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Title: Twilight stories

Author: Catharine Shaw

Release date: October 6, 2023 [eBook #71824]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWILIGHT STORIES ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



                             Twilight

                             Stories.


                        By CATHARINE SHAW

 Author of "Sunday Sunshine," "The Strange House," "At Last," etc.



John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.,
    3, Pilgrim Street,
             London, E. C.



                            CONTENTS.

CHAP.

    I. A TICKET FOR EACH

   II. WHAT THE SHEPHERD KNOWS

  III. FOLLOWING

   IV. KEPT AT HOME

    V. ROBBIE'S CHRISTMAS EVE

   VI. THE FLOWER OF HOPE

  VII. MILICENT'S MUSIC

 VIII. SERVES HIM RIGHT

   IX. NELLIE'S HINDRANCE

    X. THE EARWIG

   XI. LOST ON THE COMMON

  XII. BLACKBERRYING

 XIII. THE STOPPED WATCH

  XIV. THE MIDNIGHT A, B, C

   XV. VERA'S CONTENT

  XVI. A SEARCH FOR VIOLETS

 XVII. SUMMER DAYS

XVIII. BECAUSE

  XIX. THE HAUNTED ROOM

   XX. AGATHA'S STORY

  XXI. UNDER THE STARS

 XXII. KINDLED

XXIII. TOM'S PERSUASIONS

 XXIV. A MESSAGE FROM AMERICA

  XXV. HOW TO FIND

 XXVI. WORTH WHILE

XXVII. MID-WINTER



                        TWILIGHT STORIES.

CHAPTER I.

A TICKET FOR EACH.

"COME along, Auntie! The tea will not be in for a few minutes, and the
fire is bright and the curtains are drawn. Just sit down and give us a
twilight talk. It is New Year's day, and of course we want something to
help us on our way."

Their Aunt smiled. She had come to stay with them for a long visit.
The four gathered round her knew that she had passed through deep
trials, and they also knew that she had come out of them nearer to the
Celestial City, like "Christian" from "The Slough of Despond."

They did not guess that their love and sympathy helped her very much
too.

"Well!" she said, brightly, "I was thinking this morning about God's
promises, and I made up my mind to take one each day this year to live
upon!"

"How do you mean?" asked Rose.

"Every morning to take some distinct promise, or assurance, out of
the Bible, and think about it whenever I could, and remind God of it
whenever I was in any difficulty. I'm going to call it my ticket!"

"Your 'ticket,' Auntie?" said Oswald, affectionately. "I do not believe
you want a ticket to get into God's presence. Is that what you mean?"

The others smiled, and Aunt Ruth laughed a little.

"Well—it's just as well to have a ticket! The other day, do you
remember? I went to a large concert. Inside was light and music, and
friends; outside was cold, dull weather, and policemen and hall-keepers
jealously guarding the way.

"I was glad to have a ticket then, I can tell you; and it struck me
this morning that there is nothing Satan likes better than to say, as
those hall-keepers did: 'This is not the way! Where's your ticket?'"

"And how is that like God's promises?" said Tom, bluntly.

"Like this. In God's presence is light and warmth and music. Satan
would keep us outside; but when we can say to him 'God said so,' he has
not a word to answer, and is obliged to let us pass!"

"I see!" said Tom.

"Let us all try this year to have a promise, or an assurance, every
morning. I am sure it will bring happiness."

"Have you got one for to-day?" asked Jean, shyly.

"Yes," said Aunt Ruth, looking up. "It is 'Certainly I will be with
thee.'"

"That's a ticket to a very good seat!" said Oswald, with his eyes
shining. "I think your 'tickets' are a good idea, Auntie. We'll each
see if we can't get some for ourselves."

"But are the promises always applicable?" asked Rose.

"I think I may say I have always found them so," said Aunt Ruth, "for
when by a promise we get into God's presence, it is wonderful what a
feast He spreads for us, 'enough and to spare'; worth all the trouble
of getting in."

"Is it easy to find promises?" asked Tom, "For I should never know
where to look."

"You would soon get used to it, especially as there are quite 30,000
promises in the Bible."

"Are there, Auntie?"

"Yes. Did you never hear the story of the old woman who put T.P. on
pretty nearly every page of her Bible? Some one asked her what T. P.
meant, and she said, with great satisfaction—'T. P., Tried and Proved.
I've tried and proved every one of those promises, and found God
faithful!'"

"I like that!" said Oswald. "Now let's get a promise each for to-day!"

"How would you like to have the same as mine?" said Aunt Ruth, "And
to-morrow you can each get a fresh one for yourselves?"

This met with great approval, and Jean wrote on a strip of paper and
slipped it into her Bible—

"Certainly I will be with thee!"



CHAPTER II.

WHAT THE SHEPHERD KNOWS.

AUNT RUTH sat in the chimney corner. It was a cold, snowy day, and the
children had come in from a walk, and said it was bitter.

They gathered close to the fire, and all seemed inclined to stop there,
rather than seek for employment or amusement.

"The fields looked so bleak," said Rose, warming her hands for the
twentieth time. "We saw a shepherd leading home his sheep, Auntie!"
said Jean.

"Did you? How interesting! Not driving them, then?"

"No, that was what I noticed and I thought you'd perhaps have a
twilight talk over that?"

Jean smiled as she said it, and Aunt Ruth smiled too.

"So you are beginning to look-out for spiritual lessons from everyday
things?"

"I like that sort of lesson," said Jean, "so much better than geography
and history!"

"Ah! But we cannot properly learn the spiritual, unless we are in touch
with Christ in the everyday things!"

"Can't we, Auntie?" asked Tom, soberly.

She shook her head. "Well," she said, "directly Jean told me she had
seen a shepherd leading his sheep, I thought of one of my favourite
texts."

"And that was?" asked Oswald.

"'My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow Me; and I
give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish, neither shall
any man pluck them out of my hand.'"

"Children! The sheep hear; and He knows them, each one; and they
follow; and He gives. There is a world of meaning in every one of those
short sentences. Many children and grown-up people, too, hear, and
follow, and forget the clause that comes between. Do you remember what
that is?"

"'I know them,'" said Rose, gently. She had been learning the whole
verse, and could repeat it perfectly.

"Yes—and what do you think they miss by forgetting that clause?"

The children did not know, so they looked up earnestly.

"They miss assurance. The first clause and the third belong to
themselves, 'they hear, they follow'; but the second clause is all
Christ's, 'I know them.' Here is safety and peace."

"Once there was a revival in a large school that I knew of, and one
of the naughtiest girls was brought to Christ. Most of the mistresses
thought it impossible that Lizzie could be really converted, and
laughed much at a younger teacher, who believed that there really was
a change in the girl. This young teacher at last was driven into a
corner in defending Lizzie's conversion, and said, in desperation,
'Well—Christ knows.' Very soon after the holidays came, and the young
mistress left the school."

"But at the end of a year, she paid her friends there a visit; and when
she was hearing all the news, one of them said, 'You remember Lizzie,
who was such a naughty girl? Well, she is totally changed. Instead
of being the most tiresome, she is the brightest of all the little
Christians!"

"Then the mistress took heart, and remembered how she had said, 'Christ
knows'?"

"Yes, dears, He knows His sheep, and they follow Him. And in proportion
to our realising that He knows, so shall we be strong to follow Him
closely!"

"That's very nice," said Tom. "Thank you, Auntie."

"Another day we will have 'following,' for I think it will help us."

They looked up gratefully. They did want to learn more of Christ, and
this dear Aunt Ruth had learned in His School, and could help them
because she had been close to Him herself.



CHAPTER III.

FOLLOWING.

"WHAT are you looking at, Auntie?" The children crowded out of the
French window, and stood on the verandah by her side, the stars and the
deep twilight sky sending a sort of thrill to their hearts.

"I was watching that old woman and her grandson on their way home. What
do you think I heard the boy say as he passed the hedge?"

"What?" asked Rose, curiously. Auntie always had something pleasant to
say.

"'I can't see the way, grannie, it's so dark!' he complained; and then
a gentle voice came out of the gloom, and I heard these words: 'If you
keep close behind, and follow me, we shall soon get into the light!'"

"And I thought, children, that here was our promised twilight talk
about 'following' all ready to our hand!"

"Now it seems to me that little Ted Jones is a picture of us."

"There are often places in our everyday lives which are dark and
mysterious to us ignorant ones; sorrows, or trials, misunderstandings,
difficulties, sins, temptations—you can all put your own special
difficulty into the story, and call it 'darkness.' The question often
comes to each of us, how are we to get out of this dilemma, or this
difficulty, or this bad temper, or temptation?"

"I know well that it seems very real and large and overwhelming to
us. But the Lord Jesus bids us follow Him closely, assuring us with
tenderness that is wonderful, 'He that followeth Me shall not walk in
darkness, but shall have the light of life!'"

"But," said Oswald, pressing closer to her side, "there are so many
things that are so small, Auntie, and yet they worry you no end!
Perhaps you've had a lesson to learn, and you've had a headache, or
somebody has thrown you over, and made it ache, and so your lesson
isn't half prepared, and you get up in the morning feeling that the
world is dark and you cannot see any way out of the bother. Oh, there
are heaps of things! That's only one! What can we do in such a case?"

There was a pause for an instant. Aunt Ruth was trying to put herself
into Oswald's circumstances, and thinking how to bring her great Remedy
down to his need. To make him understand that Jesus Christ is a remedy
for all ills.

"I think," she said, slowly, "the best plan would be to go to God, our
Father, and tell Him just how the difficulty came, and then ask Him
definitely 'in the name of Jesus,' to make some way out of it—"

"And then?" asked Oswald, eagerly.

"Then I should do the next most obvious thing. Either look over the
unfinished lesson if there is time, or go quietly into class if there
isn't, and wait to see how God will help you. The answer may come in
some very simple way, but if you look for it, it will surely come, and
you must thank Him."

Oswald pressed her arm. Aunt Ruth was so comforting.

"Every one of us has our own special difficulty, and what is 'darkness'
to Oswald may not appear at all bad to Tom!"

Tom could hear a smile in his Aunt's voice as she turned towards him.

"The timid child who hates to go upstairs after dusk, feels itself
quite safe if father is in front! So little Ted Jones could not see the
way to go, and he felt afraid in the dark lanes lest he was not going
right. But grannie knew! She had been that way before too many times to
mistake, and if little Ted would only keep close to her, and trust her,
she would lead him safely home. Presently the cottage door would open,
there would be a flood of light, and little Ted would be at home!"

"How nice!" said Jean, with her eyes shining in the darkness.

But Aunt Ruth was speaking again. "Jesus says 'He that followeth Me
shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life. If any
man serve Me, let him follow Me, and whither I am, there shall My
servant be!"

There was a moment's pause, and the children were looking up to the
starlit sky.

"But, sometimes," said Tom, in a low voice, "the path seems difficult,
and we lose sight of the Guide, perhaps, and cannot be sure He is
there—"

"Yes," said Aunt Ruth, "I know that; but I think then the best way is
to speak to our Guide. Tell Him we find the way rough and lonely, and
ask Him by his Spirit to reveal His presence to us. As surely as we do,
we shall get a comforting assurance that He is there; that He knows
the way, that He has been through all our temptations, and that He is
safely leading us Home! Oh, the rest of being sure that Jesus knows the
way, children!"

"I suppose," said Rose, "that if we were more sure about Jesus we
should not be half so afraid!"

"'Sure,'" echoed Tom; "how do you mean?"

"I mean," hesitated Rose, "that if we had more confidence in the way He
was leading us we should be more satisfied with our circumstances—"

Rose had touched upon one of the great problems of life. The others did
not know it, but Aunt Ruth did.

"Have I ever told you about the Alpine guide?" she asked suddenly.

"No, I think not," said Rose, wonderingly.

"When people want to make an ascent of a difficult mountain, the first
thing they do is to secure the services of a guide."

"This guide must be thoroughly qualified, strong and reliable, have
climbed that particular mountain many times before, and must be ready
to undertake the charge of the traveller—"

"Oh, I see!" exclaimed Jean.

"And then, when the traveller and the guide have made the compact, the
traveller gives himself over to do exactly as the guide says, doesn't
he?"

"Of course he does," said Tom.

"And they start together, and the guide goes before in all the
difficult places. He cares for the traveller; he holds him up; he
assures him that he knows the way. As they mount higher, the guide cuts
each step in the ice, and the traveller must put his foot where his
guide's have been, with unquestioning faith: herein is his only safety."

"Will he grudge his confidence when the summit is reached, and they
stand beneath the vault of heaven with nothing between?"

"So we, children, shall thank and praise our great Guide for His
faithfulness, and shall know those words true by and bye—'He that
followeth Me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of
life'!"



CHAPTER IV.

KEPT AT HOME.

TWO girls sat at a window in a cosy bedroom overlooking the snowy
prospect; a bright fire burned in the grate, and a little table was
spread with afternoon tea.

"I wish you could go out and skate, Mary!" said the elder of the two,
laying a gentle hand on the other's white one, and looking in her face.

Mary shook her head with a little half-smile.

"I suppose I ought not to have said so," Dorothy went on, "for I expect
it only makes you long the more—"

"No, it doesn't," said Mary. "You see, Dorothy, I'm willing, and that
makes it so much easier."

"Easier to sit up there and mope, instead of going to parties, or
skating, or even church? And then in front of you, perhaps, an
operation in which you may lose your foot—"

And as she said the words, Dorothy buried her face on Mary's lap and
gave a sob.

Mary's little hand stroked her hair tenderly. "Yes—all that," she said,
"and yet I love God's will better than my own, and am sure He will
allow nothing that He will not give me strength to bear."

Still Dorothy sobbed, and Mary went on in the same tender, even tone,
which had come to her because her heart was at rest in the heart and
will of God.

"I'll tell you what comforts me, Dorothy, most of all. I've two texts
that I live on just now; would you care to hear them?"

Dorothy nodded, and sat up, drying her eyes. "I've no business to
depress you!" she exclaimed. "Only I am so sorry!"

"I know," answered Mary, "but now listen to my texts and get comforted.
One is the down-hearted text, and the other is the triumphant one.
Listen! This is the down-hearted text—I mean when Satan tries to make
me down-hearted:—'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee!'"

"And the triumphant one is this,—'I will trust, and not be afraid!'
Which will you have, Dorothy?"

Dorothy smiled at her tone, and Mary said, "Will you take the comfort
that Jesus wants to give you about me, and be sure He is doing His best
for me? I'm at the triumphant text to-night, you see!"

There were bright tears glittering in her soft eyes for all that, and
Dorothy kissed her almost reverently.

"Well—I'll take one of your texts, if I can't take the other!" she
said, "At present!"

"God must teach you Himself," said Mary, "and then you will be able!"



CHAPTER V.

ROBBIE'S CHRISTMAS EVE.

"WHY, Mother, it is almost as light as day!" said Robin, as the two
came out from the shade of the trees close to the village church. "I
was never out so late before. Look at the church clock, it's just upon
a quarter past eleven."

"Yes," said his mother, trying to quicken her tired footsteps; "and
we'll soon be home now, Robbie."

"I don't care," said Robin, a little sadly. "I was never so old as this
before, and I thought Christmas was always a happy day to everybody,
and I'm sure it won't be to us to-morrow, Mammie! We've got nothing to
keep it with, and then there's father so ill, too."

"Yes, Robbie, I know that—" she assented, settling her great bundle of
sticks more firmly in her arms, "but the Lord has been speaking to me
while I've been picking up the sticks in the moonlight, and I feel less
tired."

"Has He?" asked Robin in a voice of awe. He had been a very wretched
little boy all that bright, crisp, Christmas Eve; like Christian and
Hopeful, he had got into Doubting Castle, and Giant Despair had been
beating him about cruelly! He had looked round on his circumstances,
and had decided they were too hard to bear. There was mother with that
tired face working for them all, and tidying up "for Christmas," as
she said, waiting on their sick father, and washing and mending their
threadbare clothes once again. He had looked in the cupboard and not
a bit of fresh food for Christmas fare appeared to be there. He had
peeped in the corners of the kitchen and shed, but no surprises lay
anywhere that he could see.

"I did try to be a little Christian," he had murmured, "but what's
the good? Other people have a good Christmas, but we haven't. God has
forgotten all about father being ill, and mother and us not having
enough to eat!"

So when his mother had called him softly to come out with her and
gather sticks for a Christmas fire, he had come with sorrowful steps,
being still fast held in Doubting Castle.

And now his mother was telling him that the Lord had been talking to
her! and Robin felt almost afraid, for he had been turning his back on
the Lord in his heart all that long Christmas Eve!

"Yes," his mother went on, squeezing his hand, "and what do you guess
He said to me, Robbie? He said, 'Don't you think, little mother, that
I love you, and know how tired you are? Don't you think that I know
how father's groaning goes to your heart? Don't you think that I have
looked into the cupboard in the kitchen and know there is only one loaf
there to go round for all the children? Don't you think I see that
there's but a bit of tea and a mite of sugar, and no meat nor pudding
nor anything?'"

"And I said, 'Yes, dear Jesus, I know you have seen it all.'"

"And He said, 'Haven't I told you that I will make a way of escape that
you shall be able to bear it?'"

"And I said, 'Yes, dear Jesus, you have.'"

"Then, Robbie, I began to think about the shepherds watching their
flocks and the heavenly Host singing so long ago because Christ the
Lord was born, and I raised my head and wiped away my tears, and I said
to myself, 'I've got my Saviour still,' and He has said to you and to
me, 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.'"

Robbie's little heart gave a thrill of happiness, and straight away,
he got out of Doubting Castle. The key of God's promise had opened the
gate!

When they got to the cottage door, a great hamper lay in the moonlight
on the white step.

Warm clothes, apples, oranges, beef and groceries, crackers and nuts
for the children, and a great pudding.

And on slip of paper was written:

   "Unto you is born a Saviour which is Christ the Lord."



CHAPTER VI.

THE FLOWER OF HOPE.

ALL is bare in the garden! The wind blows round in gusts; the snow lies
thick wherever the wind has not lifted it; the cold seems to have taken
possession.

Daisy looked out of the window on a dull February afternoon. The
weather outside matched the chilled little heart. An arm came round her
shoulders, and a gentle voice said, "Well, little one, what is that
head of yours so busy over?"

"Oh, I don't know, Auntie! I was looking at the snow, and
thinking—somehow—the winter seems never-ending!" There was great
sadness in the young voice.

"Yes—you have had a hard time of it, Daisy," said her aunt, lovingly.

"And it is not only that mother is gone," said the girl, with a choke,
"and that all the rooms are empty—it is not only that—"

She paused, unable to proceed.

"I see all that," whispered her aunt, "but I know well that it is not
always the sorrows people can see that are the hardest."

Daisy looked up quickly, as if that were a ray of comfort.

"Jesus sees," proceeded her aunt, "what we can hardly explain to any
one else, He understands."

Daisy squeezed her hand, and then, as if impelled to go on, she added,
"I thought as I looked out on the wintry garden, as if my heart were
something like that, and I don't see any help for it!"

"Still, Daisy, beneath the snow and the frost, the plants are alive!
That is how the life of Christ is in your heart. Put on your shawl, and
I will get mine. There is nothing like seeing—"

Daisy ran with alacrity. Hope had begun to dawn in her heart.

Her aunt led the way to a sheltered corner.

"Look!" she exclaimed. There, beneath a holly bush, peeped out of the
white earth a little patch of exquisite snowdrops!

"Oh! Auntie!" said Daisy, and her eyes were full of tears, she did not
know why.

"Didn't I tell you the life was there?" whispered her aunt. "Hope thou
in God, for I shall yet praise Him who is the health of my countenance
and my God!"

When her father came home that night, there was a different atmosphere
somehow in the quiet room, and about his little girl. There was nothing
that he could say was altered, except that a bunch of snowdrops stood
in a vase beside his plate; but Daisy's eyes had the light of hope in
them.

"The child has been talking to Jesus, I fancy," said his sister that
night, "and any one who talks to Him finds the worst burden lifted!"



CHAPTER VII.

MILICENT'S MUSIC.

"WHY, Milicent!" exclaimed her aunt. "Crying over your music, darling?"

Milicent was too miserable to mind being caught crying, though
generally she was so brave that she would have resented the sympathy.

"I'm cold, and I can't get on; and Miss Seymour told me I was to do
nothing till I had played this exercise twenty times."

Her aunt went up to her and touched the little icy fingers, which with
contact with the cold ivory keys, were numbed and almost useless.

"Miss Seymour will let you warm them, I am sure, if I explained," said
her auntie. "Come here on my knee, and while you get warm we will have
a little talk. Then I will help you with your exercise afterwards, and
you shall see how quickly we will learn it."

Milicent came almost reluctantly. Her hands ached intolerably, and
she felt wretched altogether. But the warm rays of the fire began to
play upon her chilled little frame, and as she nestled her head in her
aunt's neck, she felt comfort beginning to steal over her.

"Cold is very bad to bear," said her aunt, softly. "I heard from a
soldier who came from South Africa that some of the poor fellows on
duty at night would positively cry with the bitter cold."

Milicent looked up suddenly.

"These are words said to you and to me, Milly, 'Endure hardness, as
good soldiers of Jesus Christ.'"

"I didn't mean to cry," said Milly, "only I couldn't get on."

"No, dear; and do you know when I saw your pitiful little face, I
remembered what I heard at a missionary meeting a week or two ago? The
young clergyman had been working for seven years all among the snows of
North-West Canada—"

"'Working?'" asked Milicent.

"Trying to tell the Red Indians and Eskimos, and the trappers and
hunters about Jesus, our Saviour, of whom they have never heard."

"Oh, I see," said Milicent. "Now I know what you mean."

"The missionaries there only get letters three times in the year; they
have to live almost entirely on dried meat and a little tea, and often
go very short of that! They never see the sun for nine months in the
year, and the snow is five feet thick on the ground!"

"When they travel from place to place to tell the good news of the love
of Jesus, they often cannot get to a hut by night time, and have to
camp in the snow. They scrape a big hole with their long snow-shoes,
and then they put on every wrap they possess, and each gets into a long
fur bag which covers them over head and all, and then they lie down in
the snow hole, and men and dogs go to sleep as close together as they
can for warmth."

Milicent raised her head, and put out her hands to the blaze
thoughtfully.

"They must love Jesus very much to bear all that for Him," she said at
length.

"Yes; and love the poor ignorant people, too, Milly!"

"Do the Eskimos learn to love Christ, Auntie?"

"Indeed they do. The children are taught to read, and to sing hymns,
and to repeat Scripture; and by and by little Mission stations spring
up and a church is built; and those who used to be cannibals and at
constant warfare with each other, learn to be kind and gentle and
forgiving even as Christ is!"

Milicent's large eyes looked wistful. "I wish I could do something for
them," she said, longingly.

"Milly, I felt that too, when I heard! But do you know what I thought?
Every day I can pray that God would support and bless those brave
missionaries in their hardships; and you can ask Him, too, that He may
comfort them and give them food to eat and cheer their hearts with His
presence."

"So I will," said Milly in a low voice.

"And you can learn to knit warm gloves and caps for them, perhaps? Or
work to sell things and send them money."

Milly nodded her head earnestly. Her heart was full of thoughts.

Then her aunt rose and turned to the piano.

"Now, childie, we must do the next duty that comes to our hand. Let us
have a look at this tiresome music!"

Milly went at it with a good will, now, and soon conquered the
difficulty; and then, set free, she went up into her bedroom and knelt
down at her bedside for one moment.

"Lord Jesus," she said, "I want to love Thee and serve Thee all my
life—teach me how!"



CHAPTER VIII.

"SERVES HIM RIGHT!"

"NOW, Aunt Ruth! See, the fire is blazing, and the wintry prospect is
shut out, let us have a story or something!"

Their Aunt glanced on their eager faces, illumined by the firelight,
and she smiled as she paused an instant.

"Serves him right!" she exclaimed, and the children looked round almost
startled. They heard such words from each other occasionally, but
certainly not from their gentle Aunt.

"'Serves him right,'" she repeated. "'He did it to me, and it's just as
well he should feel the pinch himself!'"

"'What did he do, Rollo?' asked a school-fellow, curiously."

"'When I went down in class the other day, you should have seen the
look in George's eyes! As he took his place above me, he muttered
beneath his breath, "You should have worked harder last night, then it
wouldn't have happened!" He knew I had a frightful headache, and could
barely see a line.'"

"'Well,' said his school-fellow, 'George has got his deserts this
time, for Joey hid his book till the last minute, and then found it,
as innocent as anything, and we knew he'd be bound to go down, for he
hadn't a moment to prepare.'"

"Rollo turned away, but his heart was heavy. It was all very well to
be glad that his overbearing school-fellow had gone down in class; but
such a trick as that was beyond him."

"He raced off to his dinner at home, and his footmarks were the only
ones across the snowy fields."

"When he got in, the dinner was not quite ready, and he went and sat
down in front of the fire, by which his little crippled sister lay on
her couch."

"'Isn't all right to-day, Rollo?' she asked, wistfully."

"He looked up, then back to the fire."

"'Nothing particular,' he mumbled."

"'I'm sure there is,' she said gently."

"'It's only that George Runton is such a cad, and I said it served him
right to go down in his class—'"

"'Well? Did you get blamed for saying that?' she asked."

"'By nobody but myself. I had a sort of feeling it wasn't nice of me:
but I don't know why exactly. It did serve him right, and yet—'"

"'I know!' said Mary, very tenderly; 'it wasn't like "His compassions"
was it?'"

"'His compassions?' asked Rollo, equally gently, for this little
suffering sister was his pet and darling."

"'Don't you know it says, "His compassions fail not; they are new every
morning." I'm often glad of that.'"

"'Why particularly?'"

"'Because we're often hard in our thoughts on other people—at least I
am. But I'm often glad to remember that God is sorry for our mistakes
without being hard, and He makes even our mistakes work round for our
good if we will trust Him.'"

"Rollo looked dissatisfied."

"'Doesn't that help you at all?' asked Mary."

"'We're always paying each other out at school, or wishing we could,'
objected Rollo. 'I don't seem to be able to help it.'"

"'Yes, I know; but when we get very tired of trying to be kind and to
pay back a kind action instead of a nasty word, it does help to say to
one's self, "His compassions fail not."'"

"'Well—' said Rollo, with a long-drawn breath, 'I'll try it. And here's
dinner!'"

"He retraced his steps over the snow, and he looked up at the sky and
saw the little robin singing on the branches in spite of the cold,
and he repeated to himself tenderly, thinking of Mary's face: 'His
compassions fail not; they are new every morning.'"

"For a moment his heart stood still. What about Mary's years of
helplessness?"

"But he remembered that she had meant what she said, and there was
nothing but truth from those gentle lips and eyes."

"When he got inside school he was almost late. In his hurry, he
stumbled up against George Runton, and nearly knocked him over. He
paused for one instant, then said, hastily, 'I'm sorry you lost your
book, old fellow—it was awfully vexing.' And so passed on into school,
with a wonderfully lightened heart."

       *       *       *       *       *      *

There was silence for a minute round the bright fire, for Auntie had
set the children thinking.

"I suppose we are all apt to be hard on someone!" ventured Rose, at
last.

"Yes, I expect we are," said Aunt Ruth. "We all have our different ways
of showing it, and the things that make us hard differ with each of our
dispositions. But God seems to me to stand like 'a shadow of a great
rock in a weary land,' with His everlasting love ready to enfold us and
protect us and calm us."

"Why did you tell us this to-day, Auntie?" asked Tom.

"Because—" she smiled archly, "I had heard those words, 'Serve him
right,' eight times within the last two days!"

"Oh, Auntie!"

She jumped up and turned up the gas. "Who wants a game of dominoes till
teatime?" she said brightly.

But nevertheless, they did not forget her little story.



CHAPTER IX.

NELLIE'S HINDRANCE.

NELLIE had come out from home with rather a heavy heart. Her basket
full of fresh eggs for the Vicarage had been taken safely there, and
now she was returning. The twilight was deepening, and she stood still
to hear a thrush's good-night song.

Yesterday a Missioner had come to their village, and Nellie had gone to
the service, and she had been dissatisfied with herself ever since.

The subject had been hindrances to prayer, and as Nellie stood beneath
the trees breathing in the soft spring air, she recalled almost every
word the Missioner had said.

She felt they spoke home, and her face was very downcast as she
remembered them.

"Where do you think your hindrances to prayer come?" he had asked.
"I will tell you; it is not in your outside life, among your
acquaintances, in the shop or the club, the market, the school, or the
pleasure party! You can have a smiling face there, and people say how
nice you are and how pleasant! But the real man, and the real woman,
and the real boy and girl are not seen in those places."

"It is at home, by your fireside, in the family life that we are
ourselves, and it is there the great temptation comes to us to have our
prayers hindered by unworthy conduct."

Nellie remembered it all, and she remembered, too, that her conduct
to-day had somehow "hindered her prayers."

Her mother had asked her to do several things in the morning that she
thought most unnecessary. She felt sure that no other mother would have
wanted such a thing on a Monday morning!

She was a dutiful girl, and she did not refuse to do them, but she did
them with an inward groan, which made them twice as hard to do.

Then the children had seemed tiresome, and one of them had torn his
clothes against some barbed wire; the clothes had to be mended before
he could go back to school in the afternoon. And while she was mending
them at the top of her speed, he would keep on jumping in and out of
bed, where he was waiting, and hindered her more than she could say.

At last the mending was done, and the children raced off to school a
little late.

"Mother might have let him wear his best for once!" she grumbled to
herself.

And so all the afternoon she felt things were harder than she could
bear.

But now, as she came under the quiet shade of the trees and tried to
think, she sat down on a grassy bank and buried her face in her hands.

What was "hindering" her prayers, and her communion with God?

The Missioner said that the word "hindered" meant "that you cut
yourselves adrift" from prayer.

He said that the mainland is like communication with God; and that if a
person rowed out to a rock, and, after mooring his boat to return, cut
it adrift, he would sever himself from returning to the mainland!

So if we went out on to the sea of our daily life, and let pleasure or
worry, work or care, cut us adrift from communication with God, all our
happiness and peace would go!

Yes, Nellie remembered every word, and sorrowfully she thought, "What
is separating me from communion with God?"

At first she was not sure, but after a few moments of thinking it over,
she confessed to herself that it was not "pleasure," for she thought
she did not get much of that; it was not "work," though she had heaps
of that; it was not "care," for as yet she felt but little of that; it
was—she paused—she hated to acknowledge it to herself—it was worry! She
had got into a kind of vexation with her life, and all that belonged to
it. She could not alter it; the more she tried the worse it seemed to
be. What was she to do?

She did love God; she did wish to please Jesus all the day, more than
anything else in the world; and yet here she was vexed and irritated by
the unalterable things in her lot, which (she told herself) her mother
could alter, but did not, and which galled and fretted her almost past
endurance.

Was there any remedy, or must she go home just as burdened as she came
out?

The thrush still sang, though the dusk was falling now upon tree and
meadow.

Nellie felt she must go, but how could she till she had found rest?

Ah! With a start of joy, she raised her head. Rest? Then the words of
her Saviour flashed upon her, "Come unto ME all ye that labour and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn
of ME."

Nellie saw it now, and the struggle was ended. She had been wanting
her own will and her own way; she had been wanting to set the crooked
things straight herself, but it was only God who could do it for her,
after all.

The Missioner had said the yoke of Christ, under which he walked so
patiently, was the Will of God. Was that the solution of all her home
frets and worries? The Will of God! Yes, she would take it. She would
do as Christ said, "Take the yoke upon her," and so find rest!

Such a peace stole over her that she could have cried her heart out;
but she knew she would be missed; and with an inward thanksgiving too
deep for words, she ran along the dark lane, and soon entered the
lighted cottage.

She kissed her mother silently, and hastened upstairs, saying only,
"I sha'n't be a minute," and when she came down, they wondered at her
brightness, but did not know that in finding rest of heart in Jesus,
her life had been "transfigured."



CHAPTER X.

THE EARWIG.

WHEN I was a little child of about five, I remember very well how we
used to play in the garden all the long summer days, and how insects
and toads, hedgehogs and beetles, were our playthings, besides the
intense enjoyment of climbing trees, high swinging, and other delights.

But fond as we were of insects, I had the most shrinking fear of an
earwig.

One day, I thought I felt something crawl down my neck, and in an agony
I asked my little brothers and sisters, and I daresay our busy nurse,
to see if they could find it. Nobody took any heed of my distress,
till, in some way, I suppose, I came across my father.

I never had any reason to doubt his tenderness, and whether he guessed
there was something wrong, or whether I ran to him and explained, I
cannot now remember.

But what is indelibly impressed on my memory is this.

He took me at once to his room, and while cheeringly assuring me that
even if it were an earwig, it would do me no harm, he began with the
utmost tenderness to take off my frock, and to peep about my little
shoulders; and still not finding it, he took off garment by garment,
till he satisfied himself and me that no earwig was there. Then he
dressed me again, and with comforted heart we went downstairs together.

Shall I ever forget that little childish scene? Does it not rise before
me every time I read those tender words in the 103rd Psalm, "Like as a
father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him."

Now, what I want you all to remember, dear children, is this. Let this
little picture of an earthly father's pity, help you to understand the
Heavenly Father's pity.

We all have troubles and fears, difficulties and temptations. Some
more, some less.

Let us take them to the pitying Heavenly Father. The difficulty or fear
may be as unwarrantable as my dread of the earwig, or it may be a real
danger or temptation which assails us. But whatever it is, trust the
great Father's love. Tell Him all about it, ask Him to help you, as He
knows best how; leave it in His Hands how to do it, and receive His
assurance of peace when you have done all this.

Then at rest from your fears, and the worst of your difficulties, go
hand in hand into the work of life, with a firmer trust than ever in
your Father's love.

And the Heavenly Father is always near at hand!



CHAPTER XI.

LOST ON THE COMMON.

"WHY, Bertha! I've been looking for you everywhere," exclaimed her
cousin Norman, a little reproachfully, "Aunt Esther was quite in a
fidget."

It was hot, and he had been sent out on the Common, and had been
wandering about for an hour, calling and searching.

Bertha's eyes fell. She had not intended to set everybody hunting, she
had only felt miserable, and had wanted to be alone.

She loved the Common, and was always allowed to go out at the back gate
and wander about, so long as she kept in sight of home.

Norman threw himself on the grass in front of her; not that he felt
particularly friendly, but because he was tired. So they sat in
silence, till, a little rested, he raised his eyes to her woe-begone
face.

"What's the matter?" he asked, bluntly.

"I've been naughty again," said Bertha, simply.

"What about?" with more interest.

Bertha felt the difference in the tone.

"I can't get on with Aunt Esther—"

"I expect you're sometimes in fault yourself," hazarded Norman, looking
up.

"Ye-es—oh, yes, I am; but she's so sharp! She's always after me: 'do
this,' and 'do that.' Mother never used to keep on so!"

"Of course not," said Norman, briefly. He hoped Bertha was not going to
cry about her mother, because he hated people to cry.

"And then when Father comes home, I know Aunt Esther tells him tales
about me, and that makes me mad—"

"Perhaps you fancy she does, and after all she doesn't," said Norman.

Bertha shook her head. "I know it isn't nice of me to be always
thinking such things about her; but, indeed, Norman, I can't help it,
and I do feel so miserable."

The tears came now, and Norman did not so much mind, as he expected. He
was full of sympathy with his little cousin, but he did not see how to
help her.

"I s'pose there's some way out of it," he said, consideringly, "there
generally is—"

Again Bertha shook her head.

"What did you do to-day?" he asked, by way of suggesting a remedy.

Bertha brushed away her tears with her hand.

"Well," she said, "I was busy in the breakfast-room, making those
toilet mats for the missionaries, and the room was rather—"

"Snippy," suggested Norman.

"Yes—well, it was no harm; it was Saturday, and I was free to do it.
And I wanted to finish a set, because I thought if Aunt Helen came this
afternoon, I would get her to buy them—for the missionaries, you know.
But Aunt Esther said she could not have such a mess all over the place,
and began gathering my things together, and I felt cross, and begged
her to wait and let me put them up; and she went on, and my bottle of
gum got spilled between us, and went over the pink satin, and spoilt
ever such a lot."

"What a shame," said the boy, flushing.

"Yes, it was; but, oh, I flew in such a passion. I stamped about the
room, and said all the nasty things I could think of; and when I hadn't
any more words left, she just said, coldly, 'That is what you call
working for Christ, do you? You will not show your things to Aunt Helen
this afternoon, Bertha,' and left the room."

Norman turned crimson, and Bertha saw his sympathy in his face.

"And so I came out here," she said, sorrowfully. "It was quite
true—that part of it—how dreadful it was of me to be in such a temper
over His work, Norman! Now I don't know what to do. Shall I burn them
all, and never do any more, if I can't be a better girl."

Norman's brown hand was stretched out and took hold of her little one.
"Poor kiddie," he said, softly.

"What can I do, do you think?" she asked, anxiously.

"Not burn the things!" he said, decidedly. "I think—I'm not much of a
hand at good sort of talk, you know—but if we've done wrong—if we know
we have—"

Bertha nodded.

"Then mother always says we ought to ask God to forgive us, and—you
won't like me to say it—and Aunt Esther. Mother says then we can begin
again, you know. Only it's awfully hard—"

Bertha raised herself from the ground. "Yes, Norman," she said,
solemnly, "I see. I'll do it. Ask God first, then Aunt Esther. I will."



CHAPTER XII.

BLACKBERRYING.

"I WONDER why it's been such a good year for fruit?" said a little boy,
looking up in the face of an elder one who was resting against a stile,
still keeping a crutch in his hand and leaning on it, while a basket of
blackberries lay at his feet.

"I suppose there has been just enough rain and just enough sun to suit
them, Tommy!"

The tone made Tommy look up, and then his eyes wandered to the crutch,
and back again to the patient face wistfully.

"If the blackberry hedges had nothing but sun, they would be scorched
up, Tommy, boy! And if my life had been all pleasure, perhaps there
would have been no fruit on my bush!"

"Fruit?"

"Yes, don't you remember how the lesson in Sunday School, yesterday,
was 'He that abideth in Me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much
fruit?'"

"Oh, I see!" said Tommy.

"And if," pursued the elder boy, "there had been nothing but rain and
storm and sorrow and pain, my little bush would have got mildewed and
spoilt, and so no fruit would have come either."

"I like sunshine best!" said Tommy. "But—what sort of things do you
mean would have scorched up your bush?"

He hesitated, for though several years younger than his companion, he
had a thoughtful little heart, and he began to guess.

"Being captain of our football team, perhaps; and first in all the
running games; and top of my Form—"

"But those weren't harm?" said Tommy. "No—o—oh no! But it was so
pleasant; and I never thought it could be different, and I did not need
God then, and so I brought no fruit to Him. That's what I call sunshine
that scorches—"

The child put his hand on the brown big one, caressingly.

"So then in love—yes, Tommy—in love, my Father sent the rain and the
storm. He saw there would be no fruit on my little bush, and He knew
I should be sorry; and so He—" Frank paused and looked down at the
crutch, which said all there was to say. It needed no explanation.
Tommy knew all about the long, painful illness which had resulted in
the loss of Frank's right leg.

Everybody knew how patiently their school-fellow bore his deprivation.

"Your bush has lots of 'fruit' on it now, I think!" said Tommy,
affectionately.

"Tommy!" said Frank, getting himself upright again to start for home.
"There are sunshine and storms in your life as well as mine! We don't
all of us have the same lot. You've got no mother, and—heaps of things
that are hard—but every time you are brave and patient 'for Jesus'
sake,' you are 'bearing fruit.' Think of that, Tommy! Doesn't it kind
of feel nice?"



CHAPTER XIII.

THE STOPPED WATCH.

"THE sun's set, Jim," called Nellie, as she raked up the last bit of
hay, "and we shall have a fine day to-morrow to finish it, by the looks
of the sky."

"Yes," he answered, turning towards the ferry boat, "we've done for
to-day, let's take a rest in the twilight till father's ready to go
home."

Nellie was nothing loth. She and her favourite brother were a great
deal together, and worked on the same farm on which their father had
lived all his life.

As she got into the boat, she said, "What time is it, should you say?"

He took out his rather clumsy watch, and looked at it.

"It's gone wrong again!" he said, "I set it all right this morning, and
I thought I'd done it this time. I doubt I must have it seen to. The
man in the village isn't no hand at it, no more than I am myself. I've
tinkered it, and I've altered it, and I've shaken it—"

Nellie laughed a little, and he laughed with her.

"It strikes me I must take it to the man as made it," he remarked
gravely, and Nellie looked up at his tone.

"Do you know who did?" she asked.

"Yes, a man in Windsor. But, funny enough, Nell, when I was shaking
it this morning, thinks I to myself, 'Here's a help for you, Jim, in
Heavenly things!'"

"Because your watch had gone wrong?" said Nell, her eyes questioning
with interest. She and Jim wanted to get on in Heavenly things, and
they often helped each other.

"Yes," he said, raising his head, and looking at the golden sky; while
the ripple of the water lapping against the boat as the river flowed
on, made soft, soothing music.

"Yes, Nell. Somehow, lately, I've felt that my works were rather out of
order! Things haven't been so very comfortable at home—as you know—and
I've had all that bother with mother and father about Meg Marston;
and somehow I've tried my hardest to be patient and kind, and to wait
willingly till they saw things different; and it's all been no use.
I've not been patient inwardly, nor outwardly either, for that matter.
I've tossed and fumed and fretted. I've tried to set the outside of the
watch right, and I've poked at the inside, and I've shaken myself—"

Again Nell smiled. But this time there were tears in her gentle, dark
eyes. She knew better than any one what Jim had had to bear.

"And this morning, as I was trying to set my watch right, it suddenly
darted into my mind, 'Take it to the man as made it, Jim!' And all at
once I thought, perhaps, that was what my Saviour wanted me to do with
my 'works,' as I call my heart and my difficulties. So I just slipped
down on to my knees, Nell, with my watch in my hand, just as I was, and
I said, 'Dear Lord, I am yours! You made me, you understand me. I've
been trying to make myself go for months and I've failed. The 'works'
have stopped, and they want seeing to! Take me in hand; make me clean,
set me right, keep me going, make me true to You, whatever else I am!'"

Nell's tender face bent down, and she looked into the flowing, crimson
water for a minute in silence.

"And then?" she asked, gently.

"Then I came downstairs, and found mother in the kitchen; and instead
of passing by, and coming out without a word, I managed to say, 'It's
going to be lovely for the hay,' and gave her a kiss, and so started to
my work."

"I'm awfully glad," said Nell.

"Yes, so am I. So all day, when I have thought how hard it is of mother
and father about Meg, I've tried to think, too, that the Lord is
setting my 'works' right, and He has them in hand, and I've got no call
to be so anxious about everything. He'll set them right, and me, too!
But here's father!"



CHAPTER XIV.

THE MIDNIGHT A, B, C

"I HATE learning Scripture! At least—I don't like it—or see the good
of it," said Robbie, his eager tone diminishing as he got through his
sentence, and his eyes met those of his father's, a patient invalid,
sitting by the fire.

If there was one person Robbie was devoted to, it was his father. So
while he was speaking, his eyes turned naturally to those quiet grey
ones, which had looked out on the world so tenderly for so many years.

He pushed his school Bible away, and went over and stroked the cramped
thin hand, looking inquiringly into the dear face.

"Yes, Robbie, I understand that. I mean, that I remember the days when
I thought it a great task to learn Scripture."

"Well—is there any good?" asked Robbie, hesitating, "I don't mean in
reading it, of course, but in learning it by heart—just like a parrot?"

"You have given me a good many questions to answer in that one
sentence," said his father, fondly, "but I'll answer one first. It is
good; I only wish I had learned more."

Robbie opened his eyes wide.

"Sometimes I try to see how many Psalms and chapters, or portions, I
can say through, but I am always sorry there are not more—"

"Why? You can read them yourself."

"Sometimes—but there are twilight hours, and the long dark night, and
then I can't read; and it is an inexpressible comfort to be able to
repeat to myself."

"Do you learn any now, father?"

"Not as easily as I used, and with great pains, too. Over and over. We
don't learn so quickly when we are older."

"Oh, I see," said Robbie, looking into the fire meditatively.

"So learn your daily verse cheerfully, my boy, and say, 'It will be a
comfort to me by and by.'"

"And the parrot?" asked Robbie, smiling a little.

"He only repeats without thinking; we have a better reason than that,
'Thy word have I hid in my heart, that I might not sin against Thee.'"

Robbie stroked the loved hand again; a touch of love which his father
perfectly understood.

"Shall I tell you another thing I do, when I am ill, or the night seems
long?"

His father spoke cheerily, and the boy looked up.

"I take the old game, 'I love my love with an A,' and turn it into a
help to bring me nearer my God!"

"I can't see how," said Robbie.

"I say to myself, when I am weary or wakeful, 'I adore my God with an
A, because He is "Abundantly able to save."'"

"'I adore my God with a B, because He says, "Behold the Lamb of God
that taketh away the sin of the world."'"

"Oh, like 'capping verses,'" said Robbie, smiling again.

"Something like; but my way gives more scope. I never get tired of it.
If I can't think of a verse beginning with C, for instance, I say,
'I adore my God with a C, because He has said, "I will not leave you
Comfortless,"' and so to the end of the alphabet."

"There aren't many Z's, I should think?"

"Enough to give me a feast. 'Zacchaeus, come down, for to-day I must
abide at thy house,' or 'I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the
ending, saith the Lord.' There, Robbie!"

"And what do you do for X?"

"Ah! Yes; I use the verses where there are 'Excepts,' and call
them—like this—'I will not let Thee go 'Xcept Thou bless me.'"

"Oh, I see! That's good!"

"Now, let me hear you say your verses for this week, and we'll soon
learn them together—you will, faster than I shall."

Robbie went back to fetch his Bible, and soon, as his father said,
the six verses which he had learnt separately every day came into one
whole, and he could say them off.

He gave a great sigh, and then with a kiss on his father's forehead, he
bounded off to play.

But he never forgot that day.



CHAPTER XV.

VERA'S CONTENT.

"I COULD be perfectly happy if I could live always in a cottage like
that, and look-out on such a view!" sighed Vera, as she and her mother
sat one evening on a stile, and looked over into a peaceful field,
covered with daisies, and with a pond in front whose deep shadows were
now and then broken by snowy ducks swimming across them.

Her mother smiled a little, but did not otherwise answer.

"I get so tired of the houses opposite us!" Vera went on, "And our
holiday seems so soon over, and we have to go back to the dull streets
and noisy trams. Don't you, mother?"

"Yes, dear, a little, sometimes; but I am sure we ought not to
encourage such a feeling—"

"I can't help it," interrupted Vera, a little vehemently, "I was made
so!"

Her mother gave a little laugh. "That is very comfortable," she said,
archly.

"Well, then—I don't know how to help it!" pursued Vera. "I perfectly
love pretty scenery, and country flowers, and blue skies, and—and—"

"Oh, stop, Vera! So do I; but now let us look at the other side. Think
of the hundreds and thousands who have to live in the towns, and who
have not the great treat which you and I have been given, of spending a
whole fortnight in this sweet place."

"That doesn't make me more contented, it only makes me so sorry for
them that I can't enjoy myself one bit."

Vera dashed two or three tears from her eyes, and looked over the
pretty prospect.

"Well, dear, let us think of it like this. God, our loving Father, sees
what we need. He knows all about us; all about our delight in pretty,
refined things; all about how tired and weary we have been, you with
your examinations, and I with the cares of home, and so He has sent us
what will rest us, and help us to go on again."

"When I look at this holiday as His gift, and thank Him for it, it
makes every fresh beauty more beautiful; it helps me to pray for the
weary ones who have not got one, and to plan how, in our little way, we
may shed brightness and pleasure round on those we do know—"

"You're always trying to do that!" said Vera, "But—"

"As to happiness being found in a country cottage," said her mother,
"if we do not make happiness in our everyday life for each other, by
being loving and unselfish, we should not get it, though we might live
in the most beautiful scenery in the world!"

Vera put her hand in her mother's. "I'll try," she said, impulsively;
and her mother, with a bright smile, added some lines of George
Herbert's, she often repeated to herself:

  "Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
   As if Thy blessings had spare days;
   But such a heart—whose pulse should be
       Thy praise!"



CHAPTER XVI.

A SEARCH FOR VIOLETS.

"WHERE have you been all the afternoon, Aunt Ruth?" asked Oswald, as
they assembled after school hours. "We could not find you!"

"Ah, I have a trophy to show you, though!" said Aunt Ruth. "Just look!"

"Well, if I didn't think I smelled violets," exclaimed Rose; "and I
could not believe it! Where—if it is not a secret, Auntie?"

"No secret at all. You see, I lived here years ago, and I know where to
look."

The four gathered round her little vase, and took turns in smelling,
till Jean said there would be no scent left.

"But where did they grow?" asked Tom.

"I knew long ago a certain bank under a hedge, where, sheltered from
the winds and storms, and warmed by the sun, the violets grew and
flourished. So this afternoon as I wanted a walk, I made my way to the
old spot, and, presently, as I went along, something delicious seemed
to surround me, and without thinking, I exclaimed, 'Violets!' And then
laughed at myself, for what else was I searching for? So when I had
found a few I sat down on the warm, sunny bank, and thought—"

"You always have 'thoughts,' I do believe, Auntie," said Oswald. "Let's
have them, then!"

"I thought—I wondered whether we Christians could be like the violets."

Jean smiled. "They are hidden," she said.

"And sweet," said Tom.

"And pleasant to look at, and have about you," said Rose.

"And they fulfil their Maker's purpose," said Oswald, slowly, as if
considering; "yes—they certainly do that—"

"And when the great Gardener goes round His kingdom to seek them, there
they are, ready to look up into His face and greet Him with joy," said
Aunt Ruth.

"And He sent them rain and showers and sunshine to help them to grow!"
said Oswald.

Aunt Ruth's eyes gave a little flash. "Yes!" she answered earnestly;
"and He planted them just where He knew they would grow best; where He
wished them to grow."

"That's nice," said Jean, "for sometimes I'm discontented when things
don't happen right, and I almost wish I were growing somewhere else!"

"I often do!" said Tom, bluntly.

"Well," said Aunt Ruth, "I fancy we all do. We think that any other
cross but the one we have to carry would be more bearable. 'If we were
in So-and-So's shoes, we could be much more contented!'"

"Yes," said Rose; "I often think if I were in my friend Gertrude's
place, I should not have half so many hindrances to being good!" Her
eyes filled as she turned away.

"Well," said Aunt Ruth, "if we are really wishing to please God in the
circumstances in which He has put us, what I took as my violet-text may
be a help to us; for though it speaks of humbleness, I think it is one
of the most wonderfully exalting texts that can be!"

"Let's have it, Auntie," said Oswald. "I like your plan of making the
Bible into a book to live on!"

She smiled brightly at that.

"Here it is, then," she said; "'For thus saith the high and lofty One
that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and
holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit,
to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the
contrite ones.'"

"That's a very nice one," said Rose. "Thank you, Auntie!"



CHAPTER XVII.

SUMMER DAYS.

"WHERE did you spend your summer holiday?" asked Aunt Ruth, in a
smiling but significant tone.

The fact was, the four children had got into rather a hot dispute one
day at tea over a trifling difference of opinion, and Aunt Ruth had
interrupted with a quick, bright question, which had made them all turn
their eyes towards her.

"Why?" asked Tom, answering the tone of the question, rather than the
words.

"That is what we used to say at home when we wanted to change the
subject," said Aunt Ruth.

"Did you want to change the subject?" asked Oswald. Then pausing, "Oh,
I see," with a conscious laugh. "Well, I suppose it would be as well to
talk of something else, as we are never likely to agree over it."

"Oh, oh!" said Tom, "That is beginning again! Well—Auntie—as you know
very well where we spent our summer holiday, let's hear where you did."

"I'm quite willing. Come along to the summer-house, and when I hear
the bees humming among the pear blossoms, I shall get taken back in
imagination to last year, and shall be able to tell you where I did
spend mine."

She led the way out of doors, and the children scampered after her,
carrying certain camp stools and chairs, which were kept in the passage
leading to the garden. Aunt Ruth had caught up her writing case, which
Jean wondered at, but when they were settled in their usual places,
this was explained by her producing from it a sketch, which she handed
round.

"This is where I spent my summer holiday," she said lovingly, as if the
place were dear to her.

"Oh!" said Rose. "That is why you said you must come out near the pear
blossoms. I see now. Were there bees there?"

"It was an ideal place. I was in urgent need of rest and refreshment
and quiet (as you know), and I heard of this little cottage on the
borders of the Downs. This clematis-covered porch was my entrance,
and the other door was the good woman's. I could go out on the Downs
with my camp chair, and sit and look at the sea, and feel the breezes
blow round me, or I could bask in the sunshine to my heart's content,
sheltered by the cottage from the cold winds."

"And the bees?" asked Rose.

"Yes, the bees seem to link themselves with the restful thoughts of
those days, for when I was near the cottage, with its flowers, their
song seemed to tell me over and over again what I think I shall never
forget—"

"And that was—?" asked Jean, putting her soft hand into her auntie's.

All the children knew that Aunt Ruth had had some great trial, but they
had never been told what it was.

"The lesson I learned in that peaceful time was, 'The Lord God is a sun
and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory; no good thing will He
withhold from them that walk uprightly.'"

"I learned, dears, that God wishes to be to us all a Sun and a Shield.
As a Sun, He warms and cheers us with the light of His countenance; as
a Shield, He shelters us from that which would hurt us and do us harm."

"Just as those hives were put in the sunniest place, so they were also
put in a sheltered place. 'A Sun and Shield.' God is near us for both;
and when the cold winds of trouble, or sorrow, or temptation blow, we
must hide in Him, for He is our Shield."

"Oh, I see!" said Tom. "Now, Auntie, what else did the bees say?"

"Heaps of things! But I did not learn all, nor should I have time to
tell you, either."

"I thought that they taught me that there was great good in being busy—"

Rose nodded approvingly.

"They worked steadily and patiently; they went about their tasks with a
will, and they gathered—what?"

Aunt Ruth turned round smiling on the four faces.

"Poison?" she asked. "Unkindness, quarrelling, selfishness, self-will?
No, no! What did they gather as they hovered over the pretty flowers?"

"Sweetness!" said Jean, gently.

"Yes—that is a lovely word for it!" exclaimed Aunt Ruth.

"They gathered 'sweetness,' enough and to spare. They brought it home
for those who did not go out; they stored it up for the rainy and dark
days, when the flowers might not be there. God had been their Sun
and Shield, and they had done their part in gathering the sweetness
which He had provided, so that others might be blessed and cheered and
comforted."

"Oh, Aunt Ruth, I shall always think of that when there is honey on the
table!" said Oswald.

"Do, it is worth learning," she answered.

"What did you do all day, Auntie?"

"I sat out in the sunshine and sketched most of the time, or watched
the bees and thought of what God could be to me if I would let Him."

"Then you did this drawing?" said Tom.

"Yes, and a good many more. See, I have written underneath this one a
few lines I often say to myself from 'A Song in the day of the East
Wind,' written nearly three hundred years ago by Tersteegen; and it
often reminds me of those sunny days:"

   "'My heart in joy upleapeth;
      Grief cannot linger there;
    She singeth high in glory,
      Amid the sunshine fair.
    The sun that shines upon me
      Is Jesus and His love,
    And the fountain of my singing
      Is deep in heaven above!'"



CHAPTER XVIII.

BECAUSE.

"I WANT to love God and do what pleases Him," sighed Norman to himself;
"but I make such a poor hand at it. Here I'm at school all day, and my
head is cram full of lessons, and when I get to bed I'm so tired, and
so dissatisfied with myself, that I feel quite disheartened."

He was on his way to spend the week-end with one of his school-fellows,
who lived among the mountains in Cumberland.

He had left the station some hours ago, and his friend's house was
still a long way off, and the evening shadows were falling over the
land.

He knew his way pretty well, and was not anxious about his destination,
so that he had plenty of time to think.

He was an earnest boy, and really wished to do right, but somehow he
had got into rather a muddle lately, and did not know how to extricate
himself.

"I don't doubt my love to Him," he pursued, "but it's so cold and
lifeless—such a poor return, that sometimes—"

Then he glanced up at the sunset clouds, and his troubled thoughts took
the form of a prayer—a very simple, child-like one—"O God, show me some
one who will help me where I am going!"

With a lightened heart, he made his way across the bridge, and now
could take in the glory and refreshment of the scene.

When he reached his school-fellow's house he was, however, dismayed to
find that Jack had set out an hour ago to meet him, and they must have
missed.

He was asked into the library to wait, and there, seated by a fire, was
an invalid gentleman who glanced up from his book to welcome him.

After the first civilities had passed, the invalid asked Norman if
he would help him by turning over some leaves for him, as with his
crippled hands he found it difficult.

"I am searching for the 'Becauses,'" he said, looking up with his
genial smile; "and I want to find this one, 'We love Him "because" He
first loved us!'"

Norman's face flushed as he turned over the pages as directed to the
First Epistle of John, and the fourth chapter, and the nineteenth
verse. Was this an answer to his questionings?

"I have been thinking a great deal about that one," Jack's father went
on; "and it has comforted me to remember that though my love is often
cold and faint, yet my salvation does not depend on that, for it is
because He loved me that I am His at all!"

Norman's eyes flashed an answering look of joyful acquiescence, and
something prompted him to say: "That's just what I wanted, sir. I'd got
all mixed up!"

"Ah!" said the invalid, "We do! The more earnest we are in wishing to
please God, the more, I think, Satan tries to discourage us and make us
doubt that we are serving Him at all. And this is where my 'because'
comes in; not my love, but His, being my safety."

The invalid smiled happily; and then they heard Jack's step come
bounding through the house, and his "Hullo, Norman, have you come?"
sounded with a hearty, cheery welcome.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE HAUNTED ROOM.

"You will be disappointed if you expect too much," said Agnes, holding
the door in her hand and looking into five eager faces congregated on
the landing.

"Let us in, then, and we'll tell you!" answered Hugh, a tall boy of
about fifteen. "You are as bad as the 'penny-a-liners,' who pile up the
interest to the end of the chapter, and then leave you in the lurch!"

Agnes laughed a little at that, as she threw open the door of the
chamber in their uncle's old house, which, for many a day, had had the
repute of being haunted.

She and her two sisters, with her brothers John and Hugh, had come to
spend a fortnight of their Christmas holidays in this old-fashioned
abode, where every corner seemed to have a history, if not a mystery;
and Agnes Headley, ever on the look-out to do a little work for her
Heavenly Master, found that she could carry out, in her present weird
surroundings, a thought she had long had in her mind.

"Come here, Florence," she said, holding out her hand to a little
cousin, who, like themselves, had come for a visit; "if you are at all
nervous, we will got the lamp—only—"

Florence disdained to acknowledge herself nervous, and was sure she
should not be frightened; so, taking her cousin Minnie's little soft
hand, she entered the moonlit room with the rest, wondering what Agnes
would have to show them so very particular.

"Though this is uncle's haunted room, I must explain to you that we
have nothing to do with it for that reason; but, as what I have to show
you is kept here, I thought we could not have a better place in which
to have our little talk."

"But we can't see anything," said Minnie, squeezing Florence's hand
very hard. "I wish you would strike a match, Agnes."

"All in good time, Minnie. Here, John, light the lantern, and let us
see what there is to be seen."

John, the eldest brother, though not in the secret, knew from
experience that Agnes generally had something pleasant in her little
preparations, and took the lantern from her hand to do as she desired.

When its fitful gleams shone out in the haunted chamber, the young
people looked round curiously, not without a certain creepiness in
their hair and a shiver down their backs.

The room was not very large, but was gloomy and dark; the corners
were unlighted, and the moonlight shining along the floor was almost
brighter than the rays of the shaded light in John's hand.

At one end some garments hung against the wall, and, as their eyes
grew accustomed to the shadows, they could see dimly the shapes of
old-fashioned armour, swords, and spears, arranged in set patterns,
against the oak panelling.

In one corner a knight, with a coat of mail, stood up gaunt and still,
his visor down, his hand clasping his sword, his foot advanced, as if
ready to step forward to the fight.

"I don't like it much, Agnes," whispered Minnie, clinging to her side.
"I wish you would not make it so dark."

"There is nothing in the world to be afraid of," said her sister, "and,
if you will come here between me and Alice, you will feel all right,
shall you not? But, if you are afraid, I will take you downstairs
again, only I did want you to hear about it, too, Minnie."

The little girl was reassured by the loving arms wrapped round her, and
by the warm kisses pressed on her flushed cheeks.

"That knight in armour, who looks so terrible there," explained Agnes,
"is not a real man, though he has on real armour, which was used in
real warfare, long ago. So, before I tell you my story, Minnie and
Florence shall have a good look at him to make sure that it is only a
wooden man, and not a hero of bygone ages come to life again."

Florence laughed a little nervously as she advanced to where John's
light shone brightly, but she was sufficiently courageous to touch the
steel-clad foot with her hand, and to peep up earnestly to see if there
might be any face behind those iron bars.

But no eyes looked out from the dark cavity, and no movement came
from those rigid arms. Florence stepped back to Minnie's side with a
whispered:

"It's all right, Minnie; you needn't be one bit afraid—he's not real."

"Now for the story!" said Hugh, who had been impatient all this time,
if not to get it over, at any rate to find out what it was.

"Come, then," answered Agnes, turning towards the window, and pointing
to an old-fashioned settle covered with a warm rug. "Sit down here,
opposite to the old knight, and I will tell you what I have been
thinking about."

They quickly obeyed, and now Minnie could feel her two sisters on
either side of her, and could gaze up at the familiar face of the clear
moon, she began to feel enough at home to enjoy herself.

"You remember," began Agnes, "that when Uncle Hugh came home from
India, he bought this old house, furniture, pictures, and all, with
that money which had been unexpectedly left him?"

"Yes—yes," broke from several lips.

"The first day after we came, he called me into his library, and said
that he intended to make me a present of one of the old curiosities it
contained, and wished me to say what I would like best, reserving to
himself the right of altering my choice should it fall upon something
he could not part with."

"I was greatly at a loss, as you may suppose; but ever since I had seen
those knights standing in the hall downstairs, I had had an idea which,
if he were willing, could now carry out; so I told him, if it were not
too much to ask, to make me a present of one of his armed knights!"

"You may guess that he had a good laugh at my request, but all the
same, he granted it."

Hugh and John felt as if they would have been very delighted to have
had the chance themselves of such a gift, but before they could say
anything beyond a low exclamation of surprise, Agnes went on—

"I asked him if he would be hurt if I did just as I liked with my
knight; but very soon I found I had to take him into my confidence: so
he knows all about it, and approves."

"Well?" asked Alice.

"My thought was this, as I stood and looked that first morning on those
motionless figures, dressed in armour, that had been used, now only
shadows, as it were, of what once had been—that each one of us living
and breathing, and enjoying life had a set of armour which we ought to
put on, but which often lay hidden away, rusty and useless, because we
disregarded the message our great Captain had sent us—sent to each one
who loves and serves Him—'Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of
God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and, having done
all, to stand.'"

"Oh, I see now!" said John.

"You do not see all," answered Agnes, gently. "That old knight in the
corner is not my knight, for I have pulled mine to pieces."

"Have you?" asked Hugh, regretfully.

"Yes," said Agnes. "Here is his armour, hanging up against the wall.
I asked Uncle if I might divide his armour between us six, and he
willingly gave me leave. Now, what I want to know is this—which of us
is willing, earnestly and faithfully, to take his or her share of this
invisible armour, and begin this very day to clasp on one piece at any
rate, that so we may make the first step towards 'taking unto us the
whole armour of God.'"

"But, Agnes," objected John, "many of us—all, I hope—have taken the
great step of enlisting under the Captain; you do not mean that?"

"Oh no," answered Agnes quickly, "we are all soldiers; but we fail to
put on the armour God has appointed in order that we may be able to
stand! We walk along satisfied in our own strength, far too often."

"Oh, that's all right," answered John earnestly. "I was only afraid
lest for the sake of an illustration, and a very nice idea, Agnes, any
one might forget for a moment that, ere we can be soldiers, we must be
redeemed by precious blood."

"I did not mean that," said Agnes, "but was thinking of ourselves,
because I hope we all home been washed in that precious blood."

"Then what is it you want us to undertake so seriously?" asked Hugh
from his dark corner.

"I want us all to choose a piece of this spiritual armour—not because
one piece will do, but because one piece is better than none; when
we have got used to our one piece, we shall begin to think of trying
another!"

"All right," answered Hugh. "Go ahead, Agnes."

"Who will try to wield the sword—the sword of the Spirit?"

"I don't mind having that," said John. Agnes got up and crossed the
room, taking from the wall the sword which hung there.

"But this is not intangible," said John, hesitating.

"Only that something tangible may remind us—"

"For my own, or lent to me?" he asked. "For your own. Now, Hugh, you
may choose, there are five more things."

"What will you have, Agnes?"

"The one that is left; Hugh, choose!"

"I'll have the breastplate of righteousness, then; for I suppose you
mean to take the Scripture list?"

"You have guessed quite right. Alice, what for you?"

"I'll have the truth one."

"That's the coat of mail, 'loins girt about with truth.' Florence, what
would you like?"

"I don't remember the meanings exactly," answered Florence shyly, "but
I like the helmet. What is it, Agnes?"

"'The hope of salvation,' joy now and always; do you like that,
Florence?"

A very soft little "That will do for me!" came up from a very faithful
little heart.

"Now, Minnie?"

"Might I have the shield? 'The shield of Faith.' But there'll be
nothing nice left for you, Aggie!"

"The very thing is left for her that is most suitable!" exclaimed Alice
warmly.

"Her 'feet shod with the preparation of the Gospel of peace.' Agnes is
a thorough peacemaker, and she loves to tell people about the Gospel of
peace, too."

"So I do; but not half as I ought," answered Agnes, lifting down the
pieces of armour and handing each to the various possessors.

"They will serve as reminders, 'with a vengeance,'" said Hugh. "Where
shall we put them?"

"I mean to hang mine up at home over my mantelshelf," said Agnes. "It
will be quite an ornament, and if—"

"Yes," said John, taking up the word. "If we think of them, and by and
by take unto us the whole armour of God—"

"Agnes' kindness and thought for us will not be in vain," added Alice,
kissing her warmly.

"To-morrow," said Agnes, "we will have some more talk about our
different pieces of armour, for it will be easier to us to use what God
has provided, if we can understand the sorts of weapons which will be
used against us."

"Oh! Tell us now, Aggie," exclaimed her little sister.

"Not to-night; let us go downstairs now, and try to make the evening
bright to uncle Hugh."

The young people carried their armour to their respective rooms,
placing it in full view on chests of drawers, bureaus, &c., each
touched with Agnes' unselfishness, which had caused her, in that house
full of treasures to choose something which she meant but to receive
and then to give away.

When they reached the drawing-room, their uncle met them at the door
with an unusually bright look on his face.

"Agnes," he said, leading her up to an easel, which stood under the
chandelier in the middle of the room, "I have looked out another little
treasure for you, in remembrance of your knight! I felt, after what we
talked about yesterday, that it ought to belong to no one else."

When Agnes reached the easel, what was her surprise to see a beautiful
oil painting of a soldier, clad in armour, kneeling before his
sovereign, receiving from his hands the victor's laurels and rewards!

His face, patient with many a hardship, holy with many a self-denial,
earnest with many a purpose, radiant with many a victory, his face
touched the hearts of the lookers on, all fresh from Agnes' earnest
words, and a silent sort of awe fell upon them, as they thought of what
they had undertaken, and of what the end would be.

Their uncle's voice, gentle and solemn, broke the pause—

"'I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept
the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness,
which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day.'"

"I cannot attempt to thank you," said Agnes in a low voice, putting her
hand in her uncle's, "but—"

"Don't try to, my dear. Rather would I thank you for having turned my
haunted chamber into an armoury of light!"

That night as Hugh, the last of the party, crossed the hall on his way
to bed, he paused by the marble pillars and looked round.

The moon had left the windows of the haunted chamber, and had come
round to the front, where it streamed along the pavement, touching the
feet of the gaunt knights, and casting fairy shadows from the ferns and
palms between which they stood.

"'The whole armour of God,'" he murmured softly, "I wonder how long
I shall be before I have strength to buckle it all on? But I'm glad
there are those words: 'I can do all things through Christ which
strengtheneth me!'"

       *       *       *       *       *      *

"Agnes, the best thing you can do is to come into the haunted room and
tell us what you promised," said Hugh one evening soon after the giving
out of the armour. "We could not have a better place to sit, and we
shall be uninterrupted."

"I do not mind, if you all like it best," answered Agnes. "When shall
we begin?"

"No time like the present," said John, laughing, and taking his sister
round the waist; "we will lead the way, Agnes, and face the haunted
room altogether, if need be!"

The rest soon followed; and before long all were seated by the window,
where the first rays of the moon were peeping in, instead of leaving
it, as they had been a few days before.

"Well, Agnes?" began Alice.

"I daresay some of you have thought of your pieces of armour since we
had our other talk?" asked Agnes.

"I've thought ever so much," said Hugh.

"So have I," pursued Agnes, "and I think we had better begin in the
order in which we find the list in Ephesians. Who is it who has the
coat of Mail—Truth? 'Loins girt about with truth'?"

"That is my piece of armour," answered Alice. "What have you to tell us
about that, Agnes?"

"It seems to me that truth is a sort of strengthening of our minds; as
in the East they would gird up their encumbering robes, so as to walk
along more bravely in a difficult path. Do you think of it like that,
Alice?"

"Yes," answered her sister. "I was reading these words on Sunday:
'Grace and truth came by Jesus Christ.' I suppose that has something to
do with my piece of armour."

"Of course it has!" exclaimed Agnes eagerly. "And it is so difficult to
combine those two things in the same person—grace and truth. People can
be truthful, but they find it very hard to be gracious also; or they
are so gracious that they fail to be truthful."

"I don't see how you mean," said Hugh.

"In this sort of way," answered Agnes. "One day lately, I heard a girl
say something like this: Oh, you know, she asked me how I liked her
drawing, and I said it was sweetly pretty; but really, you know, it was
not a bit nice, nor a quarter as well done as so-and-so's.'"

"Oh, Agnes! You did not hear me say that!" exclaimed Alice, shocked.

"No, not you; but every day we hear this sort of compromise. If that
girl I spoke of, had been taxed with not speaking the truth, she would
have answered: Well, it was very pretty, or, if I didn't think so, she
did, and that made it quite true.'"

"I would not have said such a thing for the world," exclaimed Alice.

"I am sure you would not; but I find, for myself, that these
difficulties meet one at every step, and that our being 'girt about
with truth' is an everyday necessity."

"I'm sure it is," said John, "in a hundred ways. If we look-out for
them, they will come to us fast enough, and we shall get used to
watching ourselves."

"Is that all about Truth?" asked Florence.

"Not half enough, but you must think it out for yourselves; we shall
not have time to-night for more than a few suggestions. We must now
proceed to the 'Breastplate of Righteousness.'"

"That's mine," said Hugh.

"All of us need it," answered Agnes, "for I think it is one of our best
weapons against Satan."

"How?" asked Hugh.

"Don't you see that it is only as we carry the 'Breastplate of
Righteousness' we can face Satan boldly, without fear?"

"But," said Hugh, very soberly, "I don't always feel bold when I meet
Satan, for he often accuses me, and I have nothing to say!"

"Yes," answered Agnes, "and that is the very reason, I believe, why our
God has provided the Breastplate of Righteousness—not ours but His—the
perfect righteousness of Christ, in which we may face all our foes with
calm confidence. Who shall lay anything to the charge of God's elect?'"

"That is a nice thought," said Hugh heartily; and Agnes, glancing up at
the moment, saw the moonbeams resting on a very bright, earnest face,
in which a look of peace had taken up its abode.

"It strikes me, we shall find all we need, every piece as we come to
them," said John.

Agnes smiled to herself, and then Minnie, who was looking up in her
eyes, said, "Shall we, Aggie?"

"I should not wonder," she answered.

"But what comes next?" asked Minnie.

"'Shod with the preparation of the Gospel of peace,'" said John. "That
belongs to Agnes, and it suits her."

"I wish it did," she answered; "but I have thought of it like this. To
have feet always ready to do our Lord's bidding; to go everywhere, not
with our own poor, bare, tired feet, but shod with His Gospel of peace;
a covering which will make us welcome wherever we go."

"What next, Agnes?" asked Hugh.

"'The Shield of Faith,' Minnie's great piece of armour."

"Yes, that's mine," nodded Minnie.

"Here we come across another reference to the power of Satan," said
Agnes, "and you see there is no disgrace in taking refuge under the
Shield. Satan hurls darts at those who are bearing God's name, and
carrying His armour, and he hopes by their terrible fiery nature to
beat down the combatant. But our Captain, who has not sent us out to
battle unarmed, has provided a shield, which not only protects us from
the fiery darts, but actually quenches them! The Shield of Faith.
Minnie, whatever people say as you go on in life, whatever Satan may
say, take your Shield of Faith and answer, 'If God be for us, who can
be against us?' 'He that believeth shall not make haste.'"

"I never knew what it meant before," said Minnie.

"If you think it over, you will find that Jesus is your Shield in more
ways than you can count; but I must leave you to find these out for
yourselves. I think the other thought is the main one in our present
subject."

"Florence's Helmet is next," remarked Hugh, as Agnes paused.

"Yes—the crowning of all—the hope which lifts the head proudly before
every foe. Salvation! Victory at last; no defeat or dismay for those
who trust Him. 'Take the Helmet of Salvation,' and the joy of the Lord
shall be your strength!"

"Oh, Agnes," whispered Florence, "how nice!"

"And then," pursued Agnes, "the last equipment must be taken in hand,
and never put down till the fight is fought. 'Take ... the Sword of the
Spirit, which is the Word of God.'"

"I often think how our Lord conquered Satan when He was on earth. Don't
you remember that at every attack, He answered him by the Word of
God? Satan hates to have Scripture quoted to him. He knows its power,
and would by every device urge the soldier to lay down this powerful
weapon. But let us all be too wary for this. Let us brighten our Sword
ere we go to bed; let us grasp it afresh when we rise in the morning;
let us wield it in our hearts and in our lives all day, that so the
Word of Christ may dwell in us richly, and we may be able to fight the
good fight of faith."

Agnes paused, and all her listeners were silent.

"Do you catch my meaning, dears?" she asked gently.

"Oh yes, Agnes," answered several voices, and then John spoke earnestly.

"Agnes, there's one thing I've learned from what you have been saying
(besides many other things). As you went along, I came to this
conclusion—"

"Well, John dear?"

"That, though our one piece of armour will be a first-rate reminder all
through this New Year, the upshot saying is this—we must take unto us
the whole armour, or we shall not be able to stand!"

"Rather," corrected Agnes, earnestly, "that we may be able to stand!
You are quite right, John, it is the whole armour of God which we need."



CHAPTER XX.

AGATHA'S STORY.

ON Christmas Day, three children were walking down the lighted streets
of a dark city, and were all, from different directions, wending their
way to the same place.

This place was a mission-room in one of the crowded streets near the
East End.

Even though it was Christmas night, there were a few people who
preferred the warm mission-room to their own homes, and these children
were some of them.

One was a ragged boy who had no home.

The second was a little girl, who wandered in for the sake of the warm
stove, for she was perished with cold.

The third was the clergyman's son, who came because his father came,
and because on this night, he could not bear him to come alone.

The ragged boy, cold to the bones, with a body wasted by disease and
want, crouched down in a corner, intending to go to sleep till a cup of
coffee, which he knew would be given, should be offered him.

The girl put her feet as near the stove as she could, but she knew
nothing about the coffee, and only prepared herself to wait till she
was warm, and then intended to slip out and go away.

And the clergyman's son was longing to get home to his Christmas
presents and the bright party he had left for his father's sake.

But every one of them received a Gift which they little expected, and
which altered their whole lives from that day forth.

"Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear My voice, and
open the door, I will come in and sup with him, and he with Me."

By the time the clergyman had impressed this verse and its meaning
on the attention of his hearers, the poor little girl was warm, and
shrinkingly giving a glance behind her, for fear she should be chidden,
she slipped out into the cold, windy, winter air.

Drawing her thin little shawl closer around her, she ran as fast as she
could to the court in which was her home. She found her way up the dark
stairs, and soon stood within her mother's attic.

There was a glimmer of fire in the grate, but it was too small to shed
any light in the room.

"How long you've been!" exclaimed her mother's voice from a corner,
sounding near the floor, for bedstead there was none.

"No, I ain't," answered the little girl, remembering, as she said the
words, that she must have stayed full half an hour by that warm stove.

"I know it don't take you all this time to get that candle and a bit of
bread; and there's yer brother been whining the whole time you've been
gone."

The voice was sharp with pain and suffering, and at the same moment
little Bill began his whining again.

The poor little girl lighted the farthing candle and cut her brother a
piece of bread, then placed another by her mother's side, and lastly
seized, rather than took, a piece herself, and sat down by the tiny
fire to eat it.

But as she ate the first food she had tasted that day, before her eyes
came up a picture, living as it were, and she saw over again a Kingly
Stranger knocking for admittance, and promising to enter and sup with
those who opened to Him.

The little girl glanced round the wretched room: no loving hand had
been there to put it tidy, no hope had entered it to make it bright, no
relief had come to cheer and comfort.

All that dreary Christmas Day, her mother had lain moaning on her
miserable straw, and her little crippled brother had cried for food
since early dawn, when the Christmas bells had sounded on the frosty
air.

Ah! no help, no succour, no happiness; nothing but want, and sin, and
misery.

An hour before, a neighbour, pitying the wretchedness of the poor
starving family, had made her way up the dark stairs.

"It ain't much I've got to give," she said abruptly, "but on Christmas
night, I don't like to feel as you've not had a bit in your mouths all
day; so here's sixpence, and you're kindly welcome."

With that she laid down the little coin, and without waiting for thanks
or to inquire how the invalid was, she hastened back to her room.

And so it was to her kindness, they were indebted for that bit of
candle and loaf of bread.

Again the child heard the voice, "I stand and knock; I will come in and
sup."

"He said it was our hearts," she murmured to herself, looking still at
the picture in the fire.

"What?" asked her mother sharply.

"The gen'lman said as He was askin' to come in, and if He came in, He'd
make the place as beautiful as a palace—that He would!"

"We don't want no one in here," gasped her mother; "leastways, unless
they bring some'ut with 'em!"

"The gen'lman said as He would, if we opened the door."

"Then open it!" exclaimed the sick woman, rousing herself suddenly.

"It's our hearts," said the girl, musingly, "and I daren't open the
door for such as Him to come in; it ain't fit."

The sick woman threw herself back impatiently, but after a long, long
silence she said more softly:

"Say them words over again, Meg; I've heard 'em afore, and I believe
it's the Saviour as is knocking and wants to come in."

"Yes, mother," answered Meg, eagerly; "I couldn't call it to mind
afore. It's the Saviour as sez He's a-coming in, if we'll have Him!"

"He's waited a long time for me to open the door," said the sick woman,
"but—if He'll forgive—"

       *       *       *       *       *      *

And the clergyman's son heard the message, as he had so often heard it
before, and he turned away from it as he had so often turned before.

But when he reached his own chamber that night, after the pleasant
family party was over, his mind went back to what he had witnessed in
that mission-room.

The little starving, emaciated, ragged boy had sat with his hungry eyes
waiting for the coffee; but, though the child had intended to go to
sleep, he did not do it, for the clergyman made it so plain that the
Saviour was knocking at his heart that he could not forget it, and he
listened with deep attention to every word.

"If any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in."

"That's me," he said; "I'm anyone, anyhow. But I'm so 'ungry and so
cold and so wretched, I don't see as 'ow He can care to come into my
heart."

So he listened again; and again, he heard the words, "He wants every
one of you to be happy and blessed."

"He's a kind 'un, then," said the boy to himself, as the rare tears
filled his sunken eyes. And then the cup of steaming coffee had come,
and he had swallowed it quickly enough, and the kind clergyman had
said a few words to him about the love of Jesus, and then the boy had
crouched down again in the same corner as before, too ill and miserable
to move.

"My poor boy," said the minister, "I am afraid you must leave here, we
are going to shut it up."

"What, sir?" asked the boy, rousing a little, while a deathly pallor
overspread his face.

The sentence was repeated even more gently, but the child did not take
it in. He started up and stretched out his arms, calling, in a voice
in which love, and yearning, and joy were all expressed, "Oh, come in,
come in; I've opened the door for yer!"

With that his arms fell, and then they saw that he needed no more
earthly care, for he had gone in to supper with the King of kings.

       *       *       *       *       *      *

This was what the clergyman's son had seen, and as he stood in his room
alone that night he thought that the knock had come to him too, and woe
be to him, if he disregarded it!

He knelt down by his bedside.

"So sinful," he whispered, "so forgetful, so full of selfishness and
self-seeking—if Thou comest in, Thou King of Glory, it is Thou who must
make it fit, for I cannot. Nevertheless, if Thou dost knock—and Thou
dost, I hear Thee—Thou shalt not knock in vain; for this very night I
will echo those dying words, 'Come in, come in!'"

       *       *       *       *       *      *

"Children," said Agatha, "He knocks at your hearts to-night. He wants
you to let Him in, that He may bless you and dwell with you all this
coming year. You will not keep Him waiting, you will not hold the door
fast! Surely you will say too, 'Saviour, come in, come in.'"

So the moonlight city faded away, the little guests bade their
entertainers good-night, and each one went home with new thoughts, and
some of them with new hopes for the New Year.



CHAPTER XXI.

UNDER THE STARS.

AUNT RUTH had been out all the evening, and when she came home the
children were walking up and down the gravel path, waiting for her.

The darkness had fallen, and the young moon had set, so that there
was nothing now but the blue vault of heaven studded with twinkling,
sparkling stars.

"I love starlight," said Jean, pressing close to her side.

"Yes; the stars seem to bring one so near to God!"

"Where have you been Auntie?" asked Tom.

"I've been to the prayer-meeting," she said. "I want to tell you about
the old woman who went to the prayer-meeting last week! It's a lovely
story. I have wanted to get home quickly so that I might repeat it to
you—"

"Did she tell you?" asked Oswald.

"No; she told a neighbour the next morning, and the neighbour told me,
with tears in her eyes, just now."

Aunt Ruth spoke in an unusually eager voice, and all the while she
seemed gazing up into the sky.

"This is what the neighbour told me. There is a dear old woman who
comes to the prayer-meeting very often. She is very poor, and is
thankful for any little bits of work that are put in her way."

"Last week, as she was coming home from the meeting, and looking up at
the stars, as we are, she suddenly thought, 'God is my Father! I'll
tell Him!'"

"So she said very simply and gently, 'Lord, you know we're very hungry,
and there's nothing in the cupboard at home. Please, dear Father, send
us something, because you know we are hungry.'"

"So, with a heart at rest, she made her way home, and opened the
cottage door."

"'Look here, wife,' called her invalid husband, 'here's a great basket
that somebody's sent us!'"

"The old woman cast her eyes upon the hamper, and then, instead of
opening it, she sank on her knees by the table."

"'Dear Lord,' she said, 'I knew you'd not forget your hungry children!
Thank you, dear, heavenly Father!'"

"Then she rose with a wonderful happiness, and opened the basket."

"As she took out the things one by one, she told her neighbour 'it
was just like the Lord,' for there was bread, and butter, tea and
sugar, and a piece of bacon! 'And didn't we have a good supper!' she
concluded."

"And did that really happen here, auntie?" asked Rose.

"Really happened here!" said Aunt Ruth. "The Lord is the same Lord
always, 'rich unto all that call upon Him.'"

"But sometimes we ask for things and don't get an answer?" ventured
Tom, in his downright fashion. "Why do you think that is, Auntie?"

"I think it may be this," said Aunt Ruth, slowly, "'your Heavenly
Father knoweth what things you have need of.' Sometimes we ask for
things we think we have need of, and God sees that to have them would
have been the very worst thing for us."

Tom looked thoughtful for a minute, and the others were thinking of
instances when they had asked and not received.

"Then how are we to know?" asked Tom at last.

"Ask for the thing you want, simply and trustfully, and say from your
heart, 'If it is best for me, if it is according to Thy will—Thou
knowest best,' and then leave it."

There was a pause. Then, emboldened by the darkness and the tenderness
of the conversation, Jean said softly:

"I did so want something the other day, and I prayed for it; I daresay
you'll think it nonsense, but I thought my tennis shoes were too shabby
to go to that party in. But God did not send them, and I did not think
I ought to ask mother for them—"

"Well?" said Aunt Ruth gently, pressing her arm. "What did you do?"

"When I found mother said nothing about them, I felt bad for a little
while; then I prayed again, and asked Jesus not to let me mind so much—"

"And then?" asked Aunt Ruth softly.

"Then—well, I forgot all about it in the end, and had a very nice
afternoon."

"That is just the way I find the Lord Jesus does help," exclaimed Aunt
Ruth. "To the old woman who is hungry, He sends bread and all she
wants, and to the little girl who is worried about her shoes, He sends
the best thing for her in His wisdom and love—an acquiescence in His
provision, and then forgetfulness of what she thought would spoil her
day!"

They turned indoors now, and Jean with tear-filled eyes ran up to her
bedroom, and knelt down for one instant.

"Dear Lord Jesus," she whispered, "I know you know best; help me to
trust you always!"



CHAPTER XXII.

KINDLED.

"AUNT RUTH," exclaimed Jean, "do come and sit down by this fire. See!
I've blown it into such a lovely blaze, because I know you love blazes."

Aunt Ruth laughed. "Where did you find that nice pair of bellows?" she
asked. "I never saw them before."

"I should think you hadn't!" said Jean. "I was searching in the garret
this afternoon for something mother wanted in that old chest of hers,
and I came upon them, wrapped up in a sheet of old-fashioned paper, as
yellow as yellow."

"Among her treasures?" asked Aunt Ruth.

"Yes; she would hardly let me use them, they were such a treasure! But
I told her they did nobody any good up there, hidden away, and if I
left them there they would be forgotten for another twenty years—"

"Where shall you keep them?" asked Aunt Ruth.

"Handy!" returned Jean, emphatically.

With which words she began blowing up the wood fire with fresh energy,
enjoying the effect to the full, as who does not?

"Go it!" said Tom, coming behind, "Or let me."

"Oh! Here you all are!" said Aunt Ruth.

"Yes, just ready for a nice twilight story," said Rose. "They are
getting the tea, and there is just time."

Aunt Ruth was always willing, though she seldom suggested a talk unless
they did. Often she seized upon a little lesson from what was passing
at the moment, which the children were grateful for, and did not forget.

"Well, come along, settle yourselves quickly," she said, "for if Rose
is right about the tea, there will not be much time."

They all gathered round her affectionately.

"Well, auntie?" said Oswald, by way of a beginning.

"Well," she responded, "it struck me as if by a flash when I saw Jean
fanning the fire into that beautiful flame, how the dull fire was
typical of our dull hearts, cold and dead, the spark of love and faith
nearly extinguished by adverse circumstances—"

"Yes, auntie," said Tom eagerly, "what then?"

"Then comes a force outside ourselves, and with the breath of living
power, He fans the little sparks till they brighten and grow warm,
fanned by the love of God, and the breath of the Holy Spirit."

"I don't understand much about the Holy Spirit," said Oswald, in a low
tone, "it always seems too high a subject for me."

"Yes, I can understand that, but if we think of the Holy Spirit as
'He,' not 'it,' we shall better understand that He is a Person; not
only an influence, but Someone we may speak to and love."

"Does that make a difference?" asked Rose.

"I am sure it does. We can pray to Him, if He is a Person—unseen,
indeed, but very near and very real. When we pray to Him, the first
effect I think that we shall find, will be that the little spark of
love which we had to Jesus will brighten and glow."

"Oh! Now I see!" smiled Jean, thinking of her dull fire.

"And then as the Holy Spirit becomes more to us—more of a living
reality—the spark of our love to Jesus will grow and glow, and at
length burst into a bright flame, so that others will see in our faces
a beam of His holy love and holy life!"

"And we shall be warm and happy," sighed Jean, in a comfortable rested
tone.

"Well," said Oswald, hesitating a little, "that's too difficult a
subject for me."

"I don't think it is, when you think it over," said Aunt Ruth, looking
up. "I heard a celebrated preacher once speak on this very subject. He
pressed his hearers very earnestly to make a decision then and there;
to say 'Yes' to the Holy Spirit, and let Him enter their hearts. In the
solemn pause which ensued, the little girl next me seemed very earnest,
but it was not till afterwards that I knew about the great transaction
that had taken place in her life in that quiet church."

"As we were sitting in the train going home, her hand lovingly within
my arm, and her face close to my shoulder, I whispered, 'What answer
did you give, darling?' And she squeezed my arm earnestly, as she
whispered back, 'I said yes.'"

"Since then, children, that girl has been a devoted servant of Christ,
and has done much for Him."



CHAPTER XXIII.

TOM'S PERSUASIONS.

"WE are going home to-morrow!" said Jean, with a sigh. "Auntie, are you
not very sorry? Now, confess!"

"Very sorry to leave this nice place, and the sea, but not to be going
home."

Tom, who was sitting on the grass at her feet, looked up suddenly.

"Is our home going to be yours?" he asked, gently and earnestly.

"I do not know, Tom!"

"Have mother and father asked you? Don't answer if you'd rather not,
auntie," he said, his cheeks burning, as he still looked in her face,
"but mother is better and back again now, and she said in her letter
this morning—"

"It was not curiosity," apologised Rose, "but because we did so hope
you might be able."

Aunt Ruth's eyes filled. "It makes me very happy to think you want me,"
she said in a low tone; "but I have not been able to decide yet."

"I am afraid I ought not to have asked," said Tom, earnestly; "but as
Rose said, we were so hoping you would, as mother told us before we
came away, she hoped it would be settled so—"

Aunt Ruth did not gainsay it. She was looking earnestly at the quiet
river and the golden trees, lighted up just now by the setting sun.

"I do not mind your having asked me in the least, dears. I have been
thinking about telling you about my— about the blow that came upon me
last year."

Their faces of sympathy and interest were enough encouragement to her
to go on.

"You know I lost my dear father then, and when everything was settled
up, instead of my having an income sufficient to keep me, through no
fault of his, but because some investments had gone down, it was found
there was not nearly enough to keep me—"

Jean showered kisses on the hand she was holding, and Oswald opened his
mouth as if to speak, but closed it again, and was silent.

Tom was the first to venture a remark, and his gentle, grave tone was
full of sympathy.

"I heard how bravely and sweetly you bore it, auntie—"

"There were many days when I could not; when I felt as if the waves
went over my head. You would not understand how many things hinged
on that insufficient income of mine; how hopes that had long been
cherished were blighted—"

"And yet, auntie," said Rose, "you told us the Lord was your 'Sun and
Shield.'"

"So He was, and is; I do not forget that, dears."

"Several homes have been offered to me, and I have been waiting to see
where God would let me go."

"To us, I hope," said Tom, earnestly.

"Your father and mother have been most kind, and not least in allowing
me time to decide, so as to do nothing in a hurry."

"Mother is far from strong," said Rose. "I know she would be very glad
if you were never to leave us—"

"But you and Jean will be able to help her in a year or two," said Aunt
Ruth, "what then?"

"Time enough for that," said downright Tom, "and if you're right in
coming to us now, when the next step comes, you'll be able to see it!
Eh, auntie?"

She smiled happily, and bent forward to kiss his forehead, as he knelt
before her.

"I've got hopes that in a year or two, there may be several things
altered," he said, decidedly.

Aunt Ruth looked earnestly at him. "What do you mean, dear?"

"I mean that there are 'promises' for you, auntie, just as much as
there are for us."

"'Promises?'" she asked, stroking his hair, and thinking that, for a
boy of fifteen, he had been a wonderful comfort to her all this year.

"Yes," he answered, not guessing her thoughts; "there's one that I've
had on my mind all the week, 'Casting all your care upon Him, for He
careth for you!'"

"Yes—" she answered, with a long-drawn breath, as if some heavy care
were rolling off as she spoke, "yes—I must not forget that."

"And you'll come and settle down with us till some other home wants you
more than we do?" asked Tom, with a gravity and sweetness which she
wondered at.

Aunt Ruth was silent, still stroking his sunny hair.

"You seem to think there are a great many homes likely to want me!" she
said, hesitating, with a questioning, shy look in her eyes.

"I did not say a great many," said Tom, gravely. "I know of one that
isn't ready yet—and in America—and till then we want you!"

Aunt Ruth pointed to the sunset, and rose to go in; but as Tom
struggled to his feet, she said softly: "Tom, I don't think there is
any home in America getting ready—"

"But I know there is," said Tom, bluntly; "meanwhile, and always, 'He
careth for you,' auntie!"

They went in at last, and as they were wishing good-night, Aunt Ruth
said: "Children, as you all seem to want me to live with you, I am only
too happy to come."

There was a bright joy on every face, and not least on Aunt Ruth's
patient one.

"You did persuade her well!" whispered Rose to Tom on the stairs.

"I think it was God's assurance did it," said Tom. "I told her that she
as well as we had His promise, 'He careth for you.'"



CHAPTER XXIV.

A MESSAGE FROM AMERICA.

SO the summer and the holidays had come to an end, and Aunt Ruth had
"settled down," as Tom called it, and filled her own quiet little niche
very happily.

After their last evening's talk at the seaside, the others were very
curious to know whether Tom knew, really, of a home which was getting
ready for Aunt Ruth.

Tom only shook his head whenever they asked him. "I know what I know,"
he said gravely, "and I have my own conclusions. It is not for me to
say to everybody what I think. I'm glad Aunt Ruth is going to be with
us for the present! That's all I have to do with, and you won't get
more out of me if you ask me for a year!"

But all the same for that, when he got a letter one morning from
America, he never mentioned the contents to anyone but his mother, and
they did not know of that. It was not his own secret he was keeping.

"What makes you so bright, Tom?" asked his aunt wistfully one wintry
day, as they sat over the fire together.

"Whenever I look at you, I say to myself, 'He careth for you,' auntie,
and that does me good."

"But why, dear—I am very happy," she added. "You are all so loving, and
I have such a much easier life than if I had to turn out on the world."

"Yes, 'He careth for you,'" said the boy, smiling. "You came and taught
us to trust Him more than we ever did before, and now God lets me pass
it back to you, so that you take courage to keep on!"

He smiled at her lovingly, and went to fetch his lesson books.

Tom read and re-read that letter from America, and could not make up
his mind about it.

The letter said:

   "You cannot think how you have comforted me about your
Aunt Ruth! Tom! If you see any cause to tell her, or if you think it
will add to her happiness, show her this letter. No one knows what it
cost me to leave her without a word—but I seemed to have no right—at
least, I thought so then. But sometimes I have thought—Tom, I am
getting on nicely. Your text has been a great comfort, 'Casting all
your care upon Him, for He careth for you.'"

   "God has cared for me wonderfully, and if you think that she whom
I love would be happier to know there is some one working for her,
then—then tell her, Tom, or show her this letter, and ask her if I may
write the next to her."

Tom had gone up to fetch his books. As he stood in the cold,
reading over these words, he felt perplexed. It seemed such a great
responsibility.

Then he thought of his text, and knelt down for an instant. "Casting
all your care upon Him, for He careth for you."

For a minute he looked soberly at the letter, then with brightening
cheeks, and ran downstairs. How thankful he was that the others were
out!

"Aunt Ruth," he said, hesitating a little, "I have a letter here which
I was to give you or not, as I considered best. It was a great honour
to be charged with so much, but I think if I were in your place, I
should like to see it."

He held out his hand, and it trembled. Aunt Ruth looked up earnestly.
"Who is it from, Tom?"

"Some one you knew before your grand-papa died—some one who went abroad
because—"

Tom choked. "You'll see what he says; it can't do any harm, and it may
be a Christmas present for you, auntie!"

He caught up his books, and was gone before she could speak.

Presently—it seemed a good while to Tom in the cold—Aunt Ruth came to
his door.

"Tom, dear," she said, with averted face, "how can I tell you how glad
I am that you told me! God has been very good to me, and, indeed, His
assurance which I trusted has come abundantly true, 'He careth for
you.'"



CHAPTER XXV.

HOW TO FIND.

"WELL, I can't find it!" said Nancy in rather an exasperated tone.

"I've been looking and peeping about for this twenty minutes, and I
can't find it!"

"What is it?" asked Tom lazily, from his book and his corner of the
sofa.

"Why, a shilling! I was putting some change into my purse, and it
rolled from under my very fingers!"

"Perhaps you've made a mistake?"

"No; but I'm sure I haven't. I have only half-a-crown in the world, and
that was in three sixpences and a shilling; and the shilling is gone!
Besides, I heard it drop and roll away."

"We'll look after tea," yawned Tom.

But Nancy was not satisfied with that, and went on groping about in
all the likely corners, almost ready to cry at her brother's lack of
sympathy, and at her own want of success.

Mary was preparing the tea busily, and did not seem to be taking much
notice; but presently she said in her gentle voice, "Perhaps you have
not light enough?" and while Nancy looked up with relief at someone
being interested in her trouble, Mary quietly slipped out of the room.

Poor little Nancy sat down on the hearth-rug, and almost gave up her
shilling; she had looked everywhere, she was certain.

Then a light came in at the door, and there was Mary with a small lamp
in her hand.

"Try this," she said, holding it out so that its light sent a beam into
the dark recesses round the fireplace.

Nancy started up with fresh energy, and then there was a sudden
exclamation.

"Why, Mary—!"

"Have you found it?" asked Mary joyfully.

"Yes; but I'd looked there heaps of times! It was just by the scuttle—"

"The light shone on it, I expect," said Mary, "and then you saw it!"

Tom looked up in his sister's face. "A spiritual lesson, Moll?" he
asked, with a smile at her tone.

"I thought so," she answered, "for, do you know, it exactly matched a
very curious experience I had a day or so ago. I was in darkness about
something, and could not at all find out what God meant me to do. I
searched in the corner of experience, and in the corner of expediency,
and in another of wishes, and in another of obstacles; when suddenly it
flashed across me that light was what I wanted—not so much searching!"

"And then I thought of fetching the Lamp of God's Word; and as I turned
over the pages, the Light shone on my difficulty, and I could see
the way out of it, shining as bright as Nancy's shilling in the dark
corner!"

"And that was?" asked Tom, while Nancy still held her recovered
shilling in her hand, and looked earnestly at her sister.

"'Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in Him, and He will bring it
to pass,'" quoted Mary.

"Nice!" said Nancy heartily.

"So I took the lesson to my heart, dears," added Mary gently, "that
when we are in a difficulty, it is very often because we have not
enough light; and that light is to be found in the Word of God, which
is there for anyone who seeks!"



CHAPTER XXVI.

WORTH WHILE.

MARY, Cecil, Tom and Nancy were together in the cosy room where there
always seemed a bright bit of fire, and a tidy table and a warm welcome.

Mary, for once, sat muffled in a shawl in the arm-chair, and the rest
gathered round her, glad to make her welcome to their circle, after her
enforced absence of two days in bed with a bad cold.

"Now we are complete!" said Nancy comfortably.

"Yes; I would not have believed that one person being away would make
such a difference," said Cecil, looking round the room reflectively.

Tom did not add his quota of praise, but he looked very contented, and
after a few moments said, smiling, "I expect you've had some thoughts
up there, Moll, that would do us good! It's been mighty dry down here!"

She put out her hand and touched her brother's softly.

"I have chiefly been learning a hymn!" she said.

"A hymn!" echoed Cecil. "Whatever for?"

"To have as 'a possession,'" said Mary. "You can't think how the Psalms
I can say, and the hymns I have committed to memory, freshen me up if I
am ill, and are so comforting to repeat to people in trouble."

"I never thought of that," said little Nancy.

"And what was your hymn?" asked Tom.

"A very simple one, but holding in every verse a magnificent secret!"

Cecil turned round and gazed at her.

"What?" he asked.

"'Let Jesus Christ be praised!'"

"How is that such a wonderful secret?" said Tom.

"Just this," she answered earnestly, "that if in every circumstance
of life, in every difficulty, danger or fear, we can claim all that
is stored up for us in that wonderful name Jesus, we have solace,
strength, victory assured to us. I know it, dears, and so will you, if
you will believe it."

The room got darker, and the silence was unbroken for some time. Mary's
voice had almost startled them with its fervour.

"What is the hymn called?" asked Cecil presently.

"The first verse is:"

   "When morning gilds the skies,
    My heart awaking cries,
      May Jesus Christ be praised
    Alike in work or prayer,
    To Jesus I repair,
      Let Jesus Christ be praised!"

"But I am specially fond of the sixth verse—this:"

   "The night becomes as day,
    When from the heart we say,
      May Jesus Christ be praised!
    The powers of darkness fear,
    When this sweet chant they hear,
      May Jesus Christ be praised!"

"I'll learn it," said Nancy, and perhaps the others thought the same,
for Tom said gently, as he smoothed his sister's hand, "I should think
it was almost worth while being ill!"



CHAPTER XXVII.

MID-WINTER.

"HERE is the first Sunday in December, Mary!" said Tom, as he went to
draw the curtains. "We may as well sit in the firelight till the tea
comes in."

"Yes, do let us!" said Nancy with a contented sort of sigh, as she
nestled up close to her sister and laid her head on her shoulder.

"It will soon be the shortest day," remarked Mary. "I do love the
shortest day!"

"Why?" asked Cecil.

"Because I always feel as if 'the summer had begun,'" smiled Mary.

"In mid-winter?" asked Cecil.

"Yes. When the shortest day comes, I say to myself, 'My summer has
begun.' You cannot think how, to rejoice in the lengthening days, seems
to shorten the winter!"

"I daresay it does," said Tom reflectively.

"Every bit of hopefulness does one good, you know," Mary went on
softly. "You laugh at me for quoting 'Pa Gladden' so often, but he says
'Human nature air always huntin' for the cheerful,' and I have noticed
that cheery people bring sunshine."

"I know one thing," said Cecil, "gloomy people are never liked."

"Well, there is no better way of being cheerful than to have a firm
hope in God," said Mary. "I was reading the other day one verse with a
whole list of names, that David, in exulting thankfulness, calls the
Lord his God. Just listen to them, and see if your heart does not grow
stronger and braver and more hopeful as I repeat them—"

Mary's little Bible was tucked into her workbasket close handy, and she
leant down toward the blaze of the fire to read the very words.

   "'The Lord is my Rock, and my Fortress, and my Deliverer;
     my God, my Strength, in whom I will trust;
     my Buckler, and the horn of my Salvation, and my High Tower.'"

"A pretty good list!" said Cecil smiling. "Where is it, Mary?"

"The second verse of the eighteenth Psalm."

"All in one verse?" asked Nancy.

"All in one verse! That is a verse for those who are out in the world,
fighting the everyday battles; and there is another for the weak and
tired ones, that is just as wonderful—"

"Well, let's have it," said Tom in his blunt hearty fashion, "then we
can take our choice."

Mary turned over the leaves rapidly, and her gentle face glowed in the
firelight as she read from the 32nd of Isaiah:

   "'And a man shall be as an Hiding-place from the wind;
     and a Covert from the tempest;
     as Rivers of Water in a dry place;
     as the Shadow of a Great Rock in a weary land.'"

The little head that rested on Mary's shoulder nestled closer, as Nancy
murmured, "That's a nice one for the shortest day; and the other one
will do for the New Year!"



                           THE END








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