CHAPTER XI.

THE JUNE—BUG.

"ANNA, what was that something else you said you got thinking of that night? You said you would tell me sometime."

Ethel had "faced the dreadful perilous pass" of the cow-bestudded common, done her errand at Mrs. Smith's, and was now walking with Anna toward the corner where she should meet the horse-car. She had certainly been very considerably scared, especially when one big red cow was taken with a sudden fit of playfulness in her neighbourhood, and performed some of the graceful antics for which cows are famous; but she had walked valiantly on and had not even allowed herself to look back, though she had all the time a feeling that the cow's horns were not an inch from her sash-bow. It was not so bad coming back; for most of the cows had gone home, and there were none very near the path.

"You said you would tell me sometime," continued Ethel. "Tell me now."

"Well, you must not take it for more than it is worth," said Anna, looking straight before her. "It was your brother's sermon. That one on the text 'We love Him, because He first loved us.' You remember it, don't you?"

"I remember it very well," replied Ethel. "I know you said you liked it."

"I don't know how it was, but I never heard a sermon which made such an impression on me," continued Anna. "Perhaps I was just in the mood to be impressed. I never in my life had such a sense of God's love for the whole human race; his endless forbearance, and patience, and kindness toward those who will not love him, nor try to please him. I thought of him day after day waiting upon the creatures he has made, giving them hundreds and thousands of blessings, and ready at any moment to receive and forgive, and make happy forever, those who had been the most wicked and ungrateful that could be."

"I know," said Ethel, in a low voice. "'All day long I have stretched forth my hands unto a disobedient and a gainsaying people.'"

"Well, I thought about that," said Anna. "You know I am not good at expressing my feelings; but I thought it all over, and could not forget it; and I could not be unforgiving when thinking of Him."

"But, Anna, if you see this love so plainly; how can you hold out against it?" asked Ethel, presently. "You are too generous not to love any one who loves you so much."

"I don't hold out," replied Anna, shortly. "That is, I don't mean to. Ethel, I am going to try to be a good, faithful servant of his from this time; and I want you to help me and pray for me. Will you?"

"Indeed, indeed, I will," replied Ethel, as soon as she could speak. "I don't know how I can help you, for I am so miserably weak and unworthy myself; but I will if I can. Oh, Anna, I never was so glad of anything in my life."

"I am afraid I shall be very inconsistent, and do a great many wrong things," continued Anna. "I have such a quick temper, and it is always getting me into scrapes; but after all, one had better be an inconsistent disciple than not to be a disciple at all."

"Of course," said Ethel.

A little while before she might very likely have preached a gentle little sermon to Anna about the necessity of governing her temper, but she felt very humble just now, and altogether too much discouraged about herself, to feel like preaching to others.

"Anna, let, me say one thing to you," said Ethel, with unusual energy, after they had walked a little way in silence. "Don't ever allow yourself to think that your temper, or any other fault you are conscious of, is a little fault and of no consequence, or that you cannot help it, and therefore you are not to blame for it. That is just what has ruined me. Ever since I came to live with Emily, I have been finding out that my timidity and my constant avoidance of anything disagreeable, just because it was disagreeable, were faults. In the bottom of my heart, I knew I was wrong; but I would not confess it nor try to conquer myself. Especially since Henry came home, I have seen more clearly than ever I did before how foolish I was, and how unfit for any sort of usefulness; and yet I would not try to overcome my fears, or deny myself in any way. I refused the cross, and so I have the rod instead. I feel like the man in the iron cage,—as if I had got to a place where I could not get out."

"But, Ethel, is that right?" asked Anna.

"No. I know it is not; but I do not seem to know how to escape from it. I have asked forgiveness, and I believe yes, I really do believe—that I have it; but, somehow, I cannot feel it or realize it. I feel so lonely, so shut away—" Ethel's voice died away.

"Well, I can't pretend to advise you; but I know what I should do," said Anna.

"Well, what would you do?"

"I should go on doing all sorts of duties just the same as though I could feel rightly," said Anna.

"But suppose, when you prayed, the words seemed to go no deeper than your lips, and your heart felt as dry as dust, and it seemed as though there were nobody to hear or answer you."

"I should go on praying all the same, just because it was my duty," said Anna; "and I should do other things in the same way: everything that I could find to do for other people, especially. It may not be the best way; but I should try it."

"I believe you are right, Anna; and that this very thing is part of what Matthew meant by taking up the cross daily," said Ethel. "I will try it at any rate. Here is the car, and I must go. I promised Matthew I would not walk any more just now. Good-by, Anna; come and see me as soon as you can."

Ethel was so much occupied with what Anna had told her that she actually forgot to be afraid of the drawbridge. She went straight to her room, and, in her thanksgiving and prayers for her friend, she seemed to find a little lightening of the burden which oppressed her soul.

"Are you going up to the 'Hill' for your evening service, Henry?" asked Ethel, as they rose from dinner, the next Sunday afternoon.

"Yes, a little before seven. I have promised to meet my choir and practise with them a little; though I fear it will not come to a great deal without the instrument."

"I was going to ask you whether you would like to have me go up and play for you," said Ethel, blushing deeply. "I have been looking over the books a little."

"I wondered what had set you to practising church music at such a rate," remarked Emily. "But won't you be too tired, dear, after being in church and Sunday-school this morning?"

"Oh, no. I rested this afternoon on purpose."

"I shall be perfectly delighted; and so, I am sure, will every one else," said Mr. Dalton. "It was just what I have been wishing for, if you think you can do it."

"We might call for Anna, and she would help us," said Ethel. "You know she has a beautiful voice."

"That is well thought of; but you need not go so far out of your way," said Dr. Ray. "I have to make a call near them, and I thought of looking in again on poor Mary: so I will take Anna and drive up in the carriage."

"Then I will go and get ready," said Ethel; "and put on a thin dress, for the weather has grown very warm, and playing the organ is not cool work."

"Ethel, come here a moment," called Dr. Ray from the office, as Ethel came down-stairs.

He was standing before his case of bottles, pouring something into a very small vial, which he corked and handed to Ethel.

"Put that in your pocket, in case you get faint or scared," said he.

"Dutch courage!" said Ethel, smiling, as she took the bottle.

"Why, not exactly; though even Dutch courage is better than none, sometimes. But you know you have been faint once or twice of late; and the very knowledge that you have a remedy in your pocket may help you if you feel any unpleasant symptoms. This is a good move of yours, dear, and I don't want you to break down. How pretty you look in your cool muslins."

Ethel did indeed look wonderfully pretty in her simple muslin suit and dainty hat and gloves, all fresh and flower-like from top to toe.

"Am I too much dressed?" said she. "I thought it would look somewhat more respectful to the place and the people, if I made myself nice."

"You are not at all too much dressed; and you are quite right to make yourself look nicely. They will think all the more of you. Now, keep up good courage; and, Ethel, dear, try not to think about yourself. I dare say you will get on famously."

Mr. Dalton and Ethel found the members of the choir waiting for them, and there was great rejoicing when they heard that Ethel had come to play the organ. The practising went off prosperously, Richard Trim being one of the principal performers. Anna arrived just before service time.

"How are you going to make out?" she whispered to Ethel.

"Very well, I think; if I don't break down. Anna, don't you think I might take off my sack? It is very warm."

"Of course. Nobody can see you. I wish we need not have lights. The June-bugs will come in like a swarm of bees."

"June-bugs!" said Ethel, with a little, a very little, start.

She had a special dread and dislike of these creatures. It is well known that the Melolontha Vulgaris (to give him the benefit of his learned name) is a constant attendant at evening church during the warm weather in early summer, and that he is very zealous in his blundering attentions to any one who is afraid of him. Ethel often said if there were only one June-bug in the world, he would fly half-way round it to jump in her face; and, really, she did seem to be specially persecuted by them.

"Oh, dear," she said to herself, as the lamps were lighted before service, and she saw her enemies beginning to swarm into the open windows, as usual. "I am glad I never thought of the June-bugs. I am sure I never should have dared to come. But I must not begin watching them, or I shall never be able to stand it. I never saw so many anywhere."

And, indeed, the June-bugs were unusually abundant and lively. Ethel tried her best to forget them and to attend to the service, and she succeeded beyond her hopes. Her anxieties about the music helped to withdraw her attention from her enemies, and, fortunately, the strongest light was in the centre of the room.

Mr. Dalton preached one of his best sermons: the room was full and the people earnest and attentive, joining in the singing with a zeal which showed how much they enjoyed it. Everything went on well, and Ethel never once thought of the little bottle of "Dutch courage" in her pocket. The last hymn was given out. It was rather a long one; and, just as Ethel was concluding the first verse, an unusually large June—bug came flying over her head, knocked his own head against the ceiling, and tumbled down, not on the keys, which would have been bad enough, but right into the neck of Ethel's dress, next her skin, where he kicked, struggled, and scratched with all his might.

Ethel never knew how she got through that hymn; but she did get through it somehow, and without missing a note, though it was certainly nipped off rather short at the end.

Anna, looking back, saw that something was the matter, and the moment the benediction was said, she came round to Ethel's side.

"What is the matter, child?" she exclaimed, in alarm, for Ethel was very pale.

"Do take that thing out of my neck!" said Ethel, pointing to the struggling insect.

Anna saw it all in a moment. She put in her hand and pulled out the audacious intruder, which soared away to enjoy the singular pleasure which a June-bug seems to feel in bumping his hard back against the ceiling.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Ethel, finding her voice. "I thought that hymn would be too much for me. How did I get through it?"

"Perfectly well," replied Anna. "Was that thing on your neck when you were playing?"

"All the time," said Ethel. "Oh, dear! I never knew they had so many claws."

"Well, I declare, you have got pretty good spunk!" said Richard Trim, looking admiringly at Ethel. "I don't hardly believe I could have done it myself."

"I couldn't, I know," cried a young girl, one of the choir. "I should have screamed murder."

"It was all my fault taking off my sack," said Ethel. "I am glad I did not spoil the music."

"Well, little sister, you made out famously," remarked Mr. Dalton, when the congregation had dispersed. "I did not discover a single failure in the music: only you stopped rather suddenly at last."

"No wonder, poor child," said Anna. "The only marvel was that she got through it at all."

"Why, what was the matter?" asked Mr. Dalton.

Anna told him what had happened.

"You certainly deserve a very long credit mark, my dear," said Mr. Dalton. "It is a great victory. I am not laughing at you, little sister," he added, as Ethel looked imploringly at him. "I consider it as I say,—a great victory, and gained over a great enemy!"

"A June-bug is not such a great enemy in point of size," said Ethel; "though he felt large enough when he was inside my dress."

"I was not thinking of the poor beetle," said Mr. Dalton.

As they were coming down the hill, there were two young women walking before them, and they heard one of them say to the other:

"Didn't Miss Dalton look lovely? I mean to make my new suit just like hers. It looks so much more genteel than those furred up things."

"And it won't cost as much either; for you won't need nearly so much muslin," replied the other. "I wonder how much she had to buy. If I knew her, I would ask her."

"You have done a good work already, Ethel," said her brother. "You must make acquaintance with those girls."

"I shall see them on Wednesday evening, and then I will give them all needful information," replied Ethel. "Anna, I have not had a chance to ask, you about Mary. How is she?"

"Oh, we hope she is a great deal better; but we are not sure till we hear what Dr. Ray says," replied Anna. "She has been sensible all day; but she is very, very weak; and Mrs. Rose is afraid that her apparent improvement is only what she calls a 'lighting up for death.'"

"But did not Matthew see her when he called for you?" asked Ethel.

"He did not call for me: he met me in the street just at the corner of the square, and said he would bring me up to the chapel first, so that I might be ready to help you at the beginning."

"How very kind he is," said Ethel.

"Brother, I have something to tell you about Anna," said Ethel, after they had committed her to the charge of a neighbour whom they encountered, and were walking homeward by themselves. "She asked me to tell you; for she wants to talk to you, and she is too shy to begin."

Ethel then repeated the substance of the conversation she had had with Anna.

"I am very thankful!" said Mr. Dalton. "Do you know, Ethel, I was greatly discouraged about that very sermon. I came so far short of what I desired and intended to express that it seemed to me an absolute failure. But, after all, it has done good in this case, and who can tell in how many more?"

"Anna said she never heard a sermon which made so much impression on her," said Ethel. "It made her see things in a new light. She had always heard that she ought to love Him, but she never thought of His love to her. I wish you could preach a sermon which would do me as much good."

"What sort of good do you wish?" asked Mr. Dalton.

"I don't know that I can make you understand, because I don't understand very well myself," replied Ethel. "I want to be made to 'feel' things. I read the Bible every day, and try to believe that its promises are for me; but I don't 'feel' them to be so. I feel as though I had nothing to do with them. I pray every day; but I have no feeling that the Lord hears me. I know that he does, of course, because his word says so; but there is no reality about it. It all seems a formal service, done as a matter of duty. There is no enjoyment and no comfort in it."

"Are you quite sure there is no comfort?" asked her brother. "Could you be comfortable in leaving off prayer?"

"No, indeed! That would be worse than all."

"Then there is, after all, some comfort in prayer. However, I understand your case. I have been, I think, in pretty nearly the same place. What do you think has brought you into this desert land,—this valley of Bacca?"

"I know only too well: it was my wilful, presumptuous sin," replied Ethel. "I have tried to repent, and forsake the sin; but yet I do not seem to get out of the valley at all."

"You must be content to abide therein till you are taken out by a stronger hand than your own," said Mr. Dalton. "'Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth,' you know, Ethel, and we must let him choose his own mode of discipline; and comfort ourselves with thinking that the very chastening is an evidence of his love."

"But if one has no faith," said Ethel, doubtfully.

"What you want is not the feeling, but the action of faith, as some one says, whom I was reading yesterday," said Mr. Dalton. "'Persevere in the action, and the feeling will come in good time,—all the sooner, if you wait patiently for it.'"

"But some people say that duty-service is worth nothing," said Ethel. "Don't you remember?—No, you don't, for you were not with us up at the Springs that summer; but old Dr. Sparks used regularly to pray in the meeting that we might not have come in hither from a sense of duty."

"I think the doctor was wrong," said Mr. Dalton. "In the first place, if the people 'had' come, there was no particular use in praying about that; and in the second, a sense of duty was a very good reason for coming. The feelings of the best people are very variable, and are influenced by so many things, that they are not greatly to be depended upon as motives to action; but we can always do things because they are right, and because God has commanded them; and the very doing of them in that way brings with it, oftentimes, the blessing of warm feeling which we desire. You see what a blessing went with that very sermon with which I was so dissatisfied, but which I preached because it was the best I could do."

"I see," said Ethel. "I am glad I spoke to you, though I don't much like talking about one's feelings."

"Nor I," replied Mr. Dalton. "I believe a great deal of good genuine feeling which might have resulted in action is 'talked' away. Moreover, talking of religious feelings and experiences is too often a trap set for flattery,—fishing for compliments, as the school-girls say. However, I think it very desirable, for young Christians especially, to have some one experienced person to whom they may go for religious teaching and counsel, even in the most sacred matters. A mother is a young girl's natural counsellor, but all have not this resource. The next person is the pastor, and after him the Sunday-school teacher. But after the parents, the pastor has the first right."

"Some pastors do not like to be troubled in that way," said Ethel.

"Very few would object to it, I suspect, where the desire for counsel is honest. I believe, where one would be annoyed, twenty would be gratified. As it is, pastors preach a great deal in the dark, because they know so very little about the real religious life of their people. Here we are at home. How slowly we have walked!"

"Good news for you, Ethel," said Dr. Ray, as they entered the parlour. "Mary is decidedly better. I think her almost entirely, if not quite, out of danger. But how did you succeed?"

"Pretty well, I believe," answered Ethel. "I did not need your bottle, brother. Henry will tell you all about it. I should like to go up-stairs."

"Did she really get through without breaking down?" asked Emily, after Ethel left the room. "I have been worrying about her all the evening."

"You might have spared yourself the trouble," replied Mr. Dalton. "Ethel has behaved like a real heroine, though in rather a small matter." And he proceeded to give an account of Ethel's adventure.

"Well done for the heroine!" exclaimed Dr. Ray. "I would not have believed it was in her."

"It really was a grand thing for her to do, was it not?"

"It was indeed, and she shall have something to remember it by," said the doctor.

Ethel went to her room, and knelt down by her bedside. She remained kneeling a long time, and when she arose, her face, though stained with tears, was calm and happy, and wore a settled expression, as if she had come to some grave decision. She opened her desk, and taking out the paper on which, a year and more before, she had recorded her resolve to be a missionary, she added a few words, and put it away again. The words were only a date and a text of Scripture.

"'O Lord, I will praise Thee. Though Thou wast angry with me, Thine anger is turned away, and Thou comfortest me. Behold, God is my salvation: I will trust, and be not afraid.'"