Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Page [95]

PRECEPTS IN PRACTICE.

Page [140].

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS,

LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK.

PRECEPTS IN PRACTICE;
OR,
STORIES ILLUSTRATING THE PROVERBS.

BY

A. L. O. E.,

AUTHOR OF “THE SILVER CASKET”, “THE ROBBERS’ CAVE,” ETC., ETC.

With Thirty-Nine Engravings

London:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.

EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.

1887

Preface.

Dear young friends (perhaps I may rather welcome some amongst you as old friends), I would once more gather you around me to listen to my simple stories. I have in each one endeavoured to exemplify some truth taught by the wise King Solomon, in the Book of Proverbs. Perhaps the holy words, which I trust that many of you have already learned to love, may be more forcibly imprinted on your minds, and you may apply them more to your own conduct, when you see them illustrated by tales describing such events as may happen to yourselves.

May the Giver of all good gifts make the choice of Solomon also yours; may you, each and all, be endowed with that wisdom from on high which is more precious than rubies; and may you find, as you proceed onward to that better home to which Heavenly Wisdom would guide you, that her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.

A. L. O. E.

Contents.

List of Illustrations.

PRECEPTS IN PRACTICE.

CHAPTER I.
THE TWO SONS.

“A wise son maketh a glad father: but a foolish man despiseth his mother.”—Prov. xv. 20.

It was a clear, cold morning in December. Not a cloud was in the sky, and the sun shone brightly, gilding the long icicles that hung from the eaves, and gleaming on the frozen surface of the lake, as though he would have melted them by his kindly smile. But the cold was too intense for that; there was no softening of the ice; no drop hung like a tear from the glittering icicles. Alas! that we should ever find in life hearts colder and harder still, that even kindness fails to melt!

Many persons were skating over the lake—sometimes darting forward with the swiftness of the wind, then making graceful curves to the right or the left, and forming strange figures on the ice. And there were many boys also enjoying themselves as much, although in a different way—sliding along the slippery surface, and making the air ring with their merry laughter.

THE FROZEN LAKE.

One of the gayest of these last was a rosy-cheeked boy, who looked as though care or sorrow had never traced a line on his face. He had just made a very long slide, and stood flushed with the exercise to watch his companions follow him on the glistening line, when Dr. Merton, a medical man, who was taking his morning walk, and had come to the lake to see the skating, lightly touched the boy on the shoulder.

“Paul Fane, is your mother better to-day?”

“Oh, she’s well enough—that’s to say, she’s always ailing,” replied the boy carelessly, still keeping his eye upon the sliders.

“Did she sleep better last night?”

“Oh, really, why I don’t exactly know. I’ve not seen her yet this morning.”

“Not seen her!” repeated Dr. Merton in surprise.

“Oh, sir, I knew that she’d be worrying me about my coming here upon the ice. She’s so fidgety and frightened—she treats one like a child, and is always fancying that there is danger when there is none;” and the boy turned down his lip with a contemptuous expression.

“I should say that you are in danger now,” said Dr. Merton, very gravely.

“How so? the ice is thick enough to roast an ox upon,” replied Paul, striking it with his heel.

“In danger of the anger of that great Being who hath said, Honour thy father and thy mother—in danger of much future pain and regret, when the time for obeying that command shall be lost to you for ever.”

Paul’s cheek grew redder at these words. He felt half inclined to make an insolent reply; but there was something in the doctor’s manner which awed even his proud and unruly spirit.

“Where is your brother Harry?” inquired Dr. Merton.

“Oh, I suppose at home,” replied Paul bluffly, glad of any change in the conversation; and still more glad was he when the gentleman turned away, and left him to pursue his amusement.

And where was Harry on that bright, cheerful morning, while his brother was enjoying himself upon the ice? In a little, dull, close room, with a peevish invalid, the sunshine mostly shut out by the dark blinds, while the sound of merry voices from without contrasted with the gloomy stillness within. Harry glided about with a quiet step, trimmed the fire, set on the kettle, prepared the gruel for his mother, and carried it gently to the side of her bed. He arranged the pillows comfortably for the sufferer, and tended her even as she had tended him in the days of his helpless infancy. The fretfulness of the sick woman never moved his patience. He remembered how often, when he was a babe, his cry had broken her rest and disturbed her comfort. How could he do enough for her who had given him life, and watched over him and loved him long, long before he had been able even to make the small return of a grateful look? Oh! what a holy thing is filial obedience! God commands it, God has blessed it, and He will bless it for ever. He that disobeys or neglects a parent is planting thorns for his own pillow, and they are thorns that shall one day pierce him even to the soul.

HARRY TENDING HIS MOTHER.

“Where is Paul?” said Mrs. Fane with uneasiness. “I am always anxious about that dear boy. I do trust that he has not ventured upon the ice.”

“I believe, mother, that the ice has been considered safe, quite safe, for the last three days.”

“You know nothing about the matter,” cried the fretful invalid. “I had a cousin drowned once in that lake when every one said that there was no danger. I have forbidden you both a thousand times to go near the ice;” and she gave her son a look of displeasure, as though he had been the one to break her command.

“Will you not take your gruel now?” said Harry, again drawing her attention to it, and placing yet closer to her that which he had so carefully made.

“I do not like it—it’s cold—it’s full of lumps; you never do anything well!”

“I must try and improve,” said her son, struggling to look cheerful, but feeling the task rather hard. “If you will not take this, shall I get you a little tea?”

Mrs. Fane assented with a discontented air, and Harry instantly proceeded to make some; while all the time that he was thus engaged his poor mother continued in a tone of anxiety and sorrow to express her fears for her elder son.

“Are you more comfortable now, dear mother?” said Harry, after she had partaken of her nice cup of tea. Her only reply was a moan. “Can I do anything else for you?—yes, I see; the top of that blind hangs loose, and the light comes in on your eyes; I will set it right in a minute!” and he jumped lightly on a chair to reach it.

His mother followed him with her eyes—her deep, sunken eyes. Gradually the moisture gathered in them, as she looked at her dutiful son; for, fretful and unreasonable towards him as illness might sometimes make her, she yet dearly loved him, and felt his value. When he returned to her side, these eyes were still fixed upon him; she feebly pressed his hand, and murmured, “You are my comfort, Harry!”

And there was another Eye beholding with love that obedient and dutiful child! He who was once subject to an earthly parent, who cared for her even amid the agonies of the Cross—He looked approvingly down upon the true-hearted boy, who was filling the post assigned him by his Lord—who was letting his light shine in his home!

The red sun was setting before Paul returned; for, heedless of the fears to which his absence might give rise, he had taken his noonday meal with a neighbour. It was not that he did not really love his fond mother, but he loved himself a great deal more. He had never chosen to consider obedience as a sacred duty, and irreverence towards a parent as a sin. He never dreamed of sacrificing his will to hers; and a smile or a kiss to his mother, when he had been more than usually selfish or rude, had hitherto been sufficient to quiet the boy’s conscience, and, as he said, “make all right between them.” But wounds are not so easily healed, a parent’s claims are not so easily set aside, and the hour had now come when Paul was to feel the thorns which he had planted for himself.

DR. MERTON AND PAUL.

“I shall have a precious scold from mother,” muttered the boy half aloud, as he approached the door, “for going on the ice, and staying out all day. I should like to know what is the use of a holiday, if I am not to spend it as I like? I would rather be in school than moping away my time at home like Harry! I wish that I were old enough to go and enlist, and be out of hearing of mother’s endless chiding!”

“You will never hear it again,” said the solemn voice of one just quitting the door as Paul came up to it. He started to see Dr. Merton.

“What is the matter?” cried Paul, a strange feeling of fear and awe coming over his heart.

“Your poor mother, about two hours ago, was taken with an alarming fit—I dare hardly give hopes that she will see the morning!”

Paul stayed to hear no more, but rushed into the house. One of the neighbours was there, who had kindly offered to stay that night to help Harry to nurse his dying parent. The young boy was now praying beside her bed—praying for his mother on earth to his Father in heaven!

Paul went up to the bed, cold, trembling with his emotions. He gazed in anguish on the altered features of one whose love he had so ill repaid. Mrs. Fane lay unconscious of all that passed—unconscious of the bitter tears shed by her sons. She no longer could rejoice in the affection of the one, or be stung by the neglect of the other. Oh! what would not Paul have given, as he hung over her now, for one forgiving look from those closed eyes! What would he not have given to have heard those pale lips speak, even though it had been but to chide! But his grief and his fears now came too late—his mother never spoke again!

In a few days both the boys stood by the open grave, and no one who had seen the sorrow of both, without being aware of the former circumstances of their lives, would have known what different recollections filled their hearts—like poison in the bleeding wound of one, soothing balm in that of his brother! “My last act towards my mother was that of disobedience—her last feeling towards me was of displeasure and pain! I clouded, perhaps I shortened her life; and the anger of my God is upon me!” Such were the thoughts of Paul—his agonizing thoughts—as he heard the earth fall on the coffin of her who had loved him best upon earth. But not for untold wealth would Harry have exchanged the remembrance of his parent’s last fond look, her last sweet words to him. “Harry, you are my comfort!” sounded in his ears as though an angel had repeated it to the mourner.

THE FUNERAL.

And not then alone, but when time had softened his sorrow—yes, even through the long course of his honoured, useful life, if care weighed on his heart, he thought of those words, and they lightened his burden of care; when joy elated his spirit, they yet brightened that joy—his mother’s blessing seemed for ever resting upon him! Honour thy father and mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee. A wise son maketh a glad father: but a foolish man despiseth his mother.

He makes his mother sad,

The proud, unruly child,

Who will not brook

Her warning look,

Nor hear her counsels mild.

He makes his mother sad,

Who, in his thoughtless mirth,

Can e’er forget

His mighty debt

To her who gave him birth.

He makes his mother sad,

Who turns from Wisdom’s way;

Whose stubborn will,

Rebelling still,

Refuses to obey.

He makes his mother sad—

And sad his lot must prove:

A mother’s fears,

A mother’s tears,

Are marked by God above!

Oh! who so sad as he

Who o’er a parent’s grave

Too late repents,

Too late laments

The bitter pain he gave.

May we ne’er know such grief,

Nor cause one feeling sad;

Let our delight

Be to requite,

And make our parents glad.

CHAPTER II.
THE PRISONER RELEASED.

“Who can say, I have made my heart clean, I am pure from my sin?”—Prov. xx. 9.

There were many bright young faces in the daily school which was taught by Willy Thorn, but there was one face which, though young, never wore a smile. In play-time many an orange, apple, or cake, was given by the school-boys to each other; but there was one of whom no one ever seemed to think, one who never received even a look of kindness. Many of the boys returned to cheerful homes to repeat to their parents what they had heard from their teacher; but one felt desolate and alone in the world, there was none to welcome him to his wretched dwelling, for such a place cannot be called a home. Why did his companions dislike sitting next in school to the pale boy with the sunken cheek and the drooping eye, and why in the merry hours of play did they seek to exclude him from their circle? Alas! there was a stain on the character of Seth Delmar—he had once been in prison for stealing bread from a baker, he was now shunned and despised as a thief!

The poor boy had deeply repented of his sin, and now bitterly felt its consequences. In vain he showed himself ever ready to oblige, bore meekly the taunts and neglect of his companions, and was most watchful over his own conduct. Thorn remarked the painful position of the child, and feeling that to drive him into despair might be to drive him further into sin, and that not a little self-righteousness was at the bottom of the scorn with which his school-fellows treated the unhappy Seth, he resolved to take the first opportunity of speaking to them upon the subject, and of showing to them their conduct in its true light.

Seth, who was patient and persevering with his tasks, had gained from his teacher the prize of a small book; and the first gleam of pleasure which any one present had ever seen on his wan features, lighted them up for a moment as he received it. It immediately faded away, however, as he glanced timidly round on his companions, and saw that no one cared for his success, that perhaps it would only add to the dislike felt towards him.

The next day Thorn observed the boy bending over this book, while large drops, in spite of his efforts to stop them, forced their way from his eyes as he looked on it. Seeing that something must have occurred, Thorn walked up to the spot, and found out at once the cause of Seth’s distress. On the title-page of the book Thorn had written his name; but just under it now appeared, in a very different hand, the single terrible word THIEF!

“This has been a most thoughtless—I wish that I could say only thoughtless act,” said Thorn, with an expression grave almost to sternness. “I will not ask who is the author of this cruel insult, but we must suppose that he who thus condemns another, notwithstanding the warning, Judge not, that ye be not judged, is at least conscious that his own heart is pure, that he never has sinned.”

The children looked at each other in silence, and then one of the elder boys, Bat Nayland, muttered, half aloud, “Conscious of never having stolen a farthing!”

“I did not say, conscious of never having stolen, but of never having sinned. All sin is disobedience to the Most High, as sin to be repented of, and as sin to be punished, whether it be theft, falsehood, or unkindness to another. The law forbidding us to covet in our secret hearts was as solemnly given amid the terrors of Sinai, is as binding upon man as Thou shalt do no murder. If the chain-cable upon which the safety of a vessel depends be snapped asunder in a storm, no matter how small be the link that gives way, the chain is as truly broken, and the vessel as certainly in danger, as if it had been dashed into a thousand pieces.”

“Still, I do think,” said Bat Nayland, “that there are some greater sinners, and greater commandments, and that we are not to be put on a level with thieves.”

“Do you remember,” said Thorn, mildly, turning to a boy who was near him, “which our blessed Lord Himself said were the two great commandments of the law?”

“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”

“And those who break the great commandments must, of course, be great sinners?”

There was a general murmur of assent.

“And now tell me,” said Thorn, speaking more earnestly, and looking around him as he spoke, “which of us can plead not guilty to the charge of having broken these great commandments—broken them often—broken them every day of our lives?”

No voice was raised in reply—conscience was bearing silent witness against all. Thorn continued: “The Almighty has a claim to our greatest love; He has created us, preserved us, redeemed us—He has deigned to say, My son, give Me thy heart! but which of us have obeyed the heavenly call? Has it been our delight to serve Him, to pray to Him? have we thought on Him with reverence, gratitude, and love; seeking His glory before our own pleasure, making His will the law of our lives? This it is, my children, to keep the first commandment: if any one present feels in his heart that he never has wilfully broken it, let him now raise up his hand in token that he can say Not guilty to this charge!”

Every hand remained motionless and still.

“And who has loved his neighbour as himself? Who has never done an unjust action, nor spoken an ill-natured word, nor harboured an envious thought in his heart? Guilty, all guilty we stand before our God! we have broken His commands, we have offended against His holiness; alas! who can say, I have made my heart clean, I am pure from my sin!”

“And now,” continued Thorn, after another solemn pause, “which of you here can give me a verse from the Word of God which tells us the just punishment of sin?”

Seth answered, in a very low voice, which would not have been heard but for the great silence which prevailed through the room, “The soul that sinneth, it shall die!”

“Then what is to become of us all?” cried William Browne, who had but lately joined the school; “must all be punished, as all have sinned? is there no hope of escape?”

“Our hope is in the blessed Son of God, who came down to earth that He might raise us to heaven—who bore our punishment that we might share His bliss. Through faith in Him even the chief of sinners may be saved—the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin.”

“But then,” said Nayland, “if those who have sinned much, and those who have sinned less, may all go to heaven if they only believe, it seems as if it did not matter whether we tried to obey or not—as though, the Lord having done all, we have nothing left to do.”

“God forbid that you should think so,” hastily interrupted Thorn. “All must strive for holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord. If any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of His. The Bible abounds in passages that show that for the wilfully disobedient, who will not repent, the Lord’s despised mercy will but add to the punishment of their sin!”

“I do not quite understand this,” said William Browne.

“In order to explain to you how our salvation is only from the Lord, and yet that we must work out our salvation with fear and trembling, I will repeat to you a little allegory or parable. Remember that my tale is intended to convey a deeper meaning than what may at first sight appear; exert your minds to discover that meaning, I am telling you the history of man, I am telling you the history of yourselves.”

All the school listened with silence and attention, as, after a minute’s consideration, the teacher began.

“There was a great and powerful Sovereign, who ruled over an extensive kingdom. But wise and just as were his laws, formed to make all happy who obeyed them, there were rebels who rose against their King, broke his commands, despised his statutes, and most justly deserved the sentence of death pronounced upon them as traitors. Amongst these was a youth, whom I need not name, who, after having had judgment passed upon him, was confined in a prison named Condemnation, until the executioner, Justice, should be sent to carry out the sentence of the law.

“Very strong was his prison, very thick its walls; the grated window, through which the light scarcely came, forbade all hope of release. Sometimes the youth tried to flatter himself with the idea that his Sovereign was too merciful to destroy him; but then the sentence of the judge rose in his mind, he felt that Justice demanded his punishment. Then he sought amusement to drive away the fear of death, and sometimes succeeded in his miserable efforts to be gay; but still the thought of what was before him forced itself on his mind, and he never could be really happy.”

“A wretched state to be in,” observed Nayland.

“It is by nature the state of us all,” said Thorn. “We have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God; we are all sentenced, and justly sentenced; and but for the hopes of a better life beyond, what would this world be but a prison! But to return to the rebel in my story:—

“One night as, clothed in his dark and ragged attire, he was reflecting upon his unhappy fate, a bright light shone in his prison, and he beheld coming towards him a Friend—one whose kindness he had long neglected, but who had not forgotten him in his adversity. The garments worn by that Friend were white and spotless; there was no stain upon them; they were such as befitted one of high estate, of one of such rank that it might have been little expected that his foot would ever tread the dungeon of Condemnation!

“He addressed the young rebel in terms of love and pity. He told the condemned one that he had quitted everything, risked everything from pure love, to save him from the death which he had deserved. He warned him that Justice was about to enter that prison, to shed the blood of the prisoner within; that there was but one way of escape. If the rebel changed garments with his merciful visitor, put off his own rags to wear that white robe, he might yet make his way from the prison of Condemnation, and pass Justice himself in security! The Friend, moreover, told the rebel that by using the watchword Faith, even the guards at the outer door would suffer him to go free; and that he would find outside a guide most trusty and safe, who would lead him to a place of security. Then, as the prisoner, with trembling haste, made the needful exchange of dress, his heart throbbing with the hope of freedom, and, we may also trust, with gratitude to the merciful Being who was content to remain and suffer death in his stead, his Friend placed in his hand a paper, containing his last dying request to the sinner whom he had saved, and charged the youth, if not for his Preserver’s sake, yet for his own, to shun for ever those rebels who had led him into the guilt which was now to be atoned for at so fearful a price.”

“And did he really escape, and did his merciful Friend really stay and die for him?” cried young Browne.

“You may turn to your Bibles for an answer to that question, and there see who was wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; who came to us when we lay in deep condemnation, and saved us by giving his life for us!”

“I begin to understand your meaning,” said Nayland, thoughtfully; “but I never dreamed before that I was a rebel, that I was in danger of punishment, or needed such a Friend to suffer what my sins had deserved.”

“And the white robe is the garment of the Lord’s righteousness?” murmured Seth.

“Yes,” said Thorn; “that which we must wear if we would quit the prison, or pass safely the executioner, Justice. And this brings me to the point which I wished to explain, that salvation is only from the Lord, and that yet we must work out our salvation with fear and trembling. Who can deny that the prisoner owed his escape wholly and entirely to the mercy of his Friend?”

“No one,” exclaimed several voices; “he had no power to help himself at all.”

“But now, suppose that the prisoner, while yet beneath the shadow of his dungeon, should throw away his disguise as something quite unneeded, should forget his watchword, turn away from his guide, and, notwithstanding the last earnest warning from his Deliverer, hasten to join the rebels again?”

“He would be ungrateful, wicked, mad to do so!” cried the boys; and Nayland added, “He would deserve to be dragged back to his dungeon, and suffer a worse fate than if he never had left it.”

“It is so,” said Thorn; “and so it will be when the Lord comes to judge the earth. Those who, having tasted of the Saviour’s mercy, still persist in joining His foes—who put aside His perfect righteousness, and choose the ways that He has condemned, not repenting of or forsaking those sins which cost His precious life, will be more severely judged than the heathen who have never known Him or His laws.”

“There is one thing which I should like to know,” lisped the youngest child in the school: “What was put in the paper which the kind Friend gave to the poor prisoner just as he set him free?”

“His dying request, doubtless,” said Nayland.

“What words would you say were to be found in that paper?” said Thorn to Edmund Butler, an intelligent boy, who was usually at the head of the school.

Edmund reflected for a moment, and then said, “If ye love Me, keep My commandments.”

Thorn saw that an answer was trembling on the lips of poor Seth, and encouraged him by a glance to say it aloud: “This is My commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you.”

“Here, then,” said the teacher, “is the motive of love. Remember,” he continued, impressively, “that this was our Saviour’s dying request, when He who was innocence itself was about to suffer shame, agony, and death for our sakes. Is there one heart here so cold that it would slight the last wish of a dying Friend—so ungrateful that it would seek to make no return for love so exceeding great? Can we think on His mercy, and yet be unmerciful; and, by our unkind, ungenerous conduct towards our fellow-creatures, show that the highest motive has no power over our souls, and that we choose heartlessly and ungratefully to neglect the only way by which we can prove our love to Him who loved us and gave Himself for us?”

There was no immediate answer to this question—perhaps the teacher did not expect to receive one; but as the boys passed out of the school-room, when the lessons were over, Thorn saw with a feeling of pleasure young Nayland walk up to Seth Delmar, and, while his cheek flushed crimson, whisper something in his ear, to which the poor boy replied by warmly grasping his hand. And Seth was no longer persecuted in the school, despised by his companions, or taunted with his sin. The boys had learned to show more indulgence to the failings of others, from having a truer knowledge of their own; and finding that they had all broken the great commandment, and had no hope but from the merits and mercy of their Lord, they looked with more pity upon a poor fellow-sinner, whose transgression had been repented of and forgiven.

No heart is pure from evil; none

Can say before the Holy One,

“I in my strength the race have run,

Have fought the fight successfully!

“In faith and virtue I have dwelt;

No proud, unholy feelings felt,

Nor mocked my Maker when I knelt,

By wandering thoughts of vanity.

“My first desire, in all things seen,

To glorify my God hath been;

My lips are pure, my heart is clean;—

Thou know’st my soul’s integrity!”

Ah, no! far other plea be mine,

As at Thy cross, O Lamb divine,

For Thy dear sake, and only Thine,

I ask for mercy tremblingly!

My sins are more than I can count,

Each day is swelling the amount;

All stained with guilt, I seek the Fount

Of holiness and purity.

Forgive the debt that I confess,—

Wash out my sins, my efforts bless;

And clothe me with Thy righteousness,

In time and through eternity!

CHAPTER III.
THE MOTHER’S RETURN.

“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”—Prov. iii. 5.

“I am so glad that dear mother is coming back to-day!” cried little Mary Benson; “it seemed as if the week would never be over.”

“Yes; if we had not been so busy knitting these cuffs for her, we should have found the time weary indeed,” said Maria. “But how much pleased she will be to have them; and what a surprise it will be to her when she did not even know that we could knit!”

“It was very kind in Mrs. Peters to teach us. I hope that she will not let out her secret: mother was to call at her house on her way back, to leave the parcel of wool.”

MARIA AND MARY.

“Poor mother! she will be weary enough with her long, tiresome walk.”

“She will forget all when she presses us to her heart,” cried little Mary, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at the thought. “Oh, to think of being in her dear arms again! How we shall rush into them!”

“If mother could have afforded to pay for the coach, she might have been here by this time; but it seems as if she had never one sixpence to spare,” sighed Maria. “I cannot help thinking,” added the little girl, after a pause, turning listlessly over the pages of a book which she was rather looking at than reading—“I cannot help thinking that the Almighty cares less for us than He does for the rich and the great. If He is as tender and loving as we are told that He is, how is it that we want for so many things?”

“Oh, Maria, it is very sinful to think in that way! We must trust in the Lord with all our heart; and not, in our naughty pride, fancy that we know what is good for us better than He who is all wisdom as well as love.”

“I should like to know why there are such differences in the world,” said Maria.

“We must remember what the Saviour said to Peter: What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter. In another world we shall see that all God does is right. Do you not recollect what the clergyman told us in his sermon last Sunday—that if there were no differences of station in this life, the rich would not be able to exercise charity, nor the poor to exercise patience?”

“The task of the rich is much easier than that of the poor,” observed Maria, with a discontented look.

“Perhaps not,” gently suggested Mary. “I do not think that the Bible makes it appear so: we are so often warned of the dangers of riches; and none of us can tell, if we had them, whether we should make a good use of them. I like those lines which mother taught us to repeat—

‘The greatest evil we can fear

Is—to possess our portion here.’”

“We are little likely to suffer from that evil,” observed Maria, with a bitter smile. “It does seem to me hard that mother—who is always so religious, and patient, and good—should have to work so hard and yet gain so little, while others have plenty without working at all. It seems as if God were hiding His face from us.”

“Oh! trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. This is one of the verses which mother told me quiets her mind whenever she is tempted to murmur at her lot. But is not that mother crossing the field? Yes, yes! it is our own dear mother!” And both of the children, with a cry of delight, flew to the door to meet her, carrying their little present in their hands.

WATCHING FOR MOTHER.

But what was the amazement of the girls at the reception which they met with from their mother—from her whom they so tenderly loved and had been so anxiously expecting! Mrs. Benson’s face was flushed, her manner hurried. Not one kiss, not one welcome smile, not one kind word did she give; but waving them away impatiently as they sprang forward to welcome her, “Back, back!” she cried; “don’t touch me!”—and passing them in a moment, she hastened up-stairs to her own room.

Neither of the children could at first utter a word. With open eyes and lips apart, they stood as if transfixed, their surprise and mortification were so great. Then slowly and sadly they retraced their steps, and returned to the room which they had just quitted. Neither spoke for a little while, till Maria, pettishly flinging down the cuff which she had knitted, exclaimed,—

“Who would ever have thought that mother could be so unkind!”

“Unkind? Oh, never, never say such a word!” cried Mary, her own eyes swimming with tears.

“She looked as if she would have pushed me back—me, her own child!—if I had ventured a little nearer; and after not having seen us for so many days! I cannot think what could make her treat us in such a manner!”

“Don’t think, but trust,” faltered her gentle sister. “We may be certain that mother has good reasons of her own. She always loves us, and acts for our good; and though we cannot just now understand what she does, we may be sure, quite sure, that it is wise and kind.”

“Bless you, my child, for your loving trust!” exclaimed her mother, who was at that moment entering the room, and who now pressed her little daughter to her heart more warmly and more tenderly than ever, as though to make up by increasing love for even five minutes’ apparent neglect.

“O mother, why would you not let us come near you?” exclaimed Maria, as she, too, shared in the fond embrace.

“For your own sakes, my darlings; only for your own sakes. I had called on Mrs. Peters, as I had promised, on my way; and not till I had entered into her cottage did I know that her only son was then lying there dangerously ill of the scarlet fever.”

“Poor Robin!” cried the little girls, full of sympathy for the trouble of their neighbour. “Is not that fever terrible and infectious?”

“Most infectious, my children; and I own that I felt grieved and frightened at having entered the house. I fear not for myself. Were it not for you I should have offered to remain to help to nurse the poor boy: but I dreaded lest I might be carrying here death in my very clothes—that I might be bringing misery into my own happy home; and not till I had laid aside my bonnet and large cloak did I dare to embrace my children. You met me so eagerly at the door that I was obliged to call out very hastily, or you would have been in my arms before I could stop you; and I had no time for explanations then.”

“Mother had good reasons,” said Maria to herself: “how strange it was that I ever could doubt her!”

“And how is poor Mrs. Peters?” inquired Mary, as her mother took a chair near the fire, and her little daughters seated themselves at her feet. “She is so fond of her son!—she could not live without him. How does she bear this terrible trial?”

“Like a Christian,” replied her mother—“like one who knows that all events are in the hands of an all-wise Being, who does not willingly afflict His children. All her hopes and her fears are laid before Him in prayer; and having used all human means to preserve her son, she now rests humbly on the infinite mercy of the Lord, who ordereth all things well. She has been given that trusting, confiding spirit which is so pleasing in the sight of Heaven.”

“Ah, that is what I want!” murmured Maria, hiding her head on her parent’s knee. “Mother, I have learned a lesson to-day from the pain which it cost me to doubt your love, and the shame that I feel now that I ever could have done so. Mary deserved your first kiss, mother. I can love, very greatly love; but she can both love and trust.”

Trust in the Lord with all thy heart

While sunshine glitters o’er thee;

Oh, choose in youth the better part,

When all is bright before thee!

Nor think thy pleasures will decrease:

’Tis Faith that here brings joy and peace,

And leads to heaven’s glory.

Trust in the Lord with all thy heart

When sorrows gather o’er thee;

When lone and desolate thou art,

And all is dark before thee.

’Tis Faith that can the mourner cheer;

’Tis Faith gives hope and patience here,

And leads to heaven’s glory.

CHAPTER IV.
THE FRIEND IN NEED.

“Thine own friend, and thy father’s friend, forsake not.”—Prov. xxvii. 10.

There was not a happier mother in the village than Mrs. Peters, nor a better son than her Robin. She had trained up her child in the way he should go, and it was now his delight to walk in it; she had not shrunk from correcting his faults, and he loved her the better for the correction; she had taught him from the Bible his duty towards his God, and from the same pages he had learned his duty towards his mother. It was a pleasant sight on the Sabbath morning, to see them walking up the little pathway which led to the church—the feeble parent leaning on the strong, healthy son, who carried her Bible and prayer-book for her. Mrs. Peters never had the slightest feeling of envy towards those who appeared above her in the world—she would not have changed places with any one. “They may have riches, fine houses, broad lands,” she would say; “but who has a son like mine!”

GOING TO CHURCH.

On the Sunday afternoon, however, Robin did not accompany his mother to church. Perhaps you may suppose that, after his hard work all the week, he thought that he needed a little rest or amusement; that you might have found him at “the idle corner” of the village, joining in the sports of younger companions; and that he considered, like too many, alas! that having given the Sabbath morning to religion, he might do what he pleased with the rest of the day. Let us follow Robin Peters in his Sunday pursuits, and see where, after partaking of dinner with his mother, he bends his willing steps.

ON A VISIT.

Over the common, through the wood, up the steep hill-side! It matters not to him that the way is long; that in winter part of the road scarcely deserves the name of one at all, being almost impassable from slough and snow. Cheerfully he hastens along, with a light springing step; sometimes shortening the way with a hymn, or gazing around on the endless variety of nature, and lifting up his heart to nature’s God! There is surely something very pleasant that awaits Robin Peters at the end of his walk, that he always should take it in this one direction; should never give it up, fair weather or foul; and look so happy while pursuing his way!

OLD WILL AYLMER.

He stops at last at the door of a poor little hovel, built partly of mud, and thatched with straw. The broken panes in the single window have been patched with paper by Robin’s hand, instead of being, as formerly, stuffed up with rags; but either way they speak of poverty and want. By the miserable little fire—which could scarcely be kept up at all, but for the sticks which Robin has supplied—sits a poor old man, almost bent double by time, the long hair falling on his wrinkled brow, his hand trembling, his eye dim with age. But there is a kindling pleasure even in that dim eye, as he hears a well-known rap at the door; and warm is the press of that thin, trembling hand, as it returns the kindly grasp of Robin!

First there are inquiries for the old man’s health, and these take some time to answer; for it is a relief to the suffering to pour out long complaints—it is a comfort to them if one kindly ear will listen with interest and patience. Then the contents of Robin’s pockets are emptied upon the broken deal box, which serves at once as chest of drawers and table to the old man, and a seat to the visitors, “few and far between,” who find their way to the hovel on the hill. The present brought by the youth varies from week to week. He has little to give, but he always brings something to eke out old Will Aylmer’s parish allowance: sometimes it is a little tea from his mother; perhaps a pair of warm socks, knitted by herself; or a part of his own dinner, if he has nothing else to bring to the poor and aged friend of his father.

After the depths of the pockets had been duly explored, Robin, seated on the box, very close to the old man, for Aylmer was extremely hard of hearing, repeated to him, in a loud tone of voice, as much of the morning’s sermon as he could remember. He whom age and infirmities kept from the house of God, thus, from the kindness of a youth, every week received some portion of spiritual food. But most did he enjoy when Robin opened the Bible—for, poor as Aylmer was, he was provided with that—and in the same loud, distinct voice read the blessed words which the dim eyes of his friend could no longer see.

After the holy book was closed, it was long before Robin found that he was able to depart, Aylmer liked so much to hear all about his friends and his neighbours—everything which passed in the village in which the old man had once lived. It was something for him to think over during the long, lonely week, to prevent his feeling himself quite shut out from the living world. And Robin had not only to speak, but to listen; and this, notwithstanding the deafness of old Aylmer, was perhaps the harder task of the two. Not only the poor man’s sight, but his memory also was failing: his mind was growing weak and childish with age, and his tedious and oft-repeated tales would have wearied out any patience that was not grounded on Christian love! And so the afternoon of the Sabbath passed with Robin Peters, and he returned weary but happy to his home, to enjoy a quiet, holy evening with his mother. He had poured sweetness into a bitter cup; he had followed the footsteps of his compassionate Lord; and he had obeyed the precept given in the Scriptures, Thine own friend, and thy father’s friend, forsake not.

After what has been written, it is scarcely necessary to add that the life of Robin was a happy one. At peace with God and at peace with man; earning his bread by honest industry; in debt to none, in enmity with none; blessed with friends, cheerful spirits, and excellent health, he was far happier than many who wear a crown. But though religion can support the Lord’s people under trials, it does not prevent their having to undergo them like others, and after several years had been spent in comfort and peace, a cloud was gathering over the home of Robin.

One Saturday evening he returned from his work complaining of headache and a pain in his throat. Mrs. Peters concluded that he had taken a chill, and, advising him to go early to rest, prepared for him some simple remedy, which she trusted would “set all to rights.” Robin took what she gave him with thanks, but he seemed strangely silent that evening, and sat with his brow resting upon his hand, as though oppressed by a weight in his head. The fond mother grew anxious—who can help being so whose earthly happiness rests upon one? She felt her son’s hand feverish and hot; she was alarmed by the burning flush on his cheek, and proposed begging the doctor to call. At first Robin objected to this: he had hardly ever known sickness in his life, the medical man lived at some distance, and the night was closing in. In the maladies of the body—but, oh, how much more in those of the soul!—how foolish and dangerous a thing is delay!

Another hour passed, and the fever and pain of the sufferer appeared to increase. Again the mother anxiously proposed to send for the doctor; and this time Robin made no opposition. “Perhaps it might be as well,” he faintly said. “I did not like making you uneasy by saying it before—but there has been a case of scarlet fever up at the farm.”

The words struck like a knife into the mother’s heart! There was not another moment of delay; she hastily ran out to the door of a neighbour, and easily found a friend (for it was often remarked that Mrs. Peters and her son never wanted friends) who would hasten off for the medical man.

Robin in the meantime retired to his bed, feeling unable to sit up longer. The symptoms of his disorder soon became more alarming—a scarlet glow spread over his frame, his pulse beat high, his temples throbbed; and his mother, in an agony of fear which she could only calm by prayer, sat watching for the arrival of the doctor.

Dr. Merton had just sat down to a very late dinner with two old school-fellows of his, whom he had not met for years; and they promised themselves a very pleasant evening together. “Nothing like old friendships, and old friends!” he said gaily, as the covers were removed from the steaming dishes, and they saw before them a comfortable repast, which the late hour and a twenty miles’ ride had given all a hearty appetite to enjoy. “Nothing like old friends, old stories, old recollections!—we shall seem to live our school-days over again, and feel ourselves boys once more!”

There was a ring at the door-bell, a very loud ring—there was impatience and haste in the sound of it. “I hope that’s nothing to disturb our sociable evening,” said Dr. Merton, who, having filled the plates of both his friends, was just placing a slice of roast beef on his own. He paused, with the carving knife and fork still in his hand, as his servant entered the room.

“Please, sir, here’s Tom Grange come in haste from Redburn, and he says that Robin Peters is taken very ill, and his mother begs to see you directly.”

The knife and fork were laid down, perhaps a little unwillingly, and the doctor arose from his chair.

“Why, Merton, you’re not going now!” cried one of his companions.

“Just wait till after dinner,” said the other.

“Excuse me; Mrs. Peters is not the woman to send me such a message without sufficient cause. I have known her and her son too for many a long year, and they shall not find me fail them in their trouble.”

So the doctor put on his great-coat, took down his hat, begged his friends to do justice to the good cheer provided, and left them, if I must own it, with no small regret, to sally forth in that cold wintry night, tired and hungry as he was. He walked fast, both to save time and to keep himself warm; but his pace would have been even more rapid had he known the agonizing anxiety, increasing every minute, with which his arrival was expected. The door, as he reached it, was opened by the widow, who looked upon him with the breathless earnestness of one who expects to hear a sentence of life or death.

A very short examination of the sufferer enabled the doctor to pronounce that his case was one of decided scarlet fever. Some one must sit up with him and watch him that night; a messenger should instantly be sent with the remedies required; the doctor would himself call the first thing the next morning.

“You do not think my boy—very ill, sir?” faltered the mother, folding her hands, and fixing her eyes upon Dr. Merton with an expression of much grief, which touched the kind man to the heart.

“He is ill, I cannot deny that; but keep a good heart, he has youth and a fine constitution in his favour; and I need not remind you, my friend, to apply for help to Him in whose hands are the issues of life and of death.”

Oh, how often that night, that long, fearful night, did prayer arise from the widow’s low-roofed cottage! It seemed as though the darkness would never be passed. At the end of every weary hour the night-breeze brought the sound of the church-clock to the watcher’s ear, while the stars still trembled in the sky. The wick of the candle burned long and low, the last spark in the grate had died out, and there lay the sufferer, so helpless, so still, that it seemed as though his soul were in like manner silently, surely passing from its dwelling of clay!

But with the return of morning’s light the fever rose, and the malady took its more terrible form. Robin knew nothing of what was passing around him; even his much-loved mother he recognized no more; his mind became full of strange, wild fancies, the delirious dreams of fever. His mother listened in anguish to his ravings; but a deeper grief was spared her—even when reason no longer guided his lips, those lips uttered not a word that could raise a blush on the cheek of his mother. Robin’s conversation had been pure in the days of his health—he had kept his mouth as with a bridle; and the habit of a life was seen even now when he lay at the gates of death! His mother heard his unconscious prayers—words from Scripture instinctively spoken; and while her hot tears gushed more freely forth, she was thankful from the depths of her soul. There was no death-bed repentance here for a life devoted to sin; Robin had not left the work of faith and love for the dregs of age or the languor of a sick-bed. She felt that if Heaven were pleased to take him from her now, he was safe, safe in the care of One who loved him better than even she did; though consciousness might never return to him, though he might never again breathe on earth one connected prayer, he was safe, in time and in eternity, through the merits of the Saviour whom he had loved.

“O sir! I am so thankful to see you!” exclaimed Mrs. Peters, as, pale and worn with watching, she received the doctor at an early hour of the morning. “My poor boy is very feverish and restless indeed—he does not know me!”—the tears rolled down her cheek as she spoke; “I am scarcely able to make him keep in his bed!”

“You must have assistance,” said Dr. Merton, walking up to his patient. Words broke from Robin’s lips as he approached him—words rather gasped forth than spoken: “I must go—he expects me; indeed I must go—my own friend and my father’s friend.” He made an effort to rise, but sank back exhausted on the pillow.

“There is something on his mind,” observed the doctor.

“It is that he is accustomed to visit a poor old friend, Will Aylmer, who lives in the hovel on the hill.”

“Will Aylmer!” repeated the doctor, as though the name were familiar to him. And well might it be so, for the feeble old man had in years long past served as gardener to his father; and many a time had the little Merton received flowers from his hand, or been carried in his arms, which then were sturdy and strong.

Dr. Merton now examined his patient, and the poor mother read from the doctor’s looks, rather than from his words, that he entertained little hope of her son’s recovery. As he quitted that home of sorrow, Dr. Merton sighed from mingling feelings.

“I fear that poor Robin is near his last home,” thought he; “and yet why should I fear, since I believe that for him it will be but an earlier enjoyment of bliss! He has shamed me, that poor peasant boy! Even in his delirium he is thinking of another; he is struggling to rise from the bed of death to go on his wonted visit of kindness to his own and his father’s friend! and I, blessed with means so much larger than his, have for thirty long years neglected, nay forgotten, the old faithful servant of my family! I shall look upon poor Will Aylmer as a legacy from Robin. He has done what he could for his friend during life; and by his dying words—if it please God that he should die—he shall have done yet more for the old man.”

For three days Robin continued in an alarming state, and his mother never closed an eye in sleep. Love and fear seemed to give her weak frame strength to support any amount of fatigue; or, as she said, it was the goodness of the Almighty that held her up through her bitter trial. On the fourth morning Robin sank into a deep sleep. She gazed on his features, pale and death-like as they were; for the red flush of fever had all passed away, and he lay motionless, silent, but with that peaceful look which often remains when the spirit has departed. A terrible doubt flashed upon the mother’s mind, a doubt whether all were not over! She approaches her son with a step noiseless as the dew, the light feather of a bird in her hand. She holds it near to his lips—his breath has moved it!—no! that was but the trembling of her fingers! She lays it on the pillow, her heart throbbing fast—is that the morning breeze that so lightly stirs the down? No; thank God, he still breathes!—he still lives!

Mrs. Peters sank upon her knees, buried her face in her hands, and once more implored Him who had compassion on the desolate widow of Nain, to save her beloved son; “But, O Lord,” she added, with an almost bursting heart, “if it be Thy will to remove him to a happier world, give me grace not to murmur beneath the rod, but to say humbly, ‘Thy will be done.’”

As she rose from her knees she turned her eyes towards her son, and they met his, calmly, lovingly fixed upon her, with an expression, oh how different from that which they had worn during the feverish excitement of delirium! “You were praying for me,” he said, very faintly; “and the Lord has answered your prayer!” The deep joy of that moment would have overpowered the mother, had it not been tempered by a fear that this improvement might be but as the last flash of a dying lamp, and that the danger was not yet over.

But from that hour Robin’s recovery rapidly progressed, and the fever never returned. He was weak, indeed, for many a long day; his vigorous arm had lost all its powers—he had to be fed and supported like a child. But it was a delight to Mrs. Peters to do everything for him, and to watch his gradual improvement in strength. Nor, poor as she was, did she ever know want while her son was unable to work. All the neighbourhood seemed pleased to do something for Robin—to help him who had been so ready to help others. The squire’s lady sent wine and meat from her own table; the clergyman’s wife brought him strong broth; the farmer, his master, supplied him with bacon and eggs; and many a neighbour who had little to give yet joyfully gave of that little.

SEEKING THE LORD.

“How good every one is to me!” exclaimed Robin, as a parcel from the grocer’s was opened before him on the first day that he was able to quit his bed. “I only wish that I could send some of this to Will Aylmer; I am afraid that he has missed me while I was ill.”

“Oh, he has been looked after,” replied Mrs. Peters with a smile: her care-worn face was becoming quite bright again.

“Who has taken care of him?” inquired Robin.

“I must not tell you, my son; you are to hear all from the old man’s own lips.”

“I am afraid that it will be very long before I am strong enough to visit him;—how glad I shall be to see him again!”

Two or three days after this, a bright warm sun tempted the invalid to take advantage of the doctor’s permission, and try a little walk in the open air. Leaning on the arm of his thankful, happy mother, Robin again crossed that threshold which it once seemed so likely that he would only pass in his coffin. It was a sweet morning in the early spring, and oh, how delightful to him who had been confined on the couch of fever was the sunshine that lighted up the face of nature, the sight of the woods with their light mantle of green, the blue sky dappled with fleecy clouds; even the crocus and the snowdrop in his mother’s little garden seemed to speak of joy and hope; and pleasant was the feeling of the balmy breeze that played upon his pale, sunken cheek.

“The common air, the earth, the skies,

To him were opening paradise!”

Robin lifted up his heart in silent thanksgiving, and in prayer that the life which the Almighty had preserved might be always devoted to His service.

“Do you feel strong enough, my son, to walk as far as that cottage yonder?” inquired Mrs. Peters.

“I think that, with your arm, I might reach even the tree beyond.”

“Then, suppose that we pay a visit to old Aylmer!”

Robin laughed aloud at the idea. “Why, my dear mother, neither you nor I have strength to go one quarter of that distance; I fear that I must delay that visit for some time to come.”

“There is nothing like trying,” replied Mrs. Peters gaily; and they proceeded a little way together.

“Is it not strange?—I am weary already,” said the youth.

“Then we will rest in this cottage for a little.”

“It was empty before my illness; if there is any one in it now, a patient just recovered from the scarlet fever might not be made very welcome.”

“Oh, you will be made welcome here, I can answer for that,” cried Mrs. Peters; and at that moment who should come tottering from the door, joy overspreading his aged face, his eyes glistening with tears of pleasure and affection, but Robin’s poor old friend! He grasped the youth’s hand in both his own, and blessed God fervently for letting him see the face of his “dear boy” once more!

“But how is this?” exclaimed Robin, with joyful surprise.

The deaf man rather read the question in Robin’s eyes than caught the sense of it from words which he scarcely could hear. “Dr. Merton—bless him!—has brought me here, and has promised to care for the poor old man: and he bade me tell you”—Aylmer paused, and pressed his hand upon his wrinkled forehead, for his powers of memory were almost gone—“he bade me tell you that these comforts I owed to you. I can’t recollect all that he said, but I know very well that he ended with the words, ‘Thine own friend, and thy father’s friend, forsake not.’”