CHAPTER XIV.

THE YOUNG MISSIONARY.

IT was fortunate for the young girl that the horse was in reality what the owner had predicted, fit for a child's guidance. For while she was communing with her own heart, she took no heed to his steps.

"Let me see," she went on, "I must have faith, hope and charity. Have I faith? What is faith? Papa used to tell me I had faith in him, when I trusted him. The Bible says, 'faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen.' I'm afraid I have not that faith in God which I have in some people. Mr. Knowles, for instance, I'm sure he loves me; and I would trust him even against the evidence of my senses.

"Oh, what a dreadful confession! Has not my heavenly Father proved that he watched over me with more than a father's love? How happy my lot is, compared with so many around me? Can not I have faith in him, and trust Jesus to save me? I will try from this very minute. It does not seem hard, but perhaps I do not understand it right.

"Hope comes next. It is natural for me to be hopeful. I never quite lost hope, even when I was at Mr. Tracy's. But this hope is different. If I trust in God, it will be right to hope that he will receive me at last, but then I must be sure that I do trust him. How can I tell? I will ask him to help me judge myself.

"Last of all comes charity. Without charity, the Bible says, I cannot be saved, though I give my body to be burned or bestow all my goods to feed the poor.

"I remember once papa had a letter from a clergyman with a beautiful description of these graces. 'Faith is trust in God. Hope is expectation that he will fulfil his promises to us, but charity is love, and love is likeness to God.'"

Large drops gathered in Helen's eyes. "I'm sure I have not love to everybody," was her mental ejaculation. "There is my guardian. I've always said I hated him. And when I think how ungratefully he has treated papa's last requests to him, I can scarcely hear his name without horror. Nothing that I can imagine would induce me to live with him again. No, I cannot be a Christian, I have not charity."

The thought grew more distressing every moment. Helen had been a child of praying parents, and the arguments she used in her self-examination proved that she had been carefully instructed in her duty to God.

There were other influences, too, which had produced their effect. It was impossible for any one, not wholly hardened, to live in intimate companionship as she had done, with such a family as her pastor's, without feeling that religion was the first thing to be desired.

By the time Helen had reached this painful conclusion, the horse had arrived at the top of the hill which overlooked the new village of Mottville. She pulled the rein and he stopped.

"What is the use," she asked herself, "of my collecting scholars into a class, if I cannot teach them to love the Saviour? And how can I teach them, if I do not love him myself?"

Her lip quivered, and her breast heaved convulsively. She was ready to sink with grief when the gracious Spirit who was watching over her, suggested the question:

"What hinders me from beginning to love Him now, right here, under these trees? God is everywhere; and he knows all the thoughts of my heart. He sees that I am sorry that I have lived so many years unmindful of all his goodness; yes, more sorry than I can tell; and that I really need his forgiveness. It seems to me I already begin to love him. How can I help it when I think of all he suffered for me?"

She clasped her hands together, and gazing up into the clear November sky, murmured:

"Dear Jesus, I do love you. I can ask the children to come to thee, for I can tell them how sweet it is to be near thine arms."

A few minutes longer she sat there, her whole being filled with gratitude for this fresh token of God's favor. Memory reviewing the events of her past life, which now in the new light afforded her, seemed but one long history of her heavenly Father's love. In the bitterness of the parting from her papa, in the trials she endured at her guardian's, she realized that God, by his Spirit, was drawing her to himself, and preparing her for the work she believed he had now accomplished in her soul.

She was at last interrupted in her meditations by seeing that a carriage was rapidly ascending the hill, and would speedily pass her.

Jerking the reins, therefore, she spoke to the horse to go on, and then saying:

"Now for my scholars," tried to put her animal into a trot.

The carriage was what is called a beach wagon, a stylish looking turn-out with a black span, handsomely harnessed, driven at present by a dashingly dressed youth, apparently just entering his twenties.

He fixed a searching gaze upon the young girl from the time he approached near enough to see her, walking his horses for the purpose, and then turning to his companion, said, loud enough for Helen to hear:

"It's the heiress from Woodbine Cottage. I thought Dixon was bragging when he described her, but he hasn't told half."

"I wonder who he can be," was Helen's thought. "I think he is exceedingly impertinent."

But all unpleasant recollections were soon lost in the pleasure of her calls, some of which I shall describe.

A short distance from the factory stood a row of buildings, which, with their neatly painted fronts, and the green shades drawn partly down, presented quite an attractive appearance. Leaving her horse standing at the head of the narrow street, our young heroine went to the nearest door.

To her disappointment, there were only two children at home, the mother and oldest son being at work in the factory.

Helen sat down for a minute to talk with the children, and before she left, so much interested them in her now Sunday School, that they promised to beg their mother to allow them to go.

From this place she visited many families. Wherever she found either father or mother at home, they acknowledged the need of some school where their children could be taught. Some even requested permission to attend the school themselves saying:

"We shall grow to be heathen if we are left without any instruction."

"But where," she asked, "shall I find a room large enough?" And this she found would be her main difficulty.

A fleeting thought passed through her mind, that she would like to get funds from her guardian and build a small chapel where the school could be well accommodated, and where Frederic could occasionally preach. But while she was wondering what would be the cost, she came to another street, wider than the first with houses scattered here and there at quite a distance from the factory.

A little girl was running along the beaten path at the side of the road. And Helen, interested in her bright face, asked her if she would like to ride.

So far the young missionary had met with nothing but kindness and encouragement. But her faith was destined to meet a trial. After the child got out of the buggy, she knocked at a door and had a very pleasant interview with an old lady who told her that she had no children to send, but she should advise her son and daughter-in-law to let their little folks go. When Helen, greatly pleased at her interest, imparted her fear of not being able to procure a room, she answered heartily:

"You're welcome to this until you can get a better."

Then throwing open the door into a large bed-room, she said: "One of the classes can come in here, you see."

The young lady was delighted, and accepted the offer as cordially as it had been made.

"Who is your next neighbor?" she asked, preparing to leave.

"She's a hard one, Miss," answered the old lady, smiling, "but the more's the need of her being taught."

Encouraged, however, by her former success, Helen drove to the house nothing doubting.

Her low knock brought a woman to the door whose appearance of hardness and defiance caused the visitor's heart to beat most painfully. No human face could be more repulsive. The lines of discontent, sourness and gloom had deepened until they had become absolute deformities, and there she stood in the partly open door surveying the stranger in the most insolent manner.

"I am getting up a Sabbath School," began Helen, trying to smile, "and I called to invite your children."

"You may go away again, then, for no one belonging to me shall go inside the door of a church or Sunday School."

"We are going to meet for the present at the next house," Helen went on. "I'm sorry you wont let your children go," and she sighed audibly. "I love children, and I want to do them good."

She was turning away, but Mrs. Lane had by no means done with her.

"I know all about Sunday Schools," she burst out in an angry tone. "My oldest gal went once to the church three miles sway, and 'cause she wasn't dressed out in furbelows and flounces like the others, the children wouldn't speak to her. Sunday Schools are places to larn pride and loftiness, and hatred of poor folks; that's just what they are, and I want nothing to do with 'em."

Helen turned back and gazed in the woman's face.

Her cheeks glowed with anger; and as she stood with outspread arms, she reminded one of a virago.

"But," thought the visitor, "she has a soul to be saved, and she has young children under her direct influence. She is a hard case, but there must be some way to touch her heart. I wont give her up, I'll come again. It's no use to argue with her." So she quietly said:

"Good morning, Mrs. Lane. I'm very sorry you wont let me have the little ones."

"What good would it do you? Tell me that. Why don't you call me a liar and say I ought to larn manners, as the woman did who came to leave tracts? Have I frightened you?" And she laughed a hard, bitter, defiant laugh that chilled the hearer's blood.

"Shall I tell you what I was thinking?" Helen asked, softly.

"Yes, tell, if you have a mind. It's a free country, I s'pose."

"I was thinking how many trials you must have had to feel so unkindly to every one. And I was wondering whether anything I could do for you or yours could soften your feelings toward your fellow creatures."

To her astonishment the woman left her abruptly, and went into an inner room, shutting the door after her.

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