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Title: The motherless bairns, and who sheltered them
Author: Anonymous
Release date: June 19, 2024 [eBook #73866]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1883
Credits: David E. Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MOTHERLESS BAIRNS, AND WHO SHELTERED THEM ***
[Illustration: THE LITTLE ORPHANS DISCOVERED.]
[Illustration]
THE
MOTHERLESS BAIRNS,
AND
WHO SHELTERED THEM.
[Illustration]
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY:
56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD; AND
164, PICCADILLY.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. MOTHERLESS AND HOMELESS 5
II. THE DOOR ON THE LATCH 15
III. THE RAGGED SCHOOL 23
IV. BESSIE AND HER TEACHER 37
V. SEASIDE PLEASURES 50
VI. THE HARBOUR OF REFUGE 59
VII. FOUND AFTER MANY DAYS 76
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
“I was a Stranger, and ye took Me in.”
It was a sharp, frosty night late in December, the wind driving
the snow in unfriendly gusts into the faces of the passers-by, and
compelling all who were not actually obliged to encounter its violence
to seek as speedily as possible the shelter of their own homes.
At the corner of a street leading out of one of the many crowded
thoroughfares in the heart of the city, stood an old-fashioned crockery
shop, from the inner parlour of which the cheerful glow of a coke fire,
reflected on the window-panes, made the darkness without only seem
more dreary and desolate. Unmindful of wind and snow, two little faces
might have been seen closely pressed against the window, eagerly gazing
on a sight which greeted their eyes through the glass door separating
the shop from the room behind. The muslin blind, which usually hung
before it to screen those within from the gaze of the outer world, had
accidentally dropped, and left to view a cheerful group, consisting of
father, mother, and several children, seated at their evening meal.
The kettle singing on the fire, the cat comfortably lying on the snug
hearth, the clean white cloth, with the neat cups and saucers, the
home-made cake, and bread-and-butter, above all, the happy faces of the
children, did not escape the eager notice of the poor little wanderers,
whose own sad experience of life might have been summed up in the few
short but expressive words--hungry and cold, motherless and homeless.
It was the old story, alas, only too common, of sin, suffering,
and sorrow; the drunkard husband going away, and leaving the poor,
worn-out, sorrow and care-stricken wife to die in a miserable garret,
and the friendless little ones turned out alone on the world, which
seemed to them so large and dreary. Sleeping now on a doorstep, now
under one of the numerous railway arches, too often the only refuge of
the homeless and destitute, in the daytime begging a few halfpence, or
some scant crusts, growing every day more dirty and more forlorn; no
wonder that the sight of a home which seemed to them (unaccustomed
to aught but want and woe) rich in all that could be desired, should
arrest their eyes and make them gaze on wistfully, forgetful of wind
and cold.
No such home had ever been for them; their earliest remembrances were
of a dark, damp cellar, a cruel father, and a sorrowful and ailing
mother; their latest of an old tumble-down garret, where that mother
lay dying, without proper nourishment or kind, loving care--no voice to
whisper to her of a Saviour’s love, or to bear to her heart the glad
tidings which could have shed a light over the dark valley. Mingled
with these came the remembrances of the coarse tones of the rough
woman, who, as soon as their mother was buried, had pushed them into
the street, telling them to “be gone, and never to darken her doorway
again, the good-for-nothing brats.”
After gazing intently for some time at the happy scene before them,
the elder of the two children, by a sudden, irresistible impulse, at
length darted up the steps, and softly turning the handle of the door,
crept inside the shop, the younger one clinging to her sister’s arm.
Crouching down in a corner, where they hoped to escape observation, but
with eyes and ears both on the alert, they bent forward to catch the
sound of what was passing in the inner room. For a moment all seemed
to be quiet, and then the father’s voice was heard reading aloud.
They saw the children seated round the table, the elder ones reading
in turn, while the younger sat by, quietly listening. They could even
distinguish some of the words, but, alas, they were no familiar tones
which fell on the ears of the little beggar children; they heard
something about a Father pitying His children, and, as the words were
read, instinctively the younger child whispered, “That’s not our
father. Whose father can that be?”
“Hush!” softly said the elder one, “or they will hear us, and then we
shall be turned out.”
At that moment the outer door opened, and another customer coming in,
Mr. Morley, the owner of the shop, stepped out from behind the glass
door. It was only a message respecting some order which had been given
earlier in the day; and no light being required, the trembling children
remained in security in their hiding-place. At length, overcome by
fatigue, cold, and hunger, they fell asleep in one another’s arms, the
younger child whispering, as she kissed her sister, “I wish, Polly, we
might stay here every night, instead of sleeping out in the cold.”
Poor little ones! Uncared for on earth, and deserted by the father
who should have watched over them with tender care and love, but not
uncared for up in heaven, where even the little birds do not escape
notice. All unseen by them, there was bending down over those sleeping
children an Eye which never slumbers nor sleeps; and even now, when
they thought themselves friendless in the wide world, their Father in
heaven did not forget them, but was guiding their feet into the way of
peace, and disposing the hearts of His servants to receive in His name
and for His sake these forlorn and weary outcasts, the little ones for
whom Jesus died, and whom He is ever ready to “receive favourably and
to embrace with the arms of His mercy.”
* * * * *
As Mr. Morley was putting up his shutters that night, and seeing that
all was safe in the shop, he caught his foot, and stumbled over some
plates which had been piled on the floor; and on bringing a candle to
discover what mischief had been caused, he caught sight of what seemed
to him a bundle of rags heaped together under a shelf. Great was the
good man’s astonishment, on a closer inspection, to discover beneath
the rags the forms of the sleeping children. Hastily calling his wife,
and carefully shading the light with his hand, he stooped down and
examined their faces. Traces of tears could easily be seen on the
cheeks of the elder, who appeared to be about eleven years of age, and
the most hasty glance at either could not have failed to discover many
unmistakeable signs of want, hunger, and poverty.
Touched with tender pity for the forlorn little ones, Mr. and Mrs.
Morley consulted together as to what they should do for them. “Surely
the Lord Himself has brought them within the shelter of our roof; and
it’s a mercy to think they reached it in safety, for with the wind and
snow driving as they are, there’s no telling whether the poor little
creatures would have lived to see the light of another day.” Then,
hurrying upstairs, the kind-hearted woman speedily returned with a warm
blanket from her own bed, and wrapped it carefully round the little
sleepers, discoursing to herself the while.
“Certainly they might have slept in the attic, up at the top; but then
there’s the fear lest they might have felt frightened like at finding
themselves in a strange bed, or at being woke of a sudden--no, John’s
right; John always knows best. Well, thank the Lord for keeping the
poor babes from perishing on a night like this; and thank Him too for
giving us, just now, when our hearts are sorely yearning after our own
little one in the heavenly fold, something to do for His lambs still in
a world of sin and sorrow.”
A tear stood in the good woman’s eye as she spoke. Only a few months
back she had known what it was to part with the little child that had
twined itself round her mother’s heart in no ordinary way--loving
little Lily; so sweet and gentle, with such endearing ways, and taken
after an illness of only a few days, leaving a sore blank behind. The
tender mother’s heart seemed to open at once to the little friendless
ones whom God had led to her door; and she lay awake long that night,
planning how to do the best for them, should it prove, as she felt in
her own mind persuaded, that they were homeless and destitute.
Surely that night, over the homely dwelling, a heavenly smile was
resting, even the blessing of Him who has said in His own holy Book:
“Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the
least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
“It is not the will of your Father which is in heaven that one of these
little ones should perish.”
With her mind full of concern and kind thoughts for the poor little
strangers, Mrs. Morley rose early the next morning, and hastily
dressing, went down before rousing her own children, to see whether
they were still sleeping. To her great astonishment, on opening the
door of the shop, and unfastening the shutters, they were nowhere to be
found. In the corner lay the blanket she had so carefully wrapped round
them the night before, but no trace of the children could be seen. On
examining the bolt of the front door, she saw that it had been slipped
back, and that they must evidently have gone out before it was light,
probably fearing to encounter the cross words, or even blows, which
had hitherto repulsed them from door after door where they had sought
shelter.
Good Mrs. Morley blamed herself greatly for not having carried them
upstairs to the attic; and both she and her husband were sorely grieved
to think of the poor children wandering perhaps without food, shelter,
or friend. “We’ll leave the door unlatched again to-night, and maybe
they’ll come back to the place where they once found shelter and
warmth. Poor things! it’s a wonder they didn’t take the blanket, with
only those few thin rags scarcely covering them. I had been looking out
some of our Lily’s things for them: it cost me something to go to that
drawer this morning, and take them out one by one; but a verse came
into my mind, which helped me to give them up: ‘Neither will I offer
unto the Lord my God of that which doth cost me nothing;’ and then it
seemed quite easy to take my darling’s things and give them to Him
who has said, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of
these, ye have done it unto Me.’ And so now, whether these little ones
come again to us or not, my mind is made up, and Lily’s things shall be
given to some of the needy ones whom the Good Shepherd is going out to
seek in the wilderness, and bring back to His heavenly fold.”
When breakfast was over, Mr. Morley called his children; and after
reading a chapter with them as usual, and asking for a heavenly
blessing on each, before they set off for school or work, he told them
of the little wanderers who had found a shelter under their roof the
night before, and asked them to pray each night and morning that God
their Father would fetch home these poor children to His blessed fold
on earth, and give them a place in His heavenly kingdom.
The children all listened with much interest to their father’s
account. Susie, the eldest girl, was a pupil-teacher in the school
where her younger sister and brother went, and on Sunday afternoons
took a class in a ragged school not far distant; and she had learned
to feel a tender love for the poor little ones for whom the Lord Jesus
died, but who, until they came to the school, had heard but little of a
Saviour’s love.
Elsie, the second girl, had left school, and helped her mother at
home and in the shop; Alice and Johnny went every day to school under
Susie’s care; and Daisy, the third girl, was an invalid. Crippled
in body by a fall when quite young, but not in mind nor heart nor
understanding, Daisy, whose weak and feeble frame had long since ceased
to grow, grew in grace and heavenly wisdom year by year. In her quiet
corner by the fireside, or oftener lying on the little couch, to which
she was sometimes kept for weeks together, her sweet and peaceful
face was a constant lesson to the busy ones around her, and all who
knew her, old and young, would tell how the heavenly-minded child had
often helped and cheered them on their way. Daisy would knit socks and
comforters for Susie’s ragged children; and though she could not go out
to teach them of the loving Saviour, as her sister did, she could speak
to Him for them, and many a silent prayer went up for them from Daisy’s
heart into the ears of Him who so tenderly listens to the voices of
little children:
“For He loves His little children,
And He pleadeth for them there,
Asking the great God of heaven
That their sins may be forgiven;
And He hears the prayer.”
When Susan came home from her class on Sunday afternoons, Daisy was
always full of eager questions about the children, and would lie with
her large eyes fixed on her sister, as she told of the poor little
ones whom she was trying to teach about Jesus.
Susie had gentle ways, and loved her little sister dearly, and devoted
much of her spare time to her; while Daisy in return unconsciously
taught her elder sister many a lesson of patient submission and quiet
trust. For never can the life of anyone, however young, feeble, and
apparently helpless, that is really united to Jesus Christ by living
faith, be spent in vain. “The fruit of the righteous is a tree of
life;” and whether that fruit be manifested in active service or in
patient suffering, it shall not be in vain in the Lord. After all,
it is not so much our work as our will that God asks and desires of
us--the offering up of ourselves as a reasonable, holy, and lively
sacrifice; and the little child that day by day looks up to heaven, and
tries from love to Jesus to be gentle, loving, and obedient, or to
bear with quiet patience the weary pain which keeps it still and lonely
when other children are at their merry pastimes, does not live in vain,
but is bringing forth the fruit of righteousness, to the praise and
glory of God.
* * * * *
Weeks and months went by; but no more was seen or heard of the little
strangers, though night after night the Morleys’ door was left
unlatched, in the hope of their return; and every day when the children
gathered round the hearth the father ended his petitions with an
earnest prayer that the little lost ones might one day be found, either
on earth or in heaven.
Daisy’s confidence that God would hear, and that some day they would
be brought back, was unshaken, though day after day passed by without
bringing anything further to light about them. “Our prayer-children,”
she would call them; and perhaps few little beggar children ever had so
many loving thoughts bestowed on them, so many sweet prayers breathed
upwards into the ears of the Lord of heaven and earth, prayers that
were not spoken in vain, but which were even now preparing a harvest of
blessing.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
“Rejoice with Me, for I have found My sheep which was lost.”
It was a bright Sunday in July, and the bells of some of the
neighbouring churches were ringing for afternoon service, as Susan
Morley, after leaving her little brother and sister at the door of
their school, made her way through some narrow bye-streets to the
little ragged school that was so dear to her heart, and from which on
Sunday afternoons for the last four years nothing had ever kept her
absent.
It was a rough-looking place, which had formerly been used as a
coal-shed; but loving hands had hung the walls with sweet texts and
pictures, and transformed it into a pleasant-looking place within;
while the humble appearance of its exterior had this advantage, that it
attracted, while a grander building would have frightened away, the
very class of children it was so desirable to get hold of.
A stranger going in that afternoon, as he looked round on the clean
faces of the children, and marked their generally tidy appearance, and
quiet orderly behaviour, might have questioned the fact of its being
a _ragged_ school. Very different was the appearance of the children
who attended it ten years previously, when it was first opened through
the loving thoughts and efforts of some kind friends who had laboured
earnestly in behalf of the lost little ones; and very different was
the neighbourhood generally then, from what it now was. Through those
years of patient toil and prayer the earnest workers had seen, at first
perhaps only dimly, here and there tokens for good to bid them not be
weary in well-doing; but now, in looking back, they could feel how the
good hand of their God had indeed been upon them, and multiplied the
seed sown a hundredfold. To homes once sunk in darkness and ignorance
had the blessed light been carried, and little children, taught of
Jesus, had borne home to their parents the glad tidings of great
joy, and taught the lips which first taught them to speak the words
of eternal life. Thus had the wilderness been turned into a fruitful
field; and in the day of the harvest those patient sowers shall
doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing their sheaves with them.
As Susan opened the door of the school, a group of children followed
her in; and on taking her place in the class, a little girl stepped
forward, and curtseying, said: “Please, teacher, you told us last
Sunday that we were to try and say ‘come’ to somebody else, and on the
way here I saw two little girls standing at the corner of our street,
and I asked them if they wouldn’t like to come to school with me, and
hear what teacher would tell us about Jesus, and they said they’d like
to come, only they’d got such ragged things, they didn’t like to come
in, because, perhaps, the ladies would be angry, and send them away;
but I said you didn’t mind how ragged we were, if only we came. But
when they got near the school they looked frightened, and said they
couldn’t come, unless so be I asked leave for them. Oh! can I fetch
them in, teacher? I said I was sure you’d say ‘Yes.’”
The eager request was soon granted; and before many minutes the child
returned, leading, one on either side of her, the poor children for
whom she had pleaded. They were indeed ragged, and the sad, pinched
look on both faces told of the privations they must have suffered.
Susan spoke to them very kindly, and, gradually reassured by her gentle
voice and manner, they gained confidence, and ventured to look round
them. When prayers were over, and the other children had said their
texts and hymns, Susan turned to the little strangers and asked them a
few simple questions; amongst others, whether they had ever heard of
heaven? The elder of the two looked at her thoughtfully for a moment,
and then said, “Isn’t that the place where nobody wants nothing to eat
or drink?”
[Illustration]
Deeply touched by an answer which told so much, in a few short words,
of the suffering and want with which they were evidently so early
familiarised, but unwilling to show what she felt, Susan answered:
“Quite right, dear; heaven is a place where nobody wants for anything;
every one there is quite happy. But can you tell me how we may get
there?”
No responsive word or look came this time from either of the little
new-comers; but amongst Susan’s own children many a hand was held out,
and when she made a sign to one of them to answer, a little girl named
Jane Hardy said, “Please, teacher, for Jesus Christ’s sake.”
“Quite right, dear; but now tell me what you mean when you say, ‘for
Jesus Christ’s sake.’”
“Please, teacher, because Jesus came down from heaven to die for our
sins; and if our sins are forgiven for His sake, and our naughty hearts
changed by His Holy Spirit, we shall go to heaven when we die.”
“That’s right, dear; it is only because of our Saviour Christ’s great
love in leaving His home above, and coming down to our earth to live
and die for us, that we can have any sure and certain hope of ever
reaching heaven. You know the little verse which says--
‘And this, not for any good thing we have done,
But all for the sake of His well-beloved Son.’
And now tell me if Jesus is willing to receive little children into His
beautiful home.”
Several hands were held out, and almost with one voice the children
answered: “Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them
not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
Susan then told the children to turn to their Bibles; and, after
reading with them the parable of the lost sheep, she told them as
simply as possible, how Jesus is the Good Shepherd who goes out after
the lost sheep, and never rests until He has found them; how by the
“lost sheep” are meant those who have not known His love in dying for
them; how tenderly He loves little children, and longs for them to come
into His fold. She explained to them how weak and unable to protect
themselves the sheep are; and just so, how feeble and helpless we all
are in ourselves, and what need we have to be led and kept day by day
in the right way. She spoke to them of the tender love of the Good
Shepherd for every one, even the least and feeblest of His lambs; of
their great enemy, the devil, from whom He died to deliver them: how He
knows each little one by name, keeps His eye always upon them, watches
over them by night and by day, goes after them when they wander from
Him, and brings them back to His fold; and, at length, when life is
over, receives them into His own gloriously bright and holy kingdom
above.
The children all listened quietly and attentively; and amongst the
little eyes fixed on the kind young teacher, none seemed more riveted
than the poor little stranger-children, by whom alone of all the class
the sweet story of old--the story which is ever new--was heard for the
first time.
When school was over, the children stood up and sang together the sweet
hymn, which followed so well on the subject of the lesson:
“Jesus is our Shepherd,
Wiping every tear,
Folded in His bosom,
What have we to fear?”
When the class was dismissed, Susan called the little strangers to her,
and asked them their names, and where they lived, and if they would
like to come to the school again. The elder one answered:
“I’m called Polly, and that’s Lizzie. We don’t live nowhere. This is a
rare nice place; we’d like to come again.”
“And have you no father or mother?”
“Please, ’m, mother’s dead, and father went away to sea long ago, and
we’ve nobody to look after us.”
“And where are you going now?”
“We shall walk about till it’s dark, and then creep under one of the
arches, or on to a doorstep, if nobody don’t turn us away; but most
often we get turned away from one house after another, or the police
sees us, and then we has to hide away as fast as we can. It’s not
as bad now as in the winter. Lizzie gets a cough then; and I don’t
know how to keep her warm; we often shiver all night long. Arches is
draughty; but sometimes we find an old barrel, and creep into that;
that’s the best place.”
“Not quite the best,” said the younger child; “we once slept in a warm
place.”
The elder child here shook her head at poor little Lizzie, and made a
sign to her to say no more; but the movement did not escape Susan’s
observation, and only served to confirm what she had already strongly
suspected, that these poor, forlorn children were none other than
Daisy’s “prayer-children.” It had been her earnest hope that somehow,
through means of the ragged school, which brought her into contact
with so many of the poor children and homes of the neighbourhood, she
might learn something about them; and now the longings and prayers
of the past months seemed at length about to be answered. Their eyes
brightened when Susan asked them if they would like to go home with
her, and to have some warm tea and bread-and-butter; and poor little
Lizzie could not resist saying, “We’re so hungry; we’ve had nothing but
some dry crusts since yesterday morning.”
Telling them to keep close to her, and talking to them, as they walked
along, of the Good Shepherd who loved them, and was even now seeking to
bring them to His fold, Susan led them to her own home. The shutters
being closed, the children did not at first recognize the place where
six months before they had found shelter; but as Susan led them through
the shop, watching their faces meanwhile, to discover any sign of
recognition, Lizzie suddenly pulled her sister’s arm, and said in a low
voice, “Wasn’t this the place where we slept that night?”
Polly looked frightened, and whispered, “Perhaps we shall be punished
for it;” and in another moment both of them would have darted out of
the door, had not Susan closed it and taken them by the hand, saying
to them very gently, “Don’t be afraid, dear children; this is the nice
place where you once slept, one cold night in the winter, and we hoped
you would have come to it again, and used to leave the door unlatched
for you every night. God your Father in heaven led you here, and we
asked Him to bring you back, and He has heard our prayers. Polly and
Lizzie needn’t fear anything now; for, if they are good, they shall
stay here always, and never sleep out in the cold any more again.”
Then leading them into the inner room, she brought them to Daisy, who
was lying on her couch in the window, and said:
“Daisy, here are your ‘prayer-children,’ found at last through your
prayers and my dear little school.”
Daisy’s face beamed with joy and thankfulness. During the quiet hour
while her brother and sisters were at school, and her father and mother
at church, she had been praying that Jesus would suffer these little
children to come unto Him, and that they might be found; and even while
the prayer was rising up from her heart the answer of peace was coming
down, and the promise of old being fulfilled: “It shall come to pass,
that before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking,
I will hear.”
There was general rejoicing that afternoon in the Morleys’ home when
the rest of the family came in.
Kind Mrs. Morley, with Elsie’s help, soon washed and dressed the poor
children in some better garments than their own miserable rags; and the
loving mother’s heart did not repent when she saw poor little Lizzie
sitting at the tea-table that evening in Lily’s place, and clad in
Lily’s clothes.
Happy, thrice happy, they who know the joy and blessed privilege of
ministering to the Lord of glory, in the person even of a little child,
and who, from love to the Saviour who loved them and gave Himself for
them, receive one such little one in His name.
CHAPTER IV.
“Jesus called a little child unto Him.”
When school hours were over on week days, Susan Morley used often to
visit the homes of her Sunday scholars; and one afternoon, about a year
after the events recorded in the last chapter, she set out for this
purpose, with the wish too of seeing one who had been absent from the
class the day before. It was another poor child who had been brought
into the school by the same little Jane, whose earnest efforts to say
“Come” to others had led to the rescuing of Daisy’s “prayer-children.”
For some time the child had come regularly to the class; but when Jane
called for her as usual one Sunday afternoon, she found her in tears,
and on inquiring the cause, the child told her that her mother had
said she should never go to the school again. Jane had tried to comfort
her, by promising to ask her teacher to come and see her, and did not
fail to lay the case before Susan as soon as school was over. Susan had
already made some inquiries respecting the child’s home, and was much
afraid, from what she had heard, that it would not be an easy matter
to persuade the mother to send her. However, seeking help and guidance
where none ever seek in vain, she set out the following afternoon to
see what could be done, and to try if possible to soften the hard heart
of poor little Bessie’s stepmother, and induce her to retract her
threat.
Turning down some narrow streets, she made her way into the close,
dingy-looking alley, in a court of which was Bessie’s home. Groups of
dirty children were playing about in the gutters; and women with untidy
hair, lounging at their doors, stared at her as she passed; but,
quietly looking upwards, she made her way through the midst of them
without annoyance, and at last reached the door of the miserable house,
in a garret of which little Jane had told her Bessie would be found.
The staircase was narrow and steep, with scant glimmer of light; and
the sound of rude voices in some of the rooms, as she made her way with
difficulty up the broken stairs, did not tend to reassure her. At last
she reached the top; but, to her surprise, whilst pausing for a moment
before knocking at the door, she heard a little voice inside singing.
It was the old familiar hymn, sung almost every Sunday at the school,
“There is a happy land, far, far away;” and the little singer seemed
so to enjoy the words, and to sing them with such heart, that Susan
did not like to interrupt her, but waited till she had finished before
knocking at the door for admittance.
When she did so, no one said, “Come in;” and she was obliged to repeat
her knock, this time saying as she did so, “Bessie, dear, are you at
home? I’ve come to see you.”
The door was not opened, but a voice from within answered, “Oh, please,
teacher, I’m so sorry I can’t open the door; but mother’s locked me in,
and taken the key, for fear I should run out and leave the babies. I’ve
got to take care of them till she comes home.”
“Very well, dear, never mind about the door; but tell me why you did
not come yesterday to school. I was so sorry not to have you in the
class.”
The child did not answer at once, and Susan almost reproached herself
for having asked the question, for she fancied she heard the sound of a
stifled sob, and then the child said in broken tones:
“I like to come to the school, but I mustn’t come again. Mother says
she won’t have me go there, and she’ll beat me if I do; but I want so
to hear some more about Jesus, and I’m trying to speak to Him, as you
told us.”
“That’s right, dear; and do you think if I were to teach you a little
prayer to say to Him, you would say it every night and morning, and
whenever else you are able through the day?”
“Oh, yes, teacher, that I would.”
“Well, then, dear, I want you to say after me: ‘O God, give me Thy Holy
Spirit, and take away all my sins, for Jesus Christ’s sake.’”
The child repeated the words after Susan several times, until she
thought she could remember them. Then Susan spoke to her as well as she
could through the closed door about the loving Saviour, who died for
little children, and who would wash away her sins, if she asked Him, in
His precious blood, and give His Holy Spirit to teach and guide her in
the right way, and at last, through His own great love, bring her to
the happy land she had been singing about. Then taking a little card
with a text on it out of her pocket, she slipped it under the door, and
told Bessie to try and learn it by the next time she came, and promised
if she knew it perfectly she should have another.
Bessie read the words on it, “I love them that love Me, and those that
seek Me early shall find Me;” and then Susan said:
“Do you know who it is that says this, dear Bessie?”
“It doesn’t tell us, teacher; but I should think it must be Jesus,
because you said He loves us.”
“And do you love Jesus, Bessie?”
“Oh yes, teacher, I do love Him.”
“Why do you love Him, dear?”
“Oh, teacher, because He died to save us from going to the dreadful
place, and because He’s so good to us.”
“And do you know, dear, what the verse means when it says, ‘Those that
seek Me _early_ shall find Me’?”
“Early in the morning, teacher, before we think of anything else.”
“Yes, dear, we should think of Him as soon as we wake in the morning;
our first thought should be of Him and His love; but it means something
beside this--that while you are young, quite in the morning of life,
you should seek Him as your Saviour and Friend, not wait till you are
grown up, because you may never live till then, and the sweet promise
is for children, ‘Those that seek Me _early_ shall find Me.’ I hope
little Bessie is beginning to seek Jesus early.”
“Yes, teacher; and I hope I shall see Him some day. I often lie awake
at night; and through the chinks in the roof I sometimes see the stars,
and they look so bright, and I know Jesus made them, and I say to
myself, ‘Jesus’s home is brighter even than those stars; and maybe
some day I shall get there, if my sins are washed away, and my naughty
heart is made clean.’ And when the babies are cross, and my arm aches
with nursing them, I sing my hymns and verses, and I forget I’m tired,
and I feel so happy; but I do want to come to school again.”
Susan promised the child to see if she could persuade her mother to
give her leave to return to the class; but bidding her, whether or not,
to try to be gentle, obedient, and patient, and thus to show her love
to the Lord Jesus, who had loved her with so great a love, she said
good-bye to her, and made her way once more down the rickety staircase.
As she went down, she heard the little voice upstairs beginning to sing
again the old favourite hymn; and with feelings of deep thankfulness
she thought to herself, “Truly, of such is the kingdom of heaven;” so
simply had this little child received the message of Christ’s love
into her heart, and as a little palm-tree flourishing in the midst of
a desert land, because its roots are watered by a hidden spring, was
bringing forth in an ungodly home, and with every outward disadvantage,
the fruit of holiness, to the glory and praise of God.
Susan made many efforts to see little Bessie’s stepmother, but without
success. She went out to work early in the morning, and purposely
avoided seeing her at other times. When Susan called at the house,
little Bessie, if not out, was always locked into the room. But the
child had many happy talks with her kind teacher through the closed
door; and though not allowed to come back to the school, she learned,
week after week, the verses which Susan slipped for her under the door,
and was treasuring up in her heart a store of precious texts which no
one could take away from her. After some time Susan managed to send her
a Bible by little Jane, and the joy of the child at having one of her
own was unbounded.
“I can now read all about Jesus, and perhaps some day mother will let
me read it to her.”
One evening, a few months later on, as Susan was sitting after tea by
Daisy’s couch, reading to her, the shop-bell rang, and on going to
answer it Elsie found little Jane waiting with a pale face, and tears
in her eyes. She had been running fast, and was so out of breath she
could not speak for a minute, but at last managed to get out that Susan
was wanted directly. Bessie’s mother had sent her--there had been an
accident, and Bessie was hurt, and had been taken to the hospital, and
was asking for “teacher.”
Susan was ready in a moment, and before long reached the hospital,
little Jane going with her as far as the entrance, and telling her
the few particulars she had gathered from Bessie’s stepmother about
what had happened. It appeared that the child had been sent out early
in the morning with some violets to sell; but not finding as many
customers as usual, and fearing her stepmother’s anger if she returned
without selling them, she had lingered about the streets till dusk.
Jane had met her, and tried to persuade her to come home; but she said,
“Oh no! not till I have sold my flowers; mother will be so vexed if I
don’t!”
When Jane asked her if she were not very tired and hungry, she said she
was tired, and she had a pain in her side, but she was saying over her
verses and hymns, and this helped her to forget how tired she was.
As Jane left her she heard her saying to herself, “He shall gather
the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom”--the last verse
Susan had given her to learn. She had not been at home much more than
an hour, when Bessie’s stepmother ran in, and told her to fetch Miss
Morley at once--that Bessie had been run over by a waggon, and had been
taken to the hospital.
Susan hurried upstairs to the ward where the poor child had been
carried; the doctor and nurse were standing on one side of the bed
as she entered, and, from the grave look on the face of the former,
she guessed what was indeed the case, that little or no hope was
entertained of the child’s recovery. Both her legs had been broken,
and her head severely injured as well. Her stepmother was sitting at
the foot of the bed, and seemed half stupefied. Susan stepped forward
quietly, and bending down over the poor little sufferer, said in a
gentle voice, “He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them
in His bosom.”
The little eyes, which had been closed until now, opened for a moment
with returning consciousness, and the child smiled as the familiar
words fell on her ear, and held out her hand to Susan. Then, looking
up with a bright smile, she whispered, “I’m so happy. Tell mother I’m
going to Jesus; and I hope she’ll come too.” She made an effort to say,
“He shall gather the lambs with His arm;” and then with one little
sigh, turning her head on the pillow, as if going to sleep, she was
gently gathered into the fold of the Good Shepherd above.
Dear little Bessie! No more rough words or blows, no more pain and
hunger, no more tears, “the waves of this troublesome world” safely
crossed, and the little ship at anchor in the fair haven, where they
who enter in “shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither
shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the
midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living
fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their
eyes.”
CHAPTER V.
“He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waters thereof are still.”
About two years after little Bessie’s death, Daisy, whose health had
been failing very much during the summer months, was ordered to go away
for some time to a drier and milder place; and as Mrs. Morley had a
sister, the wife of a farmer, living at a little village on the south
coast, it was arranged that she should spend the winter with her.
Little Lizzie was to go too, partly as a companion for Daisy, and also
because she was far from strong herself; for though in better health
than when she and her sister were received into the Morleys’ home, she
had never thoroughly recovered from the effects of early neglect and
exposure to all weathers. She and Polly had continued to go to the
little school which had been the means, through God’s blessing, of
rescuing them from their life of misery. Their love and gratitude to
the kind friends who had taken them into their home had from the first
been most touching, and amply repaid Mr. Morley and his wife for the
disinterested kindness and tender pity with which they had received
into their home, and treated as their own children, the friendless
little ones, who had no other claim upon them than their misery and
wretchedness.
There were many regrets in the Morleys’ home when the time came for
Daisy and Lizzie to set off on their long journey; for all knew how
sadly Daisy would be missed from her accustomed corner, and little
Lizzie was a general favourite. Mr. Morley went with them the greater
part of the way, and saw them safely into the coach which was to carry
them the last twenty miles.
Daisy bore the journey better than could have been expected; and both
Lizzie and she met with a kindly welcome from the good old farmer and
his wife, who had no children of their own, and were well pleased at
the thought of having some young faces about them. The old-fashioned
farmhouse, nestling down in a sheltered nook, with the hills rising
behind it, was the picture of comfort and peace both within and without.
Early the next morning, as they looked out from the windows of the
snug sitting-room, the quiet beauty of the scene which lay before them
filled both the children with wonder and delight. The farm stood at the
head of a valley well wooded with fir-trees, and opening down on to the
bay; a little stream ran gurgling down its rocky bed only a few yards
from the garden gate, while the cliff itself, down which a winding-path
led to the shore, was covered with creepers and ivy, and rich in every
kind of foliage. The trees were still in the beauty of their autumn
tints, and to Daisy, whose eyes never saw a tree from one year’s end to
another, it seemed a perfect paradise.
But the crowning delight to both the children was the wide sea, which
bounded the view, and which stretched away to right and left, as far as
eye could reach. As they looked out on it for the first time in their
lives, it seemed to them more wondrous and beautiful than anything they
had ever imagined. Here and there in the far distance they could see
the sails of some ships bound for a far-off land, the rising sun just
tipping them with gold; or nearer home, down in the bay below, the
little fishing-boats returning home after the night’s toil. They were
never tired of gazing on the sea with its ever-changing beauty, and the
kind-hearted old farmer would often drive the children in his gig down
to the shore, and leave them there with their books and work for hours
together. Mrs. Morris contrived an easy folding couch for Daisy, which
was carried down without trouble, and on which she was able to rest,
and enjoy the view without fatigue.
[Illustration]
The soft, mild air, with the invigorating sea-breezes, soon brought
returning strength to her and little Lizzie, and the quiet peaceful
life in the old farmhouse was a time of rest and enjoyment long
remembered by them both. The bright mornings were generally spent on
the shore; and in the afternoon, while Daisy rested in the pleasant
bay-window of the parlour, little Lizzie often went with Mrs. Morris
on some mission of love to one or other of the fishermen’s or
farm-labourers’ cottages scattered over the valley.
Sometimes, as a great treat, the child was allowed to go by herself,
to carry a basket of eggs or a pat of home-made butter, with some tea
and sugar, to an aged man and his wife, formerly employed on the farm,
but who were now past work, and lived in a lonely cottage half-way down
the cliff. The little girl was always welcome to the good old couple,
and many a happy half-hour she spent with them, sometimes reading to
them as they sat in the chimney-corner out of the large Bible, which
always lay open on the table; sometimes sitting on a little stool
at their feet, and listening to them as they talked of the days long
gone by, when children’s feet had trodden their cottage-floor, and
another little girl had occupied the same stool Lizzie was sitting on.
Sometimes they would go over the old story, and tell her how, one by
one, all those children had been taken from them, in infancy or early
childhood, and had been laid side by side to rest, in a quiet corner of
the little churchyard under the hill; but how they knew and rejoiced to
think that all were safely gathered into the blessed home to which day
by day they were drawing nearer themselves.
One day, when the wind was rising and the sea very rough, the old man
told Lizzie to watch the fishing-boats coming into the bay, and then
said:
“You see those little storm-tossed boats, my lassie, making for the
harbour; they’ve had a rough time of it, and I’ll venture to say,
there isn’t a man in them who won’t be glad to set his foot on shore.
It’s a rocky coast this, and many’s the brave ship I’ve known in my
time wrecked off the rocks yonder, let alone the little cockleshells
of fishing-boats. Ah, my child, it’s just a picture of our life. We’re
all launched on a stormy sea; and, though some have a smoother passage
than others, I believe there are waves and storms for all. Happy for
those that have with them in the ship the one Pilot that can bring them
safely through all storms, into the quiet haven.”
The child looked up earnestly into the man’s face as he spoke, and then
said: “Daisy says she thinks the haven must be all the more welcome
when the boats have had a rough passage.”
“Ay, and Daisy’s right too, my child; the storms and danger make the
rest and peaceful shelter seem all the sweeter; and heaven will seem
all the more welcome when the voyage has been full of storms.”
The old man murmured softly to himself, “Then are they glad because
they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven.”
The wind now began suddenly to increase in violence; and fearing to
detain the child any longer, the old man desired her to hurry home at
once, going with her himself to the top of the zigzag path which led up
the cliff, and watching till he saw her little form disappear through
the gate leading to the farm.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
“He commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind ... their soul is melted
because of trouble.”
That night the storm raged with terrible fury, and many were the
anxious hearts in the valley, many the eyes that saw no sleep, but
watched and prayed till morning light, “for those in peril on the sea.”
Daisy and her little companion lay awake all night listening to the
waves lashing up against the shore, and to the hurricane which swept
round the farmhouse. At times it seemed to them as if the house itself
swayed to and fro, and they clung tremblingly to one another; but the
old dwelling was built high up on the rock, and was protected by the
hill behind, and when the light of day broke over it, it stood secure.
Farmer Morris was up before dawn, and calling his men together,
assembled them for prayer in the old kitchen; and then telling them
to lose no time in following him to the shore, he made his way down
to the bay as speedily as possible. A sad sight greeted him there, a
fine ship lying on her beam-ends, about a hundred yards from the shore,
utterly dismasted, and going to pieces as fast as possible. Some groups
of fishermen were busily engaged in trying to rescue portions of the
cargo, which were being continually washed up on the shore; while
others with their wives were intent on ministering to the half-drowned
crew, all of whom by aid of the lifeboat had been rescued from a watery
grave.
Mrs. Morris was not long in following her husband to the shore. She
was well known in the fishermen’s huts, and was at all times a welcome
visitor, for all knew that in trouble or trial of whatever kind, they
had only to turn to the old farm under the shadow of the hill, and
be sure of ready help and sympathy. As she stepped out of one of the
cottages, a poor woman, the wife of one of the fishermen, came out of
another close by, and said:
[Illustration]
“Maybe you’ll be so good as to step into our house next, mistress.
There’s a poor man, one of the crew that was saved last night, but I
doubt he’s bound for a better shore; he was longer coming to than any
of the others, and it seems, from what some of them say, he’s been ill
a long time.”
Mrs. Morris went with her at once into the cottage, and on opening the
door of the inner room stepped softly to the poor man’s bedside, and
sat down by him. He was asleep; but one glance at his thin face and
emaciated hands told only too plainly that the woman’s words were true,
and that he was, as she expressed it, soon bound for a better shore.
After some time he awoke; and on seeing Mrs. Morris, he asked her if
she would be so good as to read to him, pointing to a little well-worn
Bible which lay on his pillow. Mrs. Morris turned to the thirty-second
Psalm; and when she had finished reading it, and had spoken to him of
Jesus as the sure refuge and only hiding-place for poor sinners, he
looked up at her earnestly, and said:
“Blessed be God, I have found that refuge, through His grace and
goodness, for never did any poor sinner have greater need of such a
refuge and such a hiding-place.”
He spoke with difficulty, and the effort to say this seemed almost too
much for him, for he sank back exhausted. Mrs. Morris did not press him
to talk any more; but with a few soothing words, and an earnest prayer
that Jesus would light for him the dark valley, the shadows of which
were now gathering around him, she took leave of the poor man, desiring
the woman in whose cottage he was to see that he wanted for nothing,
and promising to return later in the day.
The other sufferers occupied much of her time and care; and it was
not until late in the afternoon that she was able to see the poor
dying sailor again. She found on reaching the cottage that he had
rallied a little since the morning, and was able to talk with much
less difficulty. As she sat down by him he looked up with an earnest
expression, and said, “I want you to tell me once again the glad news
that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners. I have heard it
again and again, but I am never tired of hearing the same sweet sound.
“The voice that first told me of my need of a Saviour, that first bid
me look to Jesus, is silent now. It was a young cabin-boy on board the
ship I first sailed in from England. We had a rough voyage, and out in
the Atlantic met with such a storm as made my coward heart quail. I
remembered how, in days gone by, as a little child my mother had taught
me of God, and told me I need not fear in the dark because He would be
near and take care of me; but now this thought did not quiet my heart.
I felt that God was near, and that it was His voice speaking in the
storm; but I could not look up to Him as a friend, and the thought of
His being near only made me tremble with fear. I had lived so long in
sin and without God in the world, that surely He would not listen to
me now, or take care of me in the storm. All my past life seemed in a
moment to stand out before me, and the thought of what a dark picture
it was filled me well-nigh with despair. As I heard the wind and the
waves roaring, and looked out into the thick darkness, I felt there
was not a glimmer of hope for me. Just then this young cabin-boy, who
had often spoken to me of the Saviour, but whom I and another man on
board had never lost an opportunity of jeering at, came past me. He
had been with a message from the captain to the mate; and as he passed
me in the dark, I thought I caught sound of the words, ‘I will fear no
evil, for Thou art with me.’ At any other time I should probably have
laughed at him; but I was in no mood for jesting now; and something
forced me to call out, as he went by, ‘Aren’t you afeared, Charlie?’
for I was trembling myself from head to foot. The boy stopped and said,
‘No, master, I’m not afeared. When the storm in the heart’s once been
stilled, the outside storms can’t alarm one; if one’s heart is only in
the harbour, there’s no room for fear.
Amid the howling wintry sea
We are in port if we have Thee.’
“Ah, mistress, I would have given the world at that moment to have felt
as that young lad did; though many a time when he had spoken to me
before of the sure haven for storm-tossed souls, I had laughed at him,
and told him there would be time enough to seek the harbour when the
storm came, that we didn’t want it in smooth sailing. Ah, how well I
recollect the sad look which came over his face when I spoke so, and
how gravely he would say, ‘Ah, Master Smith, you should put into that
port in bright weather, if you’d know how to find it in the storm.’
“He had hardly passed by when a tremendous wave broke over the ship,
and it was hard work for the men to stand at the pumps.
“In the roar of the wind and sea I heard the young boy’s voice: ‘Call
upon God, Master Smith, call upon God! He says, “Call upon Me in the
day of trouble, and I will deliver thee.”’ And then and there in the
darkest night I have ever spent in my life, and yet not quite the
darkest, for before it had ended a gleam of light had shone across my
heart, I did call on God, as I clung for my life to the side of the
ship, and prayed Him to have mercy on my poor benighted soul, as I had
never before prayed in my life. But the lad’s voice I have never heard
again; the wave that washed over the ship had borne away with it the
soul that was the most ready of all on board to meet its God. Those
words, ‘Call upon God, Master Smith, call upon God!’ must have been
well-nigh his last on earth. The storm that was my call to the Saviour
was his to go home; and surely never was anyone so young more ready
for the summons. I never knew a lad so fearless in danger, so ready to
witness for the Lord, so little afeared of man. There wasn’t a man on
board that didn’t in his heart respect him, even if he didn’t think
with him. I found his jacket the next morning; he had taken it off, to
be more ready to help the men at the pumps, and there in the pocket was
the little Bible I had so often seen him reading. I couldn’t help a
tear or two when I opened it, and saw how well worn and used it was.
“Here’s the Bible, mistress; I have kept it ever since; and, blessed
be God, through reading that Book, I have found pardon and peace, and
a hope that, poor miserable sinner as I am, I shall one day reach the
home that dear lad has most surely gone to, through the love of the
Saviour who came into the world to save sinners such as I. That Book
has been my constant companion ever since by night and by day; and,
thank God, it was made the means of salvation to another man besides
myself, the very one who used to join with me in jeering poor Charlie
Green; he died in peace through reading this blessed Book. He too, like
me, had lived in sin and in forgetfulness of God, and when he fell ill
he was afraid of the thought of death. I used to read to him; I had
found peace then myself, and I couldn’t do less than try to put him
in the way of finding it too. I had seen the beacon light which saved
my poor soul from shipwreck, and guided me into the haven of refuge,
and wasn’t I bound to do my utmost to point it out to some other
storm-tossed soul? He told me much about his past life, how he had left
his poor dying wife and children, and knew nothing of what had become
of them; and he made me promise, before he died, that if ever I came
back to England, I would try to find out where they were, and tell them
how he repented of his past life, and had come as a poor sinner to seek
forgiveness at the feet of Jesus. He used often to say he knew that he
was the chief of sinners, but that in this blessed Book he had found
that there was hope, even for the vilest that came and touched the hem
of the Saviour’s garment; and sure enough he found peace in looking to
‘the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world.’
“He often spoke of his two children, and said he prayed that God would
teach them to know a Saviour’s love; and that although their earthly
father had forsaken them, the Lord Himself would take them up. I should
like to have done what I could to find out something about them and
their mother; but now I fear I shan’t be able. I know I haven’t long
to live, and my voyage is almost over. I hardly thought I should have
lived through last night. I had no strength to stir hand or foot
myself, and if they hadn’t lifted me into the boat I must have been
drowned, for the ship was filling fast; but, oh, how different I felt
from what I did in the last storm! Now I could say to myself a verse I
had many a time heard poor Charlie sing when the wind was against us,
and the sea rough:
‘One who has known in storms to sail
I have on board;
Above the raging of the gale
I hear my Lord.’
Ah, mistress, it’s one thing to have to face the storm alone, but quite
another to meet it with Christ. I could now understand what Charlie
meant when he said, ‘The inner storm was stilled, and so the outside
storms couldn’t alarm him.’ One had come by and said unto my soul, all
tossed with sin and misery, ‘Peace, be still,’ and now ‘there was a
great calm.’
‘I came to Jesus as I was,
Weary and worn and sad:
I found in Him a resting-place,
And He has made me glad.’”
Mrs. Morris was deeply touched and interested in the poor man’s story.
As she rose to go, she turned once more to look at the little Bible
which had been so blessed to him and others, and on opening it her
eyes caught sight of the name, “Morley,” written on the fly-leaf.
On examining it more closely she was still more astonished at the
inscription, which was as follows:
“Given to CHARLES GREEN,
on leaving the Ragged School,
with the best wishes of his sincere friend and teacher,
SUSAN MORLEY.
‘Oh satisfy us early with Thy mercy, that we may rejoice and be glad
all our days.’”
Charles Green was an orphan boy in whom Susan Morley had taken great
interest. He had attended the ragged school regularly for three years,
and during the last part of the time Susan had been much encouraged
about him, and had begun to hope that the good seed had taken root in
his heart. Still, she had never felt quite sure that the boy had really
given his heart to the Saviour, and often after he had left the school,
as years passed away without her hearing of him, she had many anxious
thoughts about him. Her great hope had been in the Bible which she had
given him on parting, and in the promise he had made her that he would
read a few verses in it every day. No day had passed since he sailed
from England in which Susan Morley did not pray for the sailor boy far
away on the sea, and ask that the Word of God might find an entrance
into his heart, and make him “wise unto salvation through faith which
is in Christ Jesus.” And how abundantly her prayers had been answered,
beyond all that she had thought or expected, we have already seen.
Nor was this all. On inquiring the name and other particulars
respecting the poor man who had died in peace through reading the
Bible given by Susan to Charlie Green, Mrs. Morris discovered on her
next visit to Robert Smith that it could have been none other than the
father of Polly and Lizzie. She took Lizzie with her several times to
visit the dying sailor, and he was much interested in seeing the child
of his former shipmate. Poor little Lizzie would often read to him out
of the Bible her father had learned to love, and was never tired of
asking questions about him, and would sometimes say:
“Polly and I used to pray to God to let us see our father again, but
now we must pray to meet him in heaven.”
Robert Smith did not live many weeks. He had no friends living, and
seemed to desire nothing further, now that he knew that the children
of his comrade were alive and well cared for. Mrs. Morris visited him
constantly, and saw that he wanted for nothing. Resting on Jesus, he
passed away in peace, with the words on his lips of his favourite hymn:
“Hide me, O, my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life be past;
Safe into the haven guide,
Oh, receive my soul at last.”
Thus already had much blessed fruit sprung from the patient labours and
earnest prayers of one young teacher in a little ragged school; surely
only an earnest of further and fuller blessing reserved for the day of
harvest by Him who has promised that His word shall not return unto Him
void, but shall accomplish that which He pleases, and prosper in the
thing whereto He sends it.
CHAPTER VII.
“He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall
doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.”
It was with feelings of deep joy and thankfulness that Susan Morley
heard of the events related in the last chapter. Writing back to Daisy,
who had sent her the glad news, she said:
“DEAR DAISY,
“We were all glad to have your last letter, and Lizzie’s, and to find
that you are both so much better. I need not say how thankful we all
were, and especially poor Polly, at hearing the particulars of her
father’s happy death. Though she could not help at first sorrowing
that she will never see him on earth, she feels it is indeed far
better to know that he is safe in heaven, and to have the blessed
hope of meeting him there. How wonderful it was that it should have
been brought about in that way, and through his reading Charlie
Green’s Bible--the Bible, Daisy, you and I asked might be made the
means of guiding some one else’s feet, beside his own, into the
way of peace! How thankful I am, too, that one of the dear ragged
boys, and especially Charlie, whom I have thought of so constantly,
and have often felt so anxious about, should have been made such a
blessing, and enabled to witness for Jesus in life, and to testify in
death that he feared no evil because He was with him!
“I am sure you will be glad to hear that Mrs. Grey, dear little
Bessie’s stepmother, is beginning to read in earnest the little
Bible Bessie loved so dearly, and we must pray that she too may
receive the kingdom of God as a little child. She brought the twins
last week, and asked to be allowed to send them to the school where
Bessie learned the way to heaven; and the neighbours say that she
is wonderfully changed, and so much more gentle than she used to be.
She comes regularly to the mothers’ meeting, and has been at church
every Sunday evening for the last two months. She often says she is
cut to the heart when she thinks of poor little Bessie’s gentle ways,
and how hard she used to be to her. But I tell her not to grieve
too much, for ‘the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin;’
and little Bessie is where the angels rejoice over one sinner that
repenteth, and where the broken and contrite heart is not despised. I
think God is giving her this broken heart, and perhaps little Bessie
is now, with those other bright spirits, rejoicing over her.
“The dear little school is prospering; Jane Hardy is a great help,
and, next to Polly, the best monitress we have. They often go to read
to Mrs. Grey, and she takes kindly to them for the love they bore
to little Bessie. It is cheering to see how many dear children are
gathering in; and everything, and especially the tokens for good God
has given us lately so strikingly, seems to bid us ‘not to be weary
in well-doing, for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.’
“In _due_ season, Daisy; that must mean in God’s own time--sooner or
later--here or there; and we in the meantime must pray and hope, and
patiently wait, while we work on, till God shall call us to His own
rest; and then, if not before the due time, the day of harvest will
come, when He says, ‘they who sow and they who reap shall rejoice
together.’
“Your affectionate sister,
“SUSAN MORLEY.”
Dear, patient workers for Jesus in lowly vineyards such as this, faint
not, neither be weary. Look up for the grace that is sufficient for all
difficulties and all discouragements, and look on by faith to the day
when you shall see what God asks you now perhaps to take on trust, that
“your labour is not in vain in the Lord.”
In that day you shall find how the long years of ploughing were not
lost, but were most surely preparing the way for the precious seed; how
every grain you once scattered for Him, watered by your prayers, and
perhaps by your tears, has been guarded and watched over by your Lord,
and turned into golden sheaves, to be laid down by you in the day of
harvest at His feet, saying, “Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but
unto Thy name be the glory.”
[Illustration]
LONDON: KNIGHT, PRINTER, MIDDLE STREET, E.C.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
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