this," said the old
soldier, thrusting his foot toward the blaze; "but I've been
intending to look you up for some time. Kind o' had a drawing in this
direction. Thinks I, when I felt it, wonder if he's sick and needs
me. When I have feelings like that, I usually pay attention to 'em."
They talked of various things for the next quarter of an hour; of the
weather, the new city hall, the approaching elections; but they were
both ill at ease. It seemed to Alec that the old man's heart was not
in the conversation; that he was only trying to pave the way to some
other topic. Finally a pause fell between them. Alec rose to put
another lump of coal on the fire, and old Jimmy, looking round the
room, noticed the two photographs on the mantel with their faces
turned to the wall. He knew well enough whose pictures they were.
During Alec's convalescence he had studied them many a time while he
listened to the homesick boy's enthusiastic description of his sister
and the aunt who had been like a mother to him.
As Alec took his chair again, he saw the old man's surprised glance
at the pictures. Then their eyes met. Alec flushed guiltily.
"Something's wrong, boy," said old Jimmy, tenderly. "I knew it.
That's why I felt moved to come. Seemed as if the Lord put it in my
heart that I must. There's special services going on at Grace Church
this week. Something in the evangelist's sermon this morning made me
feel that I'd got to speak to somebody before nightfall--stir up
somebody to a better life--or I'd be held accountable. Then all of a
sudden I began to think of you, so I came up to ask if you wouldn't
go to hear him to-night. But I see now that it's more than an
invitation to church you need. You're in trouble, or you never would
have done that." He nodded toward the pictures. "What is it?"
Alec hesitated a minute, and old Jimmy, reaching over, laid a
sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Something in the friendly touch
brought a swift rush of tears to Alec's eyes. He was so homesick and
lonely, and it seemed so good to have some one to talk with who was
really interested in him. Dropping his face in his hands and leaning
forward with his elbows on his knees, he blurted out his trouble in
broken sentences.
[Illustration: "HE BLURTED OUT HIS TROUBLE IN BROKEN SENTENCES."]
He told the whole story, beginning with the missing coin; Ralph
Bently's insinuations and subsequent endeavour to fasten suspicion on
him; the disclosure of his father's disgrace; the gossip that had
caused him to drop out of the society and church, where he felt that
he was no longer wanted. Finally the habits he had fallen into, and
the money he had lost, and the foreman's prophecy of his discharge
from the factory at the end of the month.
"I tried to do right," he said in conclusion. "I had tried all my
life. I joined the church when I was no older than Mack, and I lived
just as straight as I knew how. But after that--when every one cut
me--it didn't seem as if it was any use. I just lost faith in
everything and gave up trying. I used to believe in Aunt Eunice's
idea of the eternal goodness. It made me feel so safe, somehow, to
think that, no matter what happened, we could never--
"'Drift beyond His love and care.'"
That He had set islands for us to come across at every turn. You
know. You remember that little map I made when I was getting well.
One of the islands was named for you, and one was the Isle of Roses,
because those flowers the Christian Endeavour society sent seemed to
put new courage into me, and led to the acquaintances and friendships
that helped me so much while I had them.
"But I've lost that feeling now. I'm cut loose from everything, and
you don't know how terribly adrift I feel. I'm just whirled along
from day to day, till I've almost come to the place it tells about in
Job, where there's nothing left to do but 'curse God and die.'"
As he paused, old Jimmy's voice broke in with hearty cheerfulness,
"Why, bless you, my boy, you're all in a fog. And do you know the
reason? You haven't the right Pilot aboard any more.
"The 'islands' are all round you, just the same, put there on purpose
for you, but you let the devil get his hand at the wheel, and he
keeps you steered away from 'em. You say you stopped praying? That
very moment he got aboard and took possession. You quit trusting the
Lord the instant you got into deep water.
"You made a mistake when you let anybody's gossip run you out of the
church or the society. You ought to have stayed and lived it down!
That's the only thing for you to do now; go back and begin again and
make people believe in your innocence. It will be hard for you, and
powerfully awkward, for you have more than your share of pride and
sensitiveness, but it's the only manly thing to do."
"Oh, I _couldn't_ go back!" groaned Alec. "I believe I'd rather die
first. If it had only been what they said about me, I might have done
it, but I couldn't face what they'd continually be thinking about my
father. I could never live that down."
"Yes, you can! If you'll only put yourself entirely in the Lord's
hands, He'll furnish the strength for you to do whatever is right.
You've come to a crisis, Alec Stoker. You've got to fight it out
right now, which is to have control of the rest of your life, God or
the devil."
There was a long silence. Presently, in a voice choked with emotion,
the old man said, "Kneel down, son; I want to pray with you."
Together they knelt in the darkening room.
For a long time after old Jimmy took his leave, Alec sat gazing into
the flickering fire, as the room grew dimmer and dimmer. Then, urged
on by some impulse almost beyond his control, he slipped on his
overcoat and hurried out into the street. When he reached the
vestibule at the side door of the church, he stood a moment with his
hand on the latch. His courage had suddenly failed him. He would go
back home and wait until another time, he told himself. The service
must be nearly over.
But just then some one struck a few soft chords on the piano, and a
full, clear voice began to sing. It was Avery's voice, and she sang
with all the pleading earnestness of a prayer:
"Jesus, Saviour, pilot me
Over life's tempestuous sea!
Unknown waves before me roll,
Hiding rock and treacherous shoal;
Chart and compass come from thee:
Jesus, Saviour, pilot me."
Out in the darkness, the storm-tossed, homesick boy stood listening,
till his whole soul seemed to go out in that one cry, "Jesus,
Saviour, pilot me!" It was a complete surrender of self, and as he
whispered the words a peace that he had never known before, a great
peace he could not understand, seemed to fold him safe in its
keeping.
As the last words of the song died away, he opened the door and
walked in. If there was surprise on the faces of many, he did not see
it. If it was a departure from the usual custom, he never stopped to
consider it. The evangelist who had charge of the service stood for a
final word of exhortation, asking if there were not many who could
make that song their own, and offer it as a prayer of consecration.
It was never quite clear to Alec afterward just what he said then.
But as he told of the struggle he had just been through, and in
broken sentences made a public confession of his faith, eyes grew
dim, and hearts already touched by the song were strangely thrilled
and stirred. Afterward the members came crowding round him with a
warm welcome, and he carried away with him the remembrance of many a
hearty hand-clasp. One of them was Mr. Windom's. He rarely attended
the young people's meetings, and to-night had come only to hear his
daughter sing. If he had had any misgivings as to the boy's sincerity
of purpose before, every doubt was cleared away as he listened to his
manly confession of faith, and looked into his happy face, almost
transformed with the hope that illuminated it.
It was Thanksgiving Day. Alec, home on his first vacation, stood in
front of the open fire, watching Philippa set the table for their
little feast. He had talked late the night before, and told of the
many changes that had taken place during the last two months. He was
in the office now, and his salary had been raised sufficiently to
enable him to take a room in a comfortable boarding-house. Since his
conversion, Mr. Windom had taken several occasions to show Alec that
he trusted him implicitly.
Radiant in her joy at having her brother home again, Philippa kept
breaking into little snatches of song whenever there was a pause in
the conversation. She thought she had never known such a happy
Thanksgiving.
"How nice and homelike it all is!" Alec exclaimed, sniffing the
savoury odours that rushed in from the kitchen, of turkey and mince
turnovers, whenever Aunt Eunice opened the oven door. "And how good
it seems to hear you singing like that, Flip!"
"Do you remember the day you told me that it set your teeth on edge
to hear me singing that hymn?" asked Philippa, laughingly.
"Yes, but that was because I was all out of tune myself. Everything
is different now. Since I've given up trying to do my own piloting,
it seems to me that I come across one of His 'islands' nearly every
day." As he spoke, Macklin came running up on the porch, stamping the
snow from his feet, and burst into the house, his cheeks as red as
winter apples.
"Here's a letter for you, Alec!" he cried. "Where's my hammer, Flip?
I want to crack some of those nuts we gathered on purpose for
to-day."
She brought him the hammer, and he hurried away. Alec was turning the
dainty blue envelope over in his hands.
The address was written in the same hand as the card which had come
nearly a year ago with the Christian Endeavour roses. He tore open
the envelope, glanced at the monogram, then down the page, and turned
to Philippa with a long-drawn whistle. "I wish you'd listen to this!"
he exclaimed.
"DEAR MR. STOKER:--I am writing this in the hope that it
will reach you on Thanksgiving Day. You have suffered so
much on account of that miserable gold piece of mine, it
is only fair that you should have this explanation at once.
"This afternoon Miss Cornish and I went to the church to
practise a new song that I am to sing at the Thanksgiving
service. She was to play my accompaniments. The side door
of the church was open, for the florist was decorating the
altar, so we did not need to use the minister's latch-key,
which we had borrowed for the occasion. We practised for
some time, and then sat and talked until it was almost dark.
When we started home, we found to our dismay that the
janitor, thinking we had gone, had double-locked the door
for the night with his big key. Our little latch-key was then
of no use.
"We called and pounded until we were desperate. I had an
engagement for dinner, and could not afford to lose any time.
Finally we went into the prayer-meeting room, and found that
we could open one of the panes in the great stained-glass
window at the side. Miss Cornish climbed up on one of those
old pulpit chairs that the officers use, and said that if she
could lean out through the pane, she would call to the first
one who passed, and ask him to bring the janitor to our
release.
"But some way, in climbing, Miss Cornish caught her high heel
in the plush with which the seat is upholstered. The goods is
frayed and old. The chair tipped, and they both came to the
floor with a bang. Just as I sprang to catch her, something
bright and round rolled out of the chair toward me and dropped
right at my feet.
"It was that unlucky gold coin, which must have slipped under
the plush in some way when you counted the money on it that
night.
"It was so late when we were finally rescued that I could not
keep my dinner engagement. I am glad for one reason; it gives
me time to write this now. I know that it will make your
Thanksgiving brighter to know this, and I am sure that it is
needless for me to say that I never for an instant connected
the disappearance of the coin with you in any way. I regret
extremely the silly gossip that wounded you so sorely, and
want to tell you how much I respect the manly way in which
you have since met and answered it.
"Wishing you a happy Thanksgiving with your family, I am
"Sincerely your friend,
"AVERY WINDOM."
[Illustration: "'IT WAS THAT UNLUCKY GOLD COIN.'"]
Philippa, watching his face as he read, came up to him when he had
finished, and put a hand on each shoulder.
"Alec," she said, with the straightforwardness of sixteen, "that
means a lot to you, doesn't it, that she should write that she is
'sincerely your friend'?"
"Yes," he answered, honestly; "a very great deal."
"Do you suppose it would stand in the way, sometime, when you are
older, you know, and have made a place for yourself in the world, her
knowing about--about father?"
"I don't know, Flip," he answered, slowly; "I've often wondered about
that."
Through the open door came Aunt Eunice's voice, singing jubilantly:
"I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies."
"How that old hymn answers everything!" Alec said, softly. "No matter
what lies ahead, it's all right now. God's at the helm, little
sister! I shall find all the 'islands' he has set for me."
THE END.