Part 4

"The young man laughed at my question, and said, 'I go to a place of worship now and then, and lately I have been listening to a preacher who told his hearers that it was of no use for them to take any trouble about their souls; that Jesus had done everything, so, of course, there was nothing left for sinners to do. If they were to be saved, they would be, and if not, why, there was no help for it, they could not save themselves.'

"It was easy to see how the young man had misunderstood the preacher's meaning, and put his own interpretation upon it: that in hearing of the full, free, perfect, finished work of Jesus, the Saviour of all men, but specially of them that believe, he professed to find an excuse for his own indifference and inaction.

"But I determined not to argue the matter by taking his version of the preacher's teaching as a ground to go upon. So I said, as if passing from the subject altogether, 'You tell me you are going to Dublin in order to obtain employment. Shall you go in search of work when we arrive there?'

"'Of course I shall. When a fellow has got his living to earn, it does not answer for him to let the grass grow under his feet. I shall be over the side and off as soon as possible after the vessel stops.'

"'But why take so much trouble? According to what you have told me, you think that whatever is to be will be. If you are to get employment, you will get it. Why not sit quietly down on deck here, and wait until some one comes to offer you a situation?'

"The young man stared for some moments without replying, as if he thought only a madman could have made such a suggestion. Then, breaking into a contemptuous laugh, he answered, 'Do you take me for a fool? I think I should prove myself to be one if I were to follow your advice. I might sit here until my hair grew grey, if I were allowed to do so, before anybody would seek me and offer me work. No, no. If I want a situation, I must bestir myself at once and look after it. I shall need all the help that a good written character can give, as well as a push from a friend in Dublin, who advised me to come here, if I am to succeed.'

"'Then, my friend,' I said, 'if it would be the height of folly to neglect the use of every means for the promotion of your temporal interests, how much more foolish to despise those which concern your everlasting welfare?'

"'You've caught me fairly,' returned my acquaintance, good-humouredly; 'beaten me with my own weapons, and I'm not sorry for it.'

"Encouraged by the spirit in which my words had been received, I ventured to use the little remaining time in what he called 'a bit of a preach out of church.' I urged him to use the means in his power, not to save his own soul, for that no man can do, but to lay hold of that salvation which is by Christ alone, 'who will have all men to be saved, and come to a knowledge of the truth.'

"'If you want to learn about worldly things,' I said, 'you obtain the best books written on the subject, or put yourself under a teacher. You try to get into the company of those who know more about it than yourself. Do the same; use like means in regard to spiritual knowledge. There is a Book in which God's grace, His infinite mercy, wisdom, truth—above all, His love for poor sinners, and his eternal plan for their redemption—are plainly set forth. There are places in which you may hear this Book explained. There are plenty of men and women who have experienced the loving-kindness of the Lord, who have known the burden and misery of sin, and can tell you how the dear Saviour, who said, 'Come unto Me,' has welcomed, pardoned, cleansed, comforted those who have accepted the invitation.

"'But if you want to know about these things, you must use the means. 'You shall have,' is the Saviour's promise but first He bids you 'ask.' You can no more expect to have an answer to prayer without praying, or to know about eternal things without the guide which God has given to teach you, than to obtain the situation you seek by sitting still on the deck of the vessel, and waiting for some one to bring you an offer of employment.'

"We were drawing near to our destination, and there was not time for more; but the young man gave me a hearty grasp of the hand, and promised not to forget our conversation.

"I added, 'You told me you had a friend here who had invited you to come, and promised to speak a good word for you. Do not forget that you have also a Friend in heaven, an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous, who bids you come, whose plea on your behalf is all-powerful, and who ever liveth to make intercession for you.'

"We parted, and I saw no more of my companion of the voyage. I can only hope that our conversation did not prove altogether fruitless. I repeat it, that some one else may be stirred to use more diligently the many means of glace which have been opened to us by the goodness and love of Him 'who is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.'"

Salvation is of God, and of God alone. But hear His own word: "Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God that worketh in you both to will and to do of his good pleasure."

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WIDOW HENDERSON;

OR, THE REBELLIOUS HEART SUBDUED.

IN our little country town, there was not a prettier-looking home than that in which Widow Henderson lived. She and her orphan child dwelt in a charming cottage, which was not only picturesque enough for sketching, but also thoroughly comfortable inside, which is not always the case with cottages which look well on paper.

Outside, the porch and walls were hidden by a mass of climbing plants. Roses bloomed, woodbine scented the air, the passion-flower spread its curious petals; and in winter, when all these were gone, the hale ivy clung still, all green and flourishing, and saved the pretty cottage from looking ragged and bare. There was a very sweet union of nature and art outside Widow Henderson's cottage, for with all its wild beauty everything was in good order.

Poor thing! She was very young, only seven and twenty; yet that little bright-eyed lass of eight years old called her "mother." All the people in the village pitied her, and made a pet of orphan Effie, though the mother was a stranger from a far-away town and county. But Frank Henderson, her father, had been born and brought up at Deerhurst, and when he first talked about going to sea, it was made a trouble of by the whole parish. The people said it was like taking a ray of sunshine from the place, because, from a child, Frank had always been the willing helper of all who needed a helping hand, and he had a kind word and a cheerful smile for everybody.

Years sped on though, and Deerhurst folk grew proud of the smart young sailor who, at long intervals, enlivened their firesides with his wonderful tales of far-away lands, and of the strange things he saw there.

"Frank was not," they said, "the lad to go through the world with his eyes shut."

And when he became first mate, then captain, and lastly owner of a goodly ship, the village people remembered how they had always felt sure he would do great things, and congratulated themselves on their foresight.

Many a prayer had been offered for Frank, too, by the dwellers in his native village, and for seven years, his path in life had been very smooth, though it lay across the trackless waters. At length his prosperity seemed to have reached a climax, for Frank bought and furnished the pretty cottage at Deerhurst, and brought thither his stranger bride.

A few short months of wedded happiness fled swiftly by, and then Frank went away to sea. Alas for the poor young wife, he never returned. A brief newspaper paragraph brought the first sad intelligence that the captain of the brig "Middlesex" had been washed overboard and drowned, in the terrible Bay of Biscay, during a gale.

This was woeful news for the whole village; but what was the grief of all the rest compared with that which Margaret Henderson felt when she heard of the loss of her gallant young husband? She was like one turned to stone. Hers was unforgiving grief. She could moan out, "'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,'" but when a Christian friend would fain have persuaded her to add, "'Blessed be the name of the Lord,'" she shook her head.

"I cannot, I cannot," she said, despairingly. "It would be just a mockery; for my heart is always rebelling and calling for Frank. Oh, we were so happy; and to think he should be taken from me in such a shocking way. What had I done to deserve such a blow?"

Even the advent of little Effie failed to subdue that stubborn spirit which could not consent to say, "Thy will be done." And during eight long years, Margaret never learned to bow in submission to Him who had seen fit to chasten her.

As far as worldly matters went, Mrs. Henderson lacked no comfort, for the sale of the ship brought her a large sum of money. But she never looked on the bright side of her lot, or compared her blessings with the wants of many who might have pleaded that they were at least as deserving as she was, and yet scarcely knew how to find rest and shelter for their little ones, or food to satisfy their hunger, while she possessed all in abundance.

For eight long years, then, Margaret Henderson fought against God; only she spoke not of her mental conflict, but hid her murmurings in her heart, where they rather increased; like the seed which, though buried in the ground, dies not entirely, but brings forth more fruit.

Sunny-haired, blue-eyed Effie Henderson, found home but a cold place of refuge for her little warm heart. Petted by young and old at Deerhurst, she could hardly understand why her mother's brow should wear a constant cloud, her face be the gravest, and her voice sound more harshly than any other.

When dear little Effie came bounding into the house, ready to tell some new tale of kindnesses received from their friendly neighbours, her mother would coldly bid her "be quiet, for the noise made her head ache." Or when the little girl, emboldened by seeing a softer expression on her mother's face, threw her arms round her neck and kissed her cheek lovingly, Mrs. Henderson would resolutely turn aside without returning the caress, and bid Effie "go sit on her own chair and not tease."

But if Effie could have noticed and understood the expression of her mother's face, she would have read the maternal longing even through that unnatural coldness; for all the while Margaret thought to herself: "I would give worlds to clasp my child to my bosom as other mothers fold their little children in their arms; but I will never love aught again, lest it should be taken from me. I will not be wounded through my child as I was by the loss of her father."

Poor, vain, rebellious soul! To think that its puny strength could successfully contend against Him who holds the winds in the hollow of His hand, and to whom we poor sinful creatures are but as the clay which the Potter fashioneth as he will. So, at home, Effie was ruled less by the law of love than by that of fear, and she became accustomed to hush the merry laugh and check the bounding step when she reached the little gate at the entrance of the garden amid which stood her pretty home.

One Saturday afternoon, two women, next-door neighbours, having seen little Effie pass an hour before, ceased their household work to make remarks about the mother and daughter.

"How grave Effie looks," began Mrs. Brown, leaning the while upon the sweeping-brush she had been busily plying the minute before. "Poor thing! I declare she is beginning to look like a little old woman."

"And well she may," replied Mrs. Green, "only think what a dull time she has at home. If she had no more cheerful company than her mother, she would be fairly moped to death."

"Ay, Mrs. Henderson has grieved sorely for her husband. Nobody has ever seen her shed a tear, but I believe she never will forget him. Dear, dear me! Who, to look at her now, would think she was the laughing lass that Frank Henderson was so delighted to bring to Deerhurst."

"To be sure, she is changed, and no doubt she has mourned terribly; but still I can't think it is right to be so hard and cold with poor little Effie. I call it both sinful and selfish to nurse one's grief until it makes others miserable."

"Come, come, neighbour," said Mrs. Brown; "we must remember what the Bible says about judging. It isn't easy to see the thoughts of another person's heart, and I am sure Mrs. Henderson never neglects anything to make Effie comfortable. There is not a child in the place that wears such beautiful clothes and goes so neat as that little thing does."

"Well, to be sure, the Bible says, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged,' and I don't mean to say for a moment that Mrs. Henderson means to be unkind to the poor child. Still, one can't help having some idea of a person's heart if one sees their actions. Now, do you think a child cares half so much for fine clothes as for loving words and kind looks? Why, if my little lass were not allowed to run and throw her arms round her father's neck and mine, and tell us all her little pleasures or troubles, she would wonder what was going to happen. Depend on it, you must treat children just like little friends, if you want them to grow up honest, truthful, and loving."

"I don't think Mrs. Henderson understands much about a child's ways, or cares for poor Effie's pleasures or troubles. It does seem strange, too, for she is so like him that's gone. I would look at her till I fancied I saw poor Frank Henderson himself."

"It just comes to this, though," replied Mrs. Green, "that Mrs. Henderson seems to want to make an old woman of Effie, and never remembers or sits down to think a bit about what she liked when she was a child herself. I have a great idea of duty to parents; but I consider I owe a duty to my children; and that if I would have them care for the things I care for, I must show that I feel for all their little troubles, and am glad when they are happy."

At this moment, a gentle and pleasant-looking lady came in sight. It was Mrs. Elwood, the wife of the Deerhurst doctor; and the two gossips suddenly recollected not only that the household business was at a stand-still, but that they were "not fit to be seen;" so they vanished indoors and resumed the labours which their chat had interrupted.

It was a common thing for Mrs. Elwood to ask little Effie Henderson to spend the Saturday half-holiday with her own children, and she was now going with the intention of taking her back. But, when she arrived, the widow's face had a flushed and angry look, as she opened the door for her visitor; and Mrs. Elwood began to fear for the success of her mission, when she saw Effie's hands clasped in a supplicating attitude, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

A table was strewed with a curious collection of odds and ends, such as would provoke a smile in a grown-up person, but which in a child's eyes are priceless treasures. There were shreds of silk and velvet; a little half-dressed doll, whose other garments were close at hand; a few beads; a ring or two, which had been manufactured by Effie's little fingers from the same stock, and deemed by their owner as good as diamonds; her doll's necklace; some pictures profusely coloured in red, blue, and yellow, together with all those miscellaneous bits of rubbish which every mother has smiled at, when she turned out her little girl's pocket after the young ones had gone to bed.

Mrs. Henderson placed her visitor a chair, and while making a remark about the weather, gave a reproving glance at Effie, and then with a quick motion of her hand threw the whole queer little collection to the back of the fire. Poor Effie durst not speak; but she sobbed bitterly, and followed her mother's movements with sorrowful and longing eyes.

Mrs. Elwood felt uncomfortable; but, hoping to act as a peace-maker, said: "I trust my little friend has not been guilty of any serious fault, for I have come on propose to take her home with me, if you can spare her. I dare say my two little daughters are eagerly watching and listening for our footsteps, and thinking every minute an hour until mamma returns with Effie."

"I am sorry to disappoint them, Mrs. Elwood," replied the widow; "but I cannot let Effie accept your kind invitation to-day. I am going to send her to bed, to keep her out of mischief. I told her I should before you came, and I cannot break my word, though I dare say she thought it would be all right when she saw you. You can go, Effie," she continued, pointing towards the staircase as she spoke. "Say 'good-afternoon' to Mrs. Elwood."

The child placed her trembling hand in that of her friend, and in a low voice, interrupted by sobs, thanked her for coming to ask her to tea. Mrs. Elwood pressed her kind motherly lips to the little wet cheek, and said she hoped Effie would be able to go another day, but she must not say anything just at present, as Mrs. Henderson was displeased.

"I hope," said Mrs. Elwood, when Effie was out of hearing, "that my little friend has committed no serious fault."

"Quite enough to deserve punishment," was the reply. "She fills her pockets with all sorts of rubbish, and I am continually picking up some of her trumpery about the house. I have told her before I would burn all I might find, so to-day I made her gather up every bit, and I have taken care they will not be strewn here and there again."

"But, my dear Mrs. Henderson, excuse my asking, had Effie a proper place in which to put her little treasures?"

Mrs. Henderson seemed half-amused, half-scornful, at the very idea of such a thing. "No, indeed," she replied; "I do not set aside a place for mere rubbish. Effie must learn to do without such trash as that I have burned."

"She will in time, let us hope; but all those shreds of silk, and odds and ends, which are valueless to you and me, are very precious in the eyes of a little girl. I can assure you my two children have just such collections, but so far from destroying them, I am constantly applied to for additional scraps to eke out their treasures. Of course I insist on their being put away when done with; but the children have no excuse for untidiness, because each has a drawer for her property. I presume Effie's fault has been that of making your beautiful home look untidy by strewing it with her odds and ends?"

Airs. Henderson made a gesture of assent. She had felt annoyed that Mrs. Elwood should interfere even in such a gentle manner, and now, though somewhat mollified by the deserved compliment paid her by the lady, she did not regret when the visitor rose to take her leave.

There were sorrowful faces at home when Mrs. Elwood reached it, and even the kind doctor's good-humoured countenance was overclouded when he asked in vain for little pet Effie.

"It seems strange," said he, when his wife told him the cause of the child's absence, "that so few people have patience and love enough to deal with children. But poor Margaret Henderson is like many others; she cannot forgive Him who has seen fit to afflict her; and because He has taken away one blessing, she flings the rest after it, and will have none. What froward children we are in the sight of our heavenly Father."

Mrs. Henderson's cottage looked beautiful indeed that evening, but the heart of its mistress was not at rest. She could see nothing but the little sorrowful figure, with clasped hands and streaming eyes; and that look, so like the dead father that she almost fancied she heard his voice pleading that she would love their child, and be very tender with her for his sake.

Conscience was busy with Margaret. It brought before her the many blessings she had slighted because one was taken away, her own unthankfulness of heart, her unloving ways with those about her.

Visions, too, of her own bright childhood filled the heart of the lonely woman, and she contrasted it with Effie's, such as she had made it. Her own had been all love from the first day that she, the youngest lamb of the fold, could remember, to that on which, with a father's blessing ringing in her ears, she had left her childhood's home for the far distant roof of her sailor-husband. All her own coldness and unkindness, the many times she had cast off the little clinging arms, and turned her cheek away from the proffered kiss, the harsh words of reproof which the slightest fault had been sufficient to call forth upon her child, and the difference between Effie's home and out-door looks, rose plainly before her.

And then, as she sat with the fire-light shining upon her pretty room, she became sensible of the value of her comforts, as she had never been before. God's long-suffering and goodness, too, were made apparent, and the words, "Shall I receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall I not receive evil?" came into her mind. "He has taken away ONE good gift," she murmured; "oh, Frank! But He has left me all beside, and I have thanked Him for nothing. Yet, instead of wishing, as I have often done, that I had never owned the lost blessing, ought I not rather to thank God that I have so sweet a memory of my short married life, unmarred by the recollection of one unloving word?"