CHAPTER I.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE DAVIS COTTAGE.

MRS. DAVIS had once filled the situation of assistant teacher in a school, where she had profited by opportunities of instruction; but after a period of prosperity, a succession of trials and losses, followed by widowhood and broken health, had reduced her to extreme poverty. Subsequently her only child, Mary, having, through the kindness of friends, been instructed in the various branches of the millinery and dress-making business, was able to afford material help to her mother, in the little income she earned, and on which they lived in contented obscurity.

Mary Davis was employed at the establishment of the chief milliner and dressmaker in her native town, where her steady attendance and never failing industry were greatly valued, and where tolerable regularity in the hours of labor, and an hour snatched from rest, either in the morning or evening, at home, enabled her to minister in many ways to her mother's personal comfort.

Sunday was Mary's happiest day; a portion of it was spent in the public worship of God, and the study of his word; a portion in instructing others at the Sunday school; and the remainder in enjoyment of her mother's society.

But very different were the Sunday enjoyments of Mary's young companions at Miss Baylis's, some of whom had homes in the town, and some lived in the house of business; and Mrs. Davis heard with pain and regret of their plans for amusement and pleasure on the Lord's day, which they considered entirely their own. Displays of finery, and meetings for revelry and gossip, after the six days' restraints of duty, constituted their chief idea of enjoyment, as if the cessation of bodily toil implied also the waste of precious time, the misapplication of other talents, and total neglect of the immortal soul.

No longer able, through infirm health, to prosecute her labor of love in the Sunday school, or the district, Mrs. Davis applied her heart and mind, with prayerful interest, to the condition of these thoughtless young people, and watched in anxious hope for some opportunity of usefulness in their behalf. They were her daughter's companions necessarily for six days every week; they were immortal creatures; and they were living not only without God in the world, but in open rebellion against his authority, and rejection of his love. This was enough to enlist the active efforts of a practical Christian. She began with a wet Sunday afternoon.

Among the smaller miseries of human life, first in the catalogue of the milliner's apprentice, the shopman or shopwoman, and indeed of all employed in weekly labor, whose hearts have not found peace in Him who "prepareth rain for the earth, giveth snow like wool, and causeth the wind to blow," stands a wet Sunday afternoon. Vain were it to attempt an enumeration of its powers to disappoint, to cross and irritate those whose minds are set upon self-indulgence in one form or another, from the tradesman, intent upon his drive, to the little servant maid whose turn is the "Sunday out."

"Rain again, mother," said Mary Davis, as she prepared for church one Sunday morning; "how disappointed two of our new workwomen will be, for they have talked of nothing all the week but a pleasure trip this afternoon."

"Do you think they would come here instead?" asked her mother. "Perhaps, as they have not been long enough in the town to have made many acquaintances, they might be glad of an invitation, rather than remain in their own room."

Mary shook her head; she did not think it probable that two such gay and dressy girls as Jane and Ellen Saunders would like to come to her quiet home, but she would be passing the house, and could call to ask them; this, on her return from church, she did.

She found the sisters sitting at the window, with most uncomfortable tempers and discontented faces, looking out upon the dirty street and the falling rain, making remarks upon every person who passed by, who afforded any possible subject for their ridicule and criticism of dress or manner.

"Why, Mary Davis," exclaimed Jane, as Mary entered the room, "who would have thought of seeing you here to-day? Are you come to sit with us, and help us to get over this miserable day some how or other? I'm sure I don't know what to do with myself." *

* See Frontispiece.

Mary delivered her mother's message, and observed with pleasure that Jane's countenance brightened up from its dull, heavy expression of idleness and ill-temper, though Ellen still looked as sulky as before.

"I'm sure it's very kind of your mother, and of you too, Mary, to think of us, and to come in all this rain to ask us," said Jane.

"You need not praise my kindness," said Mary, smiling, "for I have only called on my way from church."

"What, have you been to church such a morning as this? You are wonderfully good I'm sure, and don't care about your clothes as much as I do."

"My cloak and boots are water-proof, you know; but I must not stay, so what shall I tell my mother?"

"That I shall be very glad to come, very glad indeed, won't you, Ellen?"

"I—I really don't know," stammered Ellen; "perhaps it may clear up yet."

"O no, I don't believe it will; there isn't a gleam of sunshine or a bit of blue sky to be seen. I give it up altogether for to-day, and you wouldn't be so ill-natured as to go without me, even if the weather should get a little better."

There was no knowing exactly what ill-natured thing Ellen might not have been meditating, if her countenance at all indicated her feelings. "Well," said she at last, "I'm much obliged to you, Mary, but I don't think I shall like to go out at all."

"I will come," said Jane, cheerfully; "what time shall I be at your house?"

"As early as you please," replied Mary. "I shall not be at home from my Sunday school class till between four and five, but my mother will be very glad to see you;" and away tripped Mary over the mud, and through the rain to her frugal dinner at home, before attending the Sunday school, where she taught a class of little children, few of whom would probably be present that day.

"I wonder at you, Jane," said Ellen scornfully, as soon as the sisters were alone; "why you will have a duller afternoon than sitting here looking out of our window; and somebody might happen to come that would cheer us up a little; but at Mrs. Davis's, in that stupid dull lane, what in the world is there to see? Besides, you will get wet in going."

"O but I need not put on anything very nice to go there, you know; and it will be a change, for I really am tired of sitting here. I like Mary too; and as she is no gossip, she has not asked us to come for the sake of amusing herself, but because she knew we must be disappointed of going where we liked; and I call that kind."

"I don't believe she is sorry we are disappointed though," said Ellen; "you know she is rather religious, and I dare say her mother is as stiff as buckram, and does nothing but read the Bible, and sing psalms; or perhaps she will give you a lecture. Poor Jane, how you will repent going within her reach!"

And Ellen laughed satirically at the idea of her sister's mortification under the lecture of her religious hostess.

"For shame, Ellen," said Jane, half vexed and half laughing; "what right have you to object to her reading the Bible and singing psalms if it makes her comfortable? What else have old people to do? Enjoyment is all over for them; and if they can get up something to pass away their time, and make them easy about death, I'm sure I think it is a great mercy for them. Besides, it is Sunday you know and a little religion once a week is only proper for everybody, I suppose."

"Well, then," retorted Ellen, "why did you not go to church this morning, instead of grumbling here with me?"

"Because," replied Jane, with honesty, "I did not like to spoil my best things, and I did not choose to go in shabby ones. I can tell you, I envied Mary that comfortable cloak, that we laughed at her for buying, instead of having a pretty fancy mantle like ours. She thought of the wet days, we only of the fine ones."

"I do hate wet Sundays," exclaimed Ellen passionately; "I can't think what they are made for, except it is to disappoint people who work hard all the week and have no other day to enjoy themselves in."

Jane looked at her sister with mingled surprise and compassion. She had quite recovered from her own annoyance, and had never seen Ellen so thoroughly out of temper on the subject before; and she justly feared that something more was involved in the disappointment than she was at present aware of.

"Will it be of any use for me to stay at home with you, Ellen?" said she, kindly. "I forgot when I accepted Mary's invitation, that you would be alone."

"O dear no, go by all means, and see how you like the old woman's lecture. I dare say I shall hit upon some way to amuse myself by and by."

When Mary reached home in the afternoon, she found Jane seated there, without any trace of weariness or discontent visible on her bright face. She knew something of her mother's powers to attract and interest, and was not surprised when Jane, turning round to notice her entrance, exclaimed playfully, "I can't talk to you yet, Mary; I must hear the end of what your mother is telling me first."

"Are you wet, dear?" asked the mother, as Mary threw off her cloak.

"Scarcely at all, mother, thank you; I am so glad I had this useful cloak."

"Ah, Mrs. Davis," said Jane, "Mary is a sensible girl; who knows it is not all sunshine in this world, and we could not persuade her to buy a thing that would not stand a shower."

"I do not like to see people in distress about spoiling their clothes, if it is right for them to be exposed to the risk of getting wet," said Mrs. Davis; "and if we cannot afford to purchase for all kinds of weather, it is wisest to get such as will not be greatly injured by any weather."

"Very true; but you see, Mrs. Davis, ours is a dangerous kind of business for economy of that sort. We are engaged in making pretty things, and setting people off to the best advantage; and it is very natural to like to do the same for ourselves when we get an opportunity. But I do confess that often when we have been tempted to spend our money on what is elegant, we are obliged afterward to feel the want of what is useful."

"You speak very candidly," said Mrs. Davis, smiling kindly; "will you forgive me for asking why the good sense, or the experience which has taught you that you are liable to such temptation, does not carry you one step further, and cause you to resist it?"

"Ah, that is just what I should like to know," said Jane. "Here is your good Mary who never yields to such temptations, nor covets any of the beautiful things we make up, though they would look as well upon her as on the people who are to wear them. What is the reason of it? I hate a weak mind that has always to be troubled with repentance after the mischief is done."

"Is not the great safeguard against that unhappy consequence found in acting always from steady principle, instead of being led by changeable feelings?" asked Mrs. Davis.

"I dare say it is. And Mary has a steady principle, then."

"O do not quote me, Jane," interrupted Mary. "You do not know how it would have been with me if I had not a mother, a dear Christian mother," she added affectionately.

"And a wiser and higher guide in the counsel and control of the Spirit of God," said Mrs. Davis.

"Dear, dear, how calmly you speak of such awful things!" said Jane, somewhat alarmed, for she remembered her sister's warning about "a lecture," and thought it must be coming now.

"And why should we not speak calmly, and thankfully too, of truths that are intended to give peace to our hearts, and consistency to our conduct? You wished to know what would enable any one to resist temptation, did you not, my dear?"

"Yes, but—but I did not know that it belonged to religion; I thought you said something about principle."

"So I did. I have no idea of any real, strong, trustworthy principle which does not spring from true religion. I do not mean the dull, formal, heartless profession which some are satisfied to call religion; but I mean the sweet and happy pleasure of acting out in all we do the love with which a living faith in the work and mercy of a most precious Saviour fills our hearts. But I see Mary has made tea, and by and by, if you please, you shall help us to read an interesting account of one who was ruled by this principle, and it will show my meaning better than my own words can do it."

When Jane reached home at dusk that evening Ellen was absent; but her arrival at the last moment allowed by the rules of the house, and in the highest possible spirits, convinced her sister that she had, according to her own predictions, "hit upon some way to amuse herself."

"O Jane," she began, "what a pity you went out so early! Do you know that good-natured Fannie Ashton sent her little brother to say that her father and mother were going out, and she wished us to come and have tea with her, for she was obliged to stay at home to mind the little ones. So of course I went, and we have had such fun."

"You and Fanny and the little ones?" said Jane, inquiringly.

"Well, there was just another or two; and Henry Ashton brought in a companion with him to tea, so we were a merry party. Fanny said she ought to enjoy herself if she had to keep house, and she gave the children cakes and sugar-plums to keep them in good humor, and got them off to bed as soon as she could, and then we did enjoy ourselves till I was obliged to come away. They all laughed about your going to Mary Davis; and Fanny said you would be sure not to be caught so again. Did you get the lecture I promised you?"

"No, indeed," said Jane; "and I don't know that there was anything to laugh at. I have had a very pleasant afternoon, and Mrs. Davis is such a nice kind person, her manners and mind are quite like a lady's, though she is not very well off now, I suppose. I was so glad when she asked me to go whenever I like on a Sunday afternoon; and I shall very often like, let who may laugh at it."

"On wet Sundays, I suppose," said Ellen; "but of course you will not go and mope there on fine ones. We are to go next Sunday the excursion planned for to-day; and our party will have some other pleasant people I can promise you."

"Ah, Ellen, take care. You know uncle said you were too fond of company and new acquaintances."

"Well, do you think he would be pleased with your prim Mrs. Davis and her daughter? Does he not wish us to associate with people above us, rather than below us? So take care for yourself, Jane, and don't suppose that you need to watch over me."

"But you must come with me to Mary's some day," said Jane, "and judge for yourself. You cannot help liking Mrs. Davis, I'm sure. And do you know she actually read such a pretty story, and you thought she read nothing but the Bible."

"Now I know there were bits of the Bible in the book, weren't there, Jane?" asked Ellen, laughing. "Else you would never have got the story: I shan't let her choose stories for me."

"It was all very good, wherever it came from," said Jane, "and quite fit for Sunday, though interesting enough for other days. I shall go and hear some more of it next Sunday; so, good-night."

Jane and Ellen Saunders were orphans, left to the care of a respectable, kind-hearted uncle, who had given them as much of education as he considered suitable to their prospects in life, and had promised that after they had obtained sufficient experience in the business to which they had been apprenticed, he would set them up in a small establishment for themselves. In the mean time they were to be employed by the Misses Baylis, whose extensive connection furnished opportunity for acquiring that further experience.

The following Sunday proving again showery and dull, found Jane the willing companion of Mary Davis, while Ellen still preferred to wear out her temper and patience at the window, in anxious hope that some congenial friend would take compassion on her solitude. This happened at last, for the excursion having been again deferred, Fanny Ashton, with her brother and his friend, called to invite her to a walk toward some public gardens, where they could take tea, and find shelter if so inclined. It never struck the vain and foolish girl to observe how her company served the design of Fanny Ashton, by occupying the attentions of the brother, under whose protection she left home, while she herself appropriated those of his flattering friend. Nor did Ellen pause to reflect, that had Henry Ashton been sincere in his professions of regard, such scenes of Sabbath-breaking revelry as some of those which he occasionally permitted her to witness or overhear, were not just those to which feelings of respect and a sense of propriety would have introduced her.

Jane found her kind friends as agreeable as before, and soon became a regular and welcome visitor at the cottage.

By a natural and easy transition from opinion or opposition to decision and proof, Mrs. Davis gradually led the attention of the ignorant girl to the great standard of truth, and stimulated her interest by occasionally calling upon Mary to name the chapter and verse in which the desired reference occurred; and as Mary had learned Scripture from her childhood, she served the purpose of a concordance to the astonished Jane.

"Dear Mary, I never knew anything like your memory," she exclaimed one evening; "I wish I could remember where to find what I want in the Bible as you do."

"That is to be done by practice," said Mrs. Davis; "and if you will not think it too childish, suppose I ask you to learn a text for me every week. Say it over to yourself each day, and you will certainly know it by Sunday."

"I'm sure I have no objection if it will please you," said Jane; "you are the first person who ever made me think there was anything interesting in the Bible, excepting to old people who are going to die soon. You are not old yet you know," she added quickly.

"I have no objection to be classed with old people, I assure you," said Mrs. Davis, smiling, "if it is one of their privileges to find the Bible their dearest consolation; but do not young people die sometimes?"

"Perhaps they do; but then one does not expect that they should, you know."

"But since it does often happen, is it not wise to be prepared at any time for that which must come some time?"

"I dare say you are quite right, but it is so melancholy to be thinking about death; and while we are well I don't think it can be necessary: there is no need to meet trouble half way, is there?"

"It is only melancholy to those who do not know of a Friend in heaven, with whom to be present is far better than any earthly pleasure."

"My father and mother and two little brothers are in heaven," said Jane, "but that does not make me wish to go there yet."

"But have you a Saviour in heaven an advocate with the Father, who has 'washed you from your sins in his own blood,' who represents you, pleads for you, loves you with an everlasting love, for whose sake you will be welcome to all the happiness and honor of his presence and kingdom?"

"Ah, Mrs. Davis, who can tell that?"

"All who walk and live by faith in the Son of God, dear Jane, can tell that."

"Then I have no faith, for I know nothing about such things; and if they make one wish to die, I don't want to know them yet."

"It is not necessary to wish to die; but it is most comforting to know and feel that which would take away the sting of death, if it pleased God to cut short our term of life. But the very same faith and love which would rejoice to depart and be with Christ, also enables God's people to live in content and happiness on earth as long as he sees good to spare them."

"Do you wish to die?" asked Jane, abruptly.

"Not now, dear. But I did wish it once when I had some severe trials; I used to say with David, 'Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest . . . I would hasten my escape from the windy storm and tempest.' But it was wrong, and I know now that in heaven, where there is no sorrow, or sighing, or sin, we cannot glorify God in the way that we may here amid the trials and temptations of life."

"But," exclaimed Jane, with the perversity of the natural heart, "I should not wish to live if I thought I must have trials and miseries in this world."

"Then, dear girl, do you not perceive how desirable is that divine grace which so overcomes the self-will and the selfishness of our sinful nature, as to make us submissive and patient under all God's dealings? You know you must submit after all, for who can successfully resist his will? But to trust his love, like an affectionate, obedient child who knows that he 'doth not willingly afflict,' is peace, most precious peace, and the secret of true happiness."

"Ah," thought Jane, "I am afraid Ellen would say I am getting the lecture now."

"But," said she, "if I wished to feel as you say, Mrs. Davis, how can I be made to do so? Is it not very hard and difficult, and should I not be obliged to give up a great many things that I like?"

"The Bible does not say so, and I never heard any true child of God say so. The message of the Gospel is not a command to give up anything, or to be or do anything, of ourselves; it is just an invitation to receive something. It offers to lost sinners a Saviour, in whom God has provided every blessing, every gift, every supply of which we stand in need."

"But, Mrs. Davis, am I such a sinner as that—a lost sinner? I'm sure I don't wish to sin; it is such a strong, disagreeable name to call people who do nothing very bad."

"Do you love the Lord God with all your heart, and mind, and soul, and strength? And do you love your neighbor as yourself?"

"No, I can't say that I do," replied Jane, coloring; "but then I have never done any harm to anybody that I know of."

"But God's holy law demands that some thing must be done that is right, as well as nothing done that is wrong; so if you have failed at all, you are a sinner, and must not expect to escape the displeasure of an offended God, who sees only two classes of human character—saved believers and lost sinners. You are able to judge for yourself whether you have cast yourself, with all your sins and weakness, on the love and pity of the great Redeemer, who came to seek and to save that which is lost; or whether you are hoping to need no mercy, and get to heaven some other way. You read this evening what Scripture says of the people who do that in the tenth chapter of John's Gospel."

"But what do you mean, Mrs. Davis? You say we must obey God's law, and yet that no one does obey it; how, then, can any one be saved?"

"This is just the inquiry I like to hear you make, dear Jane. It takes your attention at once to an answer in the life and death, the love and power of the Son of God, who died for our sins, and rose again for our justification. The law man could not keep with his evil heart, Jesus kept and perfectly fulfilled; in place of the punishment man deserved, and could never have escaped from, Jesus offered his own sufferings and death for every sinner who believes in him; and all who will not trust him entirely must bear the consequences of their unbelief, 'for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.'"

"Then it does not matter whether I obey God or not if Christ has died for me, does it?"

"You must first be satisfied that the benefits of his death are made yours by faith personally. Do you think you could know positively that a friend had endured some dreadful suffering and disgrace that you might be spared, and not love that friend, and feel very deeply grateful for his love to you?"

"No, indeed; I hope not, I think not."

"And could you willfully grieve and disobey one whom you love, and take pleasure in what he disapproves and caused his sufferings?"

"O Mrs. Davis, I see what you mean now."

"Yes, dear Jane, you see the tender bond by which true believers in the Lord Jesus Christ are bound to obey his will, and to follow his steps. His love constrains them. They no longer wish to live unto themselves, but into him who died for them."

"Then I must believe first, I suppose? It seems easy enough to do that."

"It would appear that the apostle Paul did not think so, when he wrote that 'the natural man discerneth not the things of the Spirit of God.' Saying 'I believe,' is not believing. True faith is the gift of God. His Spirit takes of the things of Jesus, and shows them to the sinner's heart. It is a lesson beyond human teaching, dear Jane, but one which God the Holy Spirit teaches successfully, where he teaches at all, and which we are too far fallen to learn of ourselves. The very desire to learn of him is his work; and if you would believe in Jesus to the salvation of your soul, ask for the blessing, and you cannot be denied."

Jane remained silent and thoughtful, looking into the fire for some time, and then suddenly asked for the text she had promised to learn.

"Take the twenty-third verse of the sixth chapter of the Epistle to Romans first," said Mrs. Davis. "'The wages of sin is death.' Is that enough to make you feel happy all the week, Jane?"

"No," said Jane, with a slight touch of sadness in her voice, "give me some other; I told you I did not want to think about death yet."

"Then learn the whole verse. 'The wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.'"

"Does it say that really?" And Jane seized the book to satisfy herself that it did indeed say so.

She was not forgotten that night in the affectionate prayers of her faithful friends.