GIDEON’S NIGHT ATTACK ON THE MIDIANITES

[Page 236.]

THE
Triumph over Midian.

By
A. L. O. E.

Author of “The Shepherd of Bethlehem,” “Exiles in Babylon,”
“Rescued from Egypt,” &c.

LONDON:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.

1874.

PREFACE

In attempting to illustrate the history of the victory of Gideon, I am conscious that I am entering on well-trodden ground. Others have gathered the lessons and examined the types with which that portion of the Scripture-field is so richly studded. I lay claim to little originality of thought on the subject which I have chosen. A humble task has been mine; that of endeavouring to show that the same faith by which heroes of old out of weakness were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the armies of the aliens, is still, as the gift of God’s grace, bestowed on the lowliest Christian. Writing, as I have done, under the depressing influence of domestic sorrow, and the languor of weak health, I feel how very imperfectly I have executed my task; but I humbly commend my little work to Him who despiseth not the feeble, and whose blessing on the humblest instrument can make it effectual in His service.

A. L. O. E.

CONTENTS

THE
TRIUMPH OVER MIDIAN.

CHAPTER I.

THE RETURN.

“Home, once more at home!” how joyful sounded the exclamation from the lips of Edith Lestrange, and how brightly sparkled her eyes as she uttered it, as, with a step light as a fawn’s, she revisited each spot which five years’ absence had only made more dear. With joyous impatience she ascended the broad oaken staircase of Castle Lestrange, to flit like a fairy from room to room, lingering longest in the old nursery, where she had known childhood’s pleasures, with not a few of its sorrows—and the playroom, in which her toys were still stored. There was the doll that had been to her as a companion, to which the lonely little heiress had whispered many a trouble; the pretty picture-books, the miniature tea-things of delicate china, that had been such sources of amusement. It was a pleasure to Edith, from recollections of “auld lang syne,” to touch and handle these childish treasures, though at the age of eleven she deemed herself no longer a child.

Then to the newly-returned traveller how great were the delights of the garden and the park,—the one bright with the flowers of spring, the other donning its light green robe, while in the sheltered mossy dells fragrance of violets filled the air. Edith almost wondered that the light-footed deer should bound away on her approach: her heart felt so full of joy and kindness, that it seemed strange that any living creature should fear her. The heiress of Lestrange took pleasure in visiting the cottage of her father’s steward, where the familiar faces of Holdich and his wife were as the faces of old friends, bright with hearty welcome. Her canary, cared for by Mrs. Holdich during her absence, was tamer than ever, and its quivering notes of delight seemed to its youthful mistress an echo of the music of happiness which sounded within her own soul.

For Edith did not return to the castle of her ancestors as she had left it five years before—a feeble, fragile invalid. She no longer painfully dragged her weary limbs along, with languor oppressing her spirits; springing and elastic was the step which now bounded over the mossy turf. The cheeks that had been almost as colourless as the snowdrop, had now a faint dawn of colour upon them, like that on the opening buds of the apple-blossom. Edith was still a delicate plant, like an exotic reared in a hot-house, but an exotic skilfully tended, expanding its petals in healthful life.

“Oh, how true it is that there is no place like home!” exclaimed Edith, as she sauntered up the broad avenue, with sunshine on her path, and the blue cloud-flecked sky smiling above her.

The observation was addressed to her cousin, Isa Gritton, who was spending a day at the Castle, a short time after the return of Sir Digby Lestrange and his daughter. Isa was a young lady whose age might be about two or three and twenty, and who might therefore have scarcely been deemed a suitable companion for one so youthful as Edith, had not the little heiress possessed a mind so early matured by the discipline of trial that she was scarcely regarded as a child by those who intimately knew her. Isa Gritton was a tall and graceful girl, with auburn hair, and eyes like those of the gazelle—large, soft, and expressive: mirroring each passing emotion, whether it were that of mirth and gladness, or, as was now the case, a shadow of painful thought.

“Do you not feel with me,” said Edith, “that there is a charm in the very name of home?”

THE COUSINS.

“I did so once,” replied Isa, with a sigh; “but for the last two years, since the loss of my dear father, I cannot be said to have had a real home.”

“But you have one now, dear Isa,” said Edith; “and oh, how glad I am that your brother chose to build one at Wildwaste, so near us. Why, even I—who never perform great feats in the walking line—will be able to manage the distance on foot; it is barely a mile, I hear. I dare say that Mr. Gritton kindly chose the site of his house there on purpose that you might be near your uncle and cousin. To meet you often, very often, will be such a pleasure to me; I shall feel as if I had at last what I have so often longed for, a sister to share all my sorrows and joys. I will soon return your visit, and you shall show me your brother’s new house. Has he not built a charming retreat, with a pretty garden and shrubbery round it?”

Isa Gritton laughed: but there was a little bitterness in the laugh. “Tastes differ,” she replied; “and Gaspar having been his own architect, he doubtless admires his work. But my ideal of beauty is hardly realized by a house that looks as if a geni had transplanted it bodily from one of the smaller streets of London, in all the newness of yellowish brick as yet undarkened by soot, and had dropped it on the edge of a morass—not a tree within half a mile of it—where it stands staring out of its blindless windows as if wondering how it came there, with nothing to remind it of London but the great soap manufactory, which is the most conspicuous object in the view, the smoke of which might do duty for that of a whole street in the city.”

“How could Mr. Gritton build such a house, and in such a place!” exclaimed Edith in surprise; “I could not fancy you in a home that was not pretty and picturesque. I have no clear remembrance of Wildwaste save as a wide flat common sprinkled with gorse, for I seldom or never visited the hamlet when I was a little child.”

“You will scarcely care to visit it often now, except out of compassion for me,” said Isa, smiling. “Mr. Eardley tells me, however, that Wildwaste, bad as it is, is greatly improved from what it was some years ago, when it had nothing in the shape of a school.”

“Mr. Eardley—then you know him?” cried Edith, brightening at the mention of the pastor whom she reverenced and loved.

“Yes,” replied Isa; “though, Wildwaste not being in the parish of Axe, we do not belong to his flock. Mr. Eardley had heard, through your steward’s wife, I believe, that we wanted a girl to help in the house. He called to recommend to us a young protegée of his own, a black-eyed gipsy-looking little creature, who blushes scarlet when she is spoken to, and seems to be afraid of the sound of her own voice. I think, however, that with a little training Lottie Stone will suit us very well.”

“Do you not like Mr. Eardley?” said Edith, looking as if assured that the answer must be in the affirmative.

“Very much; I wish that he were our clergyman instead of Mr. Bull, who must be nearly eighty years old, and who—but I don’t think it well to criticize preachers.”

“We attend the service at Axe—we drive there, for it is much too far off for a walk,” said Edith Lestrange. “You shall come with us every Sunday—that is to say,” she added, with a little hesitation, “if you don’t mind leaving your brother. Papa does not like more than three in the carriage.”

“Perhaps I ought not to leave Gaspar,” said Isa, gravely; and she added, but not aloud, “if I were not with him, I fear that he would not go to a place of worship at all.—No, Edith,” she said to her cousin, “I am afraid that I cannot accompany you to Axe on Sundays, but I have promised Mr. Eardley to bring Lottie twice a week to the little cottage-lectures which he gives in the dwelling of Holdich the steward.”

“Then we shall always meet there,” observed Edith. “I have such a sweet remembrance of those cottage-meetings, though I was such a little girl when I went to them that of course I could not understand all that I heard. I felt as if there were such peace, and holiness, and Christian kindness in that quiet home-church, where young and old, and rich and poor, gathered to hear God’s truth, and pray and praise together. And Holdich himself is such a good man,” continued Edith warmly: “it is not merely that he does not mind openly confessing his religion—whatever people may think of it—but that he lives up to what he professes. Papa went on the Continent, you know, rather in haste, and there had been a little confusion in his affairs, and no time to set them right. Papa was always so generous, and those about him had abused his confidence so sadly.”

“Yes, I heard something of that,” observed Isa, who, like the rest of the world, was aware that Sir Digby’s ostentatious extravagance had plunged him into pecuniary difficulties, and that change of air for his invalid child, though the ostensible, had not been the only cause of his retreat.

“But Holdich has brought everything into such beautiful order,” continued Edith,—“he has quite surprised papa by the way in which he has managed the estate. He has cared for his master’s interests as much, I think more than if they had been his own. Papa used to suspect people who had the name of being very pious, but he said this morning at breakfast, ‘A man like my steward, who brings his Christianity into his daily dealings, does more to convince infidels of the real power of faith than all the learned books that ever were written.’ I treasured up the words to repeat them to Holdich’s wife. I think that she and her husband are the happiest people that I know, and especially now that their son is doing so well as a schoolmaster under Mr. Eardley.”

“The subject of the new series of cottage-lectures is to be Gideon’s Triumph over Midian,” observed Isa.

“And the first is to begin at seven this evening,” said Edith. “Papa has given me leave to be always present—at least when the weather is fine; and some of our servants will go too. They are not all able to get to church on Sundays, for Axe is five miles from the Castle.”

The cousins, slowly sauntering up the avenue, had now reached a grassy mound at the end of it, on which a tall weather-cock stood, and which might be ascended by a flight of marble steps. Having mounted these steps, a very extensive and beautiful prospect lay before Isa and Edith, while a rural seat invited them to rest and enjoy it.

“I have looked upon many lovely views in Italy,” observed Edith, as her eye wandered with delight over the scene; “but, to my mind, there is none to compare with this. I always missed that dear little spire seen in the distance yonder, where I knew that Sunday after Sunday the real truth was preached in my own native tongue by a servant of God. It always seems to me with Mr. Eardley as if he were like the disciples, who went to their Master and had their directions in the morning straight from His lips; and that in the evening, when his labour was over, he would go and ‘tell Jesus’ all that he had done, and all that he had tried to do—receive the Lord’s smile and His blessing, and then lie down to rest at His feet.”

“It seems so with some clergymen,” said Isa. “When they feed the people with the bread of the Word, we feel that they have just taken it from the hands of the Lord—that He has given thanks, and blessed, and broken it; so that we look from the servant to the Master, and realize that the ministry of the gospel is hallowed service indeed.”

CHAPTER II.

BROKEN BUBBLES.

“So you especially enjoyed your stay at Florence,” said Isa, after the conversation had taken a less serious turn.

“I was very happy there; it was so beautiful, and we knew such very nice people. I should have liked to have stayed there much longer.”

“And why did you not remain there?” asked Isa. “Did not Sir Digby enjoy Florence too?”

“Very much indeed, until—until a lady came to stay there who spoilt all his pleasure in the place.”

“How was that?” said Isa.

“Why, the lady was witty; at least people said so; but if her kind of talking was wit, I wish that there were no such thing in the world. All her delight seemed to be to gossip and make her friends merry; and so long as they laughed, she did not much mind what they laughed at. You see,” continued Edith in a confidential tone, “her mother had lived in the Castle, and she talked a great deal about that. Now, of course, it was quite right and noble in papa to let strangers come here while we were away—and there had been difficulties, as you know—but he did not like its being talked about to every one.”

Isa could easily comprehend that her proud uncle had been very sensitive on the subject of the letting of his ancestral mansion.

“And then,” pursued Edith, “she mixed up what was true with what was not true; and how could strangers tell whether she spoke in jest or in earnest? She said that papa had been harsh and violent to his servants; and that was shamefully false!” exclaimed the girl, with a flush of indignation on the face usually so gentle and calm—“he had been only too indulgent and trustful. In short, this lady made Florence so unpleasant by her gossip, that papa could bear it no longer. He said that he would never willingly be for a day in the same city with Cora Madden.”

“Cora Madden!” repeated Isa, with a little start; and Edith, who had been looking up at her cousin, saw with surprise a stern, gloomy expression pass over her countenance like a shadow.

“Do you know Miss Madden?” inquired the baronet’s daughter.

“Do I know her?” repeated Isa slowly, with her hazel eyes bent on the ground. Then suddenly she raised them, as she uttered the abrupt question, “Edith, do you know what it is to hate?”

“Hate? no, not exactly,” replied the gentle girl; “but there are some persons whom I do not like at all—some with whom I feel angry at times. I was angry with Miss Madden one day when she was laughing at Mr. Eardley, and mimicking his manner. I thought her doing so was so silly, so wrong. Besides, rudeness to one’s friends tries one’s patience a great deal more than unkindness to one’s self.”

“Cora reminds me of the description of the wicked in the Psalms,” observed Isa—“‘They shoot out their arrows, even bitter words.’ She cares little where the darts alight, or how deep they may pierce.”

Edith, who had a very tender conscience, was very doubtful whether such an application of a text from Scripture was consistent with Christian charity. Without venturing, however, to reprove, she merely observed in her gentle tone, “I am sorry that I spoke of Cora at all. It was breaking a rule which I had made.”

“What is your rule?” asked Isa.

“Never to speak of those whom I cannot like, except to God,” replied Edith.

“And what do you say of them to God?”

“Oh, if I speak of them to God, I must speak for them,” answered little Edith; “I dare not do anything else, for the Lord has told us to love our enemies, and we could not bring malice into our prayers.”

“Yours is a good rule, darling,” said Isa, and she turned to imprint a kiss on the forehead of her cousin. “Let us speak no more of Cora Madden, and may God help us to obey the most difficult command contained in all the Bible!”

To explain why the command appeared such a hard one to the young maiden—why the very name of Cora called up bitter remembrances to her mind—it is needful that I should let the reader know something of the previous history of Isa Gritton.

Like her cousin Edith, Isa had early lost her mother, and had been the only daughter in her father’s home; but otherwise there had been little resemblance between the early childhood of the two. Edith, a crippled, suffering invalid, had been the unmurmuring victim of nursery oppression; and in her splendid mansion had had more to endure than many of the children of the poor. Isa, on the contrary, fondly tended by a devoted nurse, herself strong, vigorous, and full of spirits, had found her childhood flow pleasantly past, like a stream dimpling in sunshine and bordered with flowers. Isa had scarcely known what it was to feel weary, sick, or sad. Her father called her his little lark, made only to sing and to soar. She was beloved by all who knew the bright, playful child, and her affectionate nature disposed her to love all in return. The religion which was carefully instilled into Isa partook of the joyful character of her mind. Isa was troubled by no doubts and few fears. The thoughts of heaven and bliss which were suggested to her, were congenial to the spirit of the child. Isa looked forward to the joys of Paradise without letting imagination dwell either on the dark valley or “the narrow stream.” Her idea of death was simply a peaceful removal to a yet brighter and happier home.

There were some spiritual dangers attending this existence of ease and joy. The very sweetness of Isa’s disposition dimmed her perception of inward corruption. If she was tempted to make an idol of self, it was an idol so fair that she scarcely recognized it as one. Sometimes, indeed, Isa’s conscience would accuse her of vanity as she lingered before her mirror, surveying with girlish pleasure the smiling image within it, or recalled words of fond admiration, or committed some little extravagance in regard to dress, for Isa at that time had a weakness for dress. But the accusation was made in a whisper so soft, that it scarcely disturbed her serenity. It affected her conduct, however; for on the day when Isa first received a regular allowance of her own, she made on her knees a resolution which never was broken—not to spend money on the adornment of her person without devoting an equal sum to the relief of the poor. Thus early the love of God combated the love of the world; a bridle was placed upon vanity, which was still but a bridle of flowers; for Isa felt as much pleasure in helping the poor as in wearing a new robe, or in clasping the jewelled bracelet round her soft white arm.

Isa’s brightness of spirit did not pass away with childhood; it rather increased, as the bud expands into the perfect flower. But in life’s school Providence has appointed various teachers, and few of God’s children pass many years upon earth without coming under the discipline of disappointment, bereavement, and care. Isa was to know all three. The first came to her when the blooming girl felt herself at the very summit of earthly bliss, when a halo of happiness was thrown around every object near her. Isa believed herself to be the most blest of women in being beloved by Lionel Madden. Young and inexperienced as she was, Isa’s fancy invested her hero with every noble and sterling quality; she believed all that she desired, and the bright bubbles blown by hope glittered with all the prismatic tints of the rainbow. The bubble suddenly broke! Lionel became cold, alienated, shortly after the arrival of his sister, who seemed to have taken an instinctive dislike to Isa. What had been said against her Isa never exactly knew; but whatever poisoned shaft had destroyed her hopes, she knew that it came from the quiver of Cora. What marvel if bitter, resentful feelings arose towards the author of her deep, though hidden, anguish? As Isa’s gaiety was suddenly changed into gloom, so her kindly loving nature for awhile seemed altered into one sternly vindictive. Like Satan intruding in a paradise of peace, and blighting its flowers by his presence, hatred, and even a lurking desire for vengeance, suddenly arose in a soul which had previously appeared to be formed only for happiness and love.

CHANGED AFFECTION.

But had Cora really injured Isa? Nay; the malicious enemy had done more to shield the young maiden from misfortune than her most tender friend could have done. Cruel may be the hand which tears to pieces the half-formed nest which a bird is building on a hedge by the wayside, but it is well for the bird if it be thus constrained to choose a higher and safer bough. Lionel was unworthy of the affection of a faithful, confiding young heart. It was well for Isa that her bubble was broken, that her cherished hopes were scattered to the winds. She did not think so, she could not feel so; even Lionel’s very worldly marriage, which took place a few months afterwards, did not fully open her eyes to this truth. Isa deemed all that was unworthy in the conduct of young Madden the result of the influence of his sister; and regarded Cora not only as her own evil genius, but that of the man whom she had loved. Startled and alarmed by the fierce passions which, for the first time, struggled for the possession of her heart, Isa looked upon Cora as the cause not only of misery, but of sin also. Isa’s self-knowledge was deepened by trial, but it was a self-knowledge that mortified and pained her. She found that she was far from what she had hoped to become, from what the world believed her to be; she was no calm angel soaring above earth and its trials, but a weak tempted woman, who found it hard not to murmur, and almost impossible truly to forgive.

And yet Cora had been but an instrument in a higher Hand, and to Isa an instrument for good. We may praise God in another world even more for the malice of our bitter enemies, than for the tender love of our friends. Jacob’s paternal affection would have shielded his best-beloved son from every touch of misfortune; but it was the hatred of Joseph’s brethren, the malice of his false accuser, that led him—through the pit and the prison—to exaltation and to honour. Satan himself became, through God’s over-ruling goodness, an instrument of blessing to Job; his cruel assaults led to deeper experience in the man whom he sought to destroy, more close communion with God, and doubtless more exalted blessedness hereafter. No enemy, human or infernal, has power to do us aught but good, except by leading us into sin. Could we realize this, our wounded hearts might find it less difficult to forgive the wrongs which are “blessings in disguise.”

Not a year after the stroke of disappointment had fallen upon Isa, she had to endure that of sudden bereavement. A few—very few—days of anxious watching by a parent’s sick-bed, and Isa found herself fatherless as well as motherless in the world. Very heavy lay the burden of loneliness upon the young orphan’s heart. It is true that Isa had a half-brother yet living, but Gaspar was many years older than herself, and Isa had seen very little of him, as the greater part of his life had been passed in Jamaica. Still the affections of Isa clung fondly around the nearest relative left for her to love, especially as she knew her brother to be in broken health; and she resolved that to watch over him and minister to his comfort should be the object thenceforth of an existence from which all the brightness appeared to have departed.

Even with thoughts of Gaspar, however, were linked associations of mystery and pain. Isa had never imparted to any one a care which to her young spirit was more oppressive than sorrow itself. She had never told how, when the shadow of approaching dissolution lay on her father, when the delirium of fever had passed away, he had fixed his glazing eyes upon his daughter, at that midnight hour the sole watcher beside him. The dying man had seemed anxious to disburden himself of something that weighed on his mind; he struggled to speak, but his parched lips could scarcely frame articulate words. Isa strained her ear to catch the almost inaudible accents, bending down so low that she could feel the dying man’s breath on her cheek. A few scattered sentences were gathered, deeply imprinted on her memory by the solemnity of the time when they were uttered.

“Gaspar—you will be with him—something wrong—the Orissa—not her money lost—he should deal fairly by that orphan—tell him from me—” But whatever was the message intended, death silenced the lips that would have sent it, and Isa was left to ponder painfully over what could be “wrong,” and how Gaspar could have not “dealt fairly” by an orphan, at least in the opinion of his father.

The remembrance of these dying words, the dread of some painful explanation with Gaspar, alone threw a damp upon the earnest desire with which Isa looked forward to her only brother’s return to England. Her affectionate spirit yearned for the sympathy of one bound to her by the tie of blood, and she longed once more to possess a settled home. About a year after Mr. Gritton’s death, Gaspar arrived from Jamaica. Isa was at the time residing with a friend in London, and her brother took a lodging near her. Being a good deal occupied with business during the day, and too much an invalid to venture out in the evening, Gaspar did not see much of his sister,—far less than Isa desired. Her brother’s manner towards her was gentle and courteous, his kindness won her gratitude, his broken health her sympathy. Isa wished to devote herself to the care of her brother, but he preferred delaying the time when they should reside together in a settled home, until he should have built a house into which he could receive his young sister. During this period spent in London, Isa either found no opportunity of speaking to Gaspar on the subject of their father’s mysterious message, or she put off making the effort till a more quiet season, when her brother might have recovered his health. She could not bear to risk exciting him when he was so delicate, or offending him when he was so kind. Isa gladly availed herself of any excuse to delay the performance of a duty from which she intuitively shrank.

Isa felt grateful to her half-brother for selecting as the place of their future residence a spot near Castle Lestrange. She had paid many a delightful visit to her uncle’s lordly mansion, both before and after the death of his wife, and she deemed it a proof of Gaspar’s considerate affection for herself, that he should purchase a site for his house but a mile from the dwelling of those who were her relatives, but not his own. Isa could have wished, indeed, that it had not been on the Wildwaste side of the Castle, as memory recalled a flat expanse of common surrounding a miserable hamlet, and an unsightly manufactory; but she had not visited her uncle’s home for nearly six years, and many changes might have taken place during that period. Isa also encouraged herself with the thought that a little paradise might stand even in the midst of a barren heath, like an oasis in a desert; and that as Gaspar had chosen to build a house instead of buying one, it was evident that his was a taste which could not be satisfied by any ordinary attractions in a dwelling.

During the time when Gaspar was building, Isa never once saw her brother. He took a lodging above the single shop in Wildwaste, that he might superintend operations. He kept a sharp eye over the workmen who were brought from London, not suffering them, it was said, to mix with the cottagers around, or spend their evenings at the small county inn. There was no doubt that Gaspar Gritton was eccentric, and Isa was aware of the fact; but she was disposed to look at her only brother in the most favourable light, and persuaded herself that she rather liked a dash of eccentricity in a character; it redeemed it from being commonplace.

Isa was very impatient for the completion of her new home, and would, if permitted, have entered it before it was sufficiently dry to be a safe residence for her. Buoyant hope had again sprung up within her young heart, long cast down, but not crushed by affliction. Life might yet have joys in store for the bright girl. Isa would be, as she thought, everything to her brother; his nurse, companion, and friend. She would make his home a fairy dwelling, where everything on which the eye might rest should be graceful and pretty. Isa knew that her brother had sufficient means to procure every comfort; and though her own patrimony was but slender, she hoped, dispensing Gaspar’s alms, to become a benefactress to all the poor around them. Again the fairy bubble was glittering before Isa, and if its colours were now less splendid, and it rose to less lofty a height still the emblem of earthly hope was not without its beauty and brightness.

It was on a day in March that Isa joined her brother. She had enjoyed her journey by train; the sunshine had been brilliant, her companions agreeable, and her mind was full of pleasant expectation. Isa’s pleasure was damped by the little disappointment of not finding Gaspar ready to welcome her at the station. It was with a sensation of loneliness that she took her seat in a hired open conveyance to be driven to Wildwaste Lodge. The sunshine was now overclouded, a fierce north-east wind was blowing, from the chilling effects of which the young lady from London tried to protect herself in vain. The horse was lame, the drive seemed long.

“Are we far from Wildwaste Lodge?” asked Isa at last of the driver, as they skirted a dreary common of which she fancied that she could recognize some of the features.

“That be’s the house,” replied the man, pointing with his whip towards a narrow three-storied dwelling, looking staringly new, without sheltering shrubbery or even hedge, with no blinds to the windows, no porch to the door, nothing that could redeem its aspect from absolute vulgarity. Could this be the rural retreat to which Isa had given the name of home!

ISA’S ARRIVAL AT WILDWASTE.

Disheartened and chilled felt Isa as her conveyance passed through the wretched hamlet, where groups of untidy women and barefooted children stood staring at the unwonted apparition of anything in the shape of a carriage. She scarcely liked to look again at the house, as the lame horse stopped at the dark green door. Gaspar did not come forth to welcome her; he dared not face the cutting wind which had chilled his sister to the heart. Cold and numbed after her journey, Isa—when a deaf elderly woman had answered the knock—descended from the conveyance; herself saw her boxes carried into the narrow hall by the driver, paid the man and dismissed him, and then hastened into the parlour, where she found her brother. His reception, though not uncourteous, was by no means calculated to dispel the chill which had fallen on the spirits of Isa. Gaspar was so full of his own complaints that he had scarcely leisure to observe that his sister was tired and cold. After conversing with him for a while, Isa arose to explore the other apartments of the house. She suppressed a little sigh of disappointment as she ascended the uncarpeted stair.

The interior of Wildwaste Lodge was, if possible, more unattractive than its outward appearance. Gaspar had reserved the ground-floor for himself, and no one had a right to complain if in his own peculiar domain he preferred simplicity to ornament, and neglected the little elegancies which Isa deemed almost essential to comfort. But Isa was deeply mortified when she entered her own apartments, which were immediately over those of her brother, and found them furnished with a regard to economy which amounted to actual penuriousness. A few chairs, not one of which matched another, and which seemed to have been chosen at haphazard out of some broker’s shop; a table of painted wood, one of the legs of which did not touch the uncarpeted floor; and a shelf to serve as a bookcase: these formed the entire furniture of the young lady’s boudoir. There was not so much as a curtain to the window. Isa, weary and chilled after her journey, felt inclined to sit down and cry from mortification and disappointment. Little joy could she anticipate from a life to be passed with one who from the first showed such disregard for her pleasure and comfort.

Isa’s misgivings were painfully realized. There are some persons who are pleasing in society, agreeable when only met on casual occasions, with whom it is very annoying to be brought into closer contact. It is trying to the temper to transact business with them, still more trying to dwell under the same roof. The character of such persons seems to be made up of angles, that on every side chafe and annoy. A graphic writer[1] has humorously described them as unpruned trees. “Little odd habits, the rudiments of worse habits, need every now and then to be cut off and corrected. We should all grow very singular, ridiculous, and unamiable creatures, but for the pruning we have got from hands kind and unkind, from our earliest days.... Perhaps you have known a man who has lived for forty years alone; and you know what odd shoots he had sent out; what strange traits and habits he had acquired; what singular little ways he had got into. There had been no one at home to prune him, and the little shoots of eccentricity, of vanity, of vain self-estimation, that might have easily been cut off when they were green and soft, have now grown into rigidity.”

Mr. Gritton, from living much alone, had become a man of this kind. The most unsightly branch on the unpruned tree was that of penuriousness. Isa had had little opportunity of knowing her brother’s infirmity until, when she became a resident in his house, it affected her daily, her hourly, comfort. Herself generous and open-handed, fond of having the conveniences and elegancies of life around her, yet esteeming as the greatest of luxuries the power of giving freely to others, Isa could not understand, far less sympathize with, the love of money for money’s sake, which was the leading characteristic of Gaspar. It seemed to her so grovelling, so mean, that Isa had to struggle against emotions not only of irritation but of contempt. She was also deeply wounded to find that Gaspar’s affection for his only sister was so subordinate to his avarice. The young lady, accustomed to luxury and refinement, had the utmost difficulty in persuading her brother even to allow her to find an assistant to the ill-tempered elderly woman whom he had engaged as a general servant. Though Isa succeeded in gaining her point, Mr. Gritton would only give such wages as would be accepted by none but an inexperienced girl like Lottie Stone. The efforts which it cost Isa to carry out even this small domestic arrangement made her aware of another unpleasant fact—that Gaspar had a peevish, irritable temper, more trying to one residing constantly with him than a passionate one would have been. The dying charge of her father lay now like an oppressive weight upon the heart of poor Isa: her new insight into the character of Gaspar gave to their parent’s words a more forcible meaning, and she dreaded more and more the idea of being compelled by a sense of duty to open the subject to her brother.

The first weeks of Isa’s residence at her dreary home would have been weeks of positive misery, but for the cheering prospect of the speedy return of her uncle and cousin, and the comfort which she derived from the visits of the pastor of Axe, whose fatherly interest in her young servant had first led his steps to her dwelling. Smiling April came at last; and with it—more welcome to Isa than the nightingale’s song—Edith Lestrange returned to the Castle. It was now arranged that Isa should pass with her cousin a portion of each of those days on which an evening lecture should be held at the steward’s cottage, and return to Wildwaste in the baronet’s carriage at night. It was something to Isa to be thus sure of at least two pleasant days in the week; though the contrast between the refined elegance of Edith’s home and the dreary discomfort of her own, increased the sense of bitterness in the soul of Isa.

But that sense of bitterness seemed for a time to pass away, and domestic trials to be forgotten, when the cousins entered together the flower-covered porch of the dwelling of Holdich, to unite with their poorer brethren in the simple cottage service. Edith’s heart was overflowing with thankful delight at being permitted again to worship in that place where some of her earliest impressions of religion had been received. Isa felt that here at least the carking cares of life might be shut out: she might lift up her soul, as in happier days, unto her Father in heaven.

The subject chosen by Mr. Eardley was the history of the triumph of Gideon, the hero and saint, over the hosts of Midian. It was his object in this, as in former courses of lectures,[2] to draw simple practical lessons from the narratives contained in the Word of God; and as such lessons are required by us all, I shall weave the brief addresses of the clergyman, though in separate chapters, into the web of my story.

[1] Vide “Autumn Holidays of a Country Parson.”

[2] Vide “The Shepherd of Bethlehem,” “Exiles in Babylon,” and “Rescued from Egypt.”

CHAPTER III.

LECTURE I.—MIDIANITES IN POSSESSION.

For forty years after Deborah had celebrated the triumph over Sisera in her glorious song, the land of Israel had had rest. This period of tranquillity receives such brief mention in the Scriptures, that we are in danger of forgetting for how long a time God granted the blessing of peace. And thus is it in our own lives, my brethren: times of trouble stand out, as it were, like rugged crags, shutting out from memory’s view the vines and the fig-trees, the olive-yards, the green pastures and still waters, with which our gracious God for long may have blessed us.

Seven years of trouble to Israel succeeded the forty years of repose: not causeless trouble—such is never known in the experience either of Israelite or of Christian. But we do not always search out the actual cause of affliction. With God’s ancient people the punishment was clearly traced to the sin. When the Midianites, like a swarm of locusts, came up against them, destroying and wasting, driving the inhabitants of the land to hide in dens of the mountains, strongholds, and caves, it was because the stain of idolatry lay upon Israel; and mercy, to save the sinners, required that justice should chastise the sin.

The Midianites, who were thus made an instrument of punishment to Israel, were, like themselves, descendants of Abraham, but by his union with Keturah. When Moses guided God’s people towards Canaan, the Midianites drew down vengeance on themselves by their too successful efforts to lead Israel into sin. Then perished the wicked prophet Balaam amongst the enemies of God’s people. But Midian, though punished, had not been destroyed; and now, after the lapse of nearly two hundred years, we find it a very powerful nation, against whose numerous hordes the Israelites seem to have made no attempt to defend their homes—so completely was the warlike spirit crushed in the descendants of those who had triumphed under Moses and Joshua when they fought the battles of the Lord.

When the Israelites were in trouble, then they cried aloud to the God of their fathers, and He heard and answered their prayer: not yet by sending a deliverer—the sense of sin must be deepened before the judgment be removed. A prophet was sent to the people, with a message, not of promise, but of reproof:

“Thus saith the Lord God of Israel, I brought you up from Egypt, and brought you forth from the land of bondage, and I delivered you out of the hand of the Egyptians, and out of the hand of all that oppressed you, and drave them out from before you, and gave you their land. And I said unto you, I am the Lord your God; fear not the gods of the Amorites in whose land ye dwell: but ye have not obeyed My voice.”

The great and glorious deliverance of Israel from Egypt we may regard as a type of the redemption of Christ’s Church from the dominion of Satan—the triumph achieved once and for ever by the mysterious sufferings of our Saviour, His sacrifice offered upon the Cross. This is the central truth of the Christian religion. But though Egyptian darkness be left behind—though Christians be received into the enjoyment of privileges purchased by the death of their Lord—their backslidings, like those of Israel, often draw upon them heavy troubles, resembling the devouring hordes of Midian.

I am not, my brethren, speaking of the afflictions and bereavements which are the common lot of all. During the forty years of blessed peace, sickness and sorrow must have been known in homes of Israel, and faithful servants of God have wept over new-made graves. Such trials are crosses appointed by a heavenly Father—crosses which each and all must take up at some period of life, if life be not early cut short. But I am speaking of troubles directly or indirectly brought on us by our sins: the Midianites who destroy our peace, and bring upon us miseries from which more earnest faith, more perfect obedience, might have preserved us. We are accustomed to speak of this life as “a vale of tears;” but let us search and examine whether the valley owe not the greater part of its desolation and gloom to foes to our peace whom we might have kept out, and over whom faith may yet give us a victory glorious as that of Gideon.

To explain my meaning more clearly, let me draw your attention to a few of what we may call chiefs—leaders of hordes of troubles, Midianites in the heart, that trample down our happiness and destroy our comfort in life. I shall mention four names but too familiar—Disappointment, Discontent, Dissension, Distrust. Let us see whether the sufferings which they inflict are not more severe and perpetual than those brought upon us by what are called visitations of Providence; whether many griefs which we term “crosses” are not rather burdens laid upon us by enemies to the soul, to whose yoke we should never have stooped.

The first Midianite chief whom I shall bring before you is Disappointment—the intruder who cuts down the green crop of hope, and leaves a famine in the soul. Whence is it that even the Christian is constantly subject to disappointment? Is it not from habitual disobedience to the divine command, Set your affections upon things above, not on things beneath? We eagerly fix our heart on some worldly object—ambition, pleasure, or gain: like children, we build our houses of delight on the sand within reach of the tide, which must sooner or later sweep them away, and then sit down and weep when the flood rolls over the spot which we had unwisely chosen. Let each of us who in the bitterness of disappointment has mournfully repeated the words of the Preacher, Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, see whether the idol in the heart has not been the cause of the Midianites’ invasion; and whether that faith which builds on the Rock of Ages, beyond the reach of desolation or decay, may not yet overcome the power of disappointment to harass the soul. Hopes fixed upon Christ know not disappointment; treasures laid up in heaven can never be lost; ties formed by faith endure throughout eternity; the less our joys are of the earth, earthy, the less danger there is that the spoiler can ever wrest them away from our grasp.

And whence cometh Discontent, who robs his slave of all his peace?—for peace and discontent cannot abide in the same soul. Can he who says to his most bountiful God, not only with his lips but from his heart, “I am unworthy of the least of Thy mercies,” ever know discontent? Must not the peevish, envious, rebellious spirit be ever kept far from his gates? We should deem so; and yet, Christian brethren, do we practically find that it is so? Are we not too often inclined to compare our lot with that of others, and, if not openly, yet secretly, repine, as if Providence had done us a wrong? No true servant of Christ can desire to have his portion here; and yet does not the inheritor of heaven too frequently murmur because not all the good things of earth are showered upon him in addition? How different his spirit from that of the apostle! He who had suffered the loss of all things, yet could affirm, I have learned in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. Had we also learned this lesson, we should find it less impracticable to obey his command, Rejoice in the Lord alway; and again I say unto you, rejoice.

“You have not your due,” were the words which I once heard a wife address to a husband who had been deprived of some advantage which she considered to have been his right. “Nay, God be praised that I have not my due,” he replied. “What is my due as a sinner before God? what is my due from a world which I have renounced for His sake? Had I chosen my portion in this life, then only might I complain of not receiving my due!” Here was a man whom discontent could not rob of his heritage of peace.

To pass on to Dissension, the third enemy to our happiness, who invades many a home, and makes goodly dwellings miserable abodes,—to what shall we trace his invasion? Is it not written in Scripture, By pride cometh contention?—would not the soft answer that turneth away wrath often prove as a strong bar to keep him from entering our habitations? But here I must guard myself from being misunderstood. It is possible that dissension may come where the fault lies on one side alone. The Christian may be—not unfrequently is—called to brave opposition, and draw upon himself the anger of men by defending the truth, or taking up the cause of the oppressed. The command, Live peaceably with all men, is qualified by if it be possible; for in some cases it is not possible to preserve harmony without giving up principle. Under such circumstances the sacrifice of peace is a sacrifice for God, and the cross is one which is borne for His sake. But in the majority of cases dissension follows on the footsteps of pride, and is the leader of malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness. Then, indeed, is he the true Midianite who pours gall into the very springs of enjoyment, who casts his venomed arrows on every side, and maketh a wilderness of that which might have been as the Garden of Eden. Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. Could we, through the grace of God’s Spirit, purge from our souls all malice, all bitterness and wrath—could we love one another as Christ hath loved us, what heart-burnings, what heart-achings might be spared, and how often would the brightness of heaven appear to be reflected even upon earth!

Disappointment, Discontent, and Dissension have, as we have seen, much to do with the train of sorrows which have given to God’s fair world the name of “a vale of tears.” But I believe that the most dangerous enemy of all to our peace, the one who has most often pressed his iron yoke on the hearts of my hearers, is the fourth whose name I have mentioned, Distrust of the love and wisdom of God. This assertion may cause surprise in those who are unconscious of a doubt; but examine yourselves closely, my brethren, observe what has most often clouded your brows, saddened your spirits, drawn the deep sigh from your hearts. Has it been regrets for the past? Has it been the trials of the present? Has it not rather been care for the future, fears of what the morrow might bring? Would not perfect obedience to the injunction of our blessed Redeemer, Take no thought for the morrow, sweep away at once more than half of the troubles that weigh on our souls?

And why take thought for the morrow? We too often appear to forget that the future lies in the hand of One “too wise to err, too good to be unkind.” We act as if we could not, or would not, believe that all things work together for good to them that love God: we are needlessly restless, anxious, unhappy, and exclaim in our trouble, “How heavy a rod the Lord lays upon me!” Nay, poor weak unbelieving heart, thou art smitten less by the rod of thy Father, than by the scourge of the Midianite within. If faith could drive out mistrust, if thou couldst in deed and in truth cast thy cares upon Him who careth for thee, then—even here—might God give thee beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. Perfect trust would bring perfect submission, and the peace that passeth understanding.

Gideon, the future deliverer of Israel, first appears before us in Scripture engaged in threshing corn beside the wine-press in order to hide it from the rapacious Midianites who held possession of the land. From the necessity of concealment he cannot employ, after the custom of the East, his father’s oxen to trample out the wheat; he must himself wield the flail with the strength of his own right arm. Gideon is employed in a task of lowly toil, unconscious at first of the presence of the heavenly Being who has descended to earth, and who is now beside him under the shadow of the oak at Ophrah. And here for the present we will pause, and defer till our next meeting the consideration of God’s merciful promise to Gideon, and the effect which it produced on his soul. If we regard Faith under the emblem of a tree, we have hitherto viewed it as such tree may appear in winter, when there is not a blossom on the bough or a leaf on the spray. There is no outward evidence of life; and though we hope that spring will draw up the sap, and clothe the bare branches with beauty, we see no present sign of the change. Such may have been the state of Gideon’s faith when he thought on the sufferings of his miserable country. The flail of the Lord was upon it, but we know from the result that it was not to crush—not to destroy the wheat, but to separate the chaff from the grain, and so render the latter more fit for reception into the garner of the Lord.

GIDEON THRESHING CORN.

CHAPTER IV.

THE LITTLE MAID.

“Good-bye, Isa dearest, we shall often—very often meet,” were the parting words of Edith that night.

Wrapped up warmly for protection from the cold air, Isa descended the steps beneath the lofty portico of the Castle, and entered the luxurious carriage which her uncle had placed at her command. As she sank on the soft cushions, a dreary, aching sensation came over her heart; she felt as if she were leaving brightness, happiness, beauty behind her, and going to an abode of trial—almost privation—which she could hardly regard as a home.

“It is wrong, very wrong in me to feel thus,” Isa murmured to herself. “If visits to the Castle make me discontented, the fewer they are the better; but it seems to me that my only happy time now will be the time spent with Edith. I have nothing at the Castle to wear my spirits, or chafe my temper, my cousin is so sweet, my uncle so kind,—when under their roof I seem to be able to shut out disappointment and care. Ah! that word disappointment, it reminds me of the cottage-lecture which I heard this evening. Are the Midianites in possession of my heart? Are my crosses—what I have deemed crosses—rather burdens laid upon me by enemies, under whose yoke I should never have stooped?”

As the carriage rolled on through the darkness, Isa pursued the train of her reflections. Disappointment, Discontent, Dissension, Distrust, the Midianites in the soul—was she now harbouring them in her own? Isa could not bear to let her mind dwell long upon the first; even now, after the lapse of years, when she had had too good cause to believe that the idol which she had raised in her heart had been of clay, Isa dare hardly own to herself that Lionel had been unworthy of her love, and that his love had not been enduring, because it had contained no element of immortality. Shrinking from close self-examination on a subject so tender, Isa passed on to that of Discontent; painfully aware as she was that that spirit was struggling within her breast, that she was tempted to regard her present lot with emotions of bitterness amounting almost to rebellion.

“Saints have been content in poverty, serene in suffering, joyful in tribulation,—they have made even dungeon-walls echo to their hymns of praise,” thought Isa, “and here am I, with youth, health, competence, kind friends, blessings unnumbered and undeserved,—here am I, cast down, irritable, murmuring, and depressed, because I dwell in a house which does not suit my taste, but which is a thousand times more comfortable than those inhabited by most of my poor fellow-creatures. I am annoyed at a little petulance from an invalid brother, while many, better than myself, have to endure harshness amounting to cruelty, hatred, persecution, and scorn. How have I merited that my trials should be so much lighter than theirs? Have I any cause to murmur? have I any right to complain? Is it well that I should compare my lot with that of the few, instead of that of the many, and give place to ungrateful discontent instead of thanking God that He has bestowed upon me so much more than my due? Why should my thoughts dwell on Edith’s happiness instead of on the misery that I see yet nearer to me in the squalid homes of Wildwaste? I must go more amongst the poor; yes, in so doing I shall not only obey God’s command, but find weapons against the intrusion of sinful discontent.

“Dissension! I can scarcely say that there is that in my home, though there is, I fear, but little of true affection; and words of impatience and looks of coldness make life’s road seem very rough!” The simile was probably suggested to Isa’s mind by the jolting motion of the carriage, for the smooth gravel drive through the baronet’s grounds was now exchanged for the rough road across the common, which was seldom traversed except by the carts, which had left deep ruts in the boggy soil. “But what was the cause of that intensely bitter feeling which arose to-day—which always arises in my mind at the bare mention of Cora Madden? Why should the remembrance of her be sufficient to drive away the holiest and happiest thoughts? Surely the Midianites are within, hatred, malice—nay, I almost fear the spirit of revenge! I sometimes feel such an intense—such an unholy longing for retribution to come upon that woman, that she should taste some of the bitterness of the cup of misery which she has caused me to drink! And are such longings consistent with Christianity? do they not arise from the influence of the spirit of evil? While such emotions are harboured in my heart, can there ever be peace within? God help me, for my strength is as weakness against such a Midianite as this!

“And Distrust”—here Isa’s meditations were suddenly brought to a close by her arrival at Wildwaste Lodge. The loud, authoritative knock which broke in such an unusual manner the stillness which had pervaded that dull tenement brought Lottie Stone running in haste to the door. She was a shy, black-eyed little maiden, who looked up in timid awe at Sir Digby’s tall footman in his splendid livery, but greeted her young mistress with a smile of rustic simplicity.

“Has your master gone to rest yet?” asked Isa.

“Not yet; he’s a-waiting for you in the study.”

Isa entered her brother’s almost unfurnished apartment. One dull candle threw faint light on bare walls, and a table and chairs that would have looked shabby in a farm-house. On one of the latter (there were but three) was seated Gaspar Gritton. He was a man still in the prime of life, but the sallow complexion and stoop consequent on protracted ill health, made him look several years older than he in reality was. Gaspar had been rather handsome in youth, and still his features, though contracted, were good; but his eye was dull, and the whole expression of his face unpleasing: it was marked by dissatisfaction and peevishness, and more so than usual as Isa entered his study.

“I wish that you would tell those fellows not to startle one by such thundering raps,” said the invalid brother.

“I am sorry that the knock disturbed you; its loudness was certainly disproportioned to the occasion,” replied Isa, good-humouredly, as she seated herself by her brother; “I will tell John to announce my return in a more modest manner next time.”

“I don’t know why you should come in a carriage at all. You might have walked home with Lottie and Mrs. Bolder after the meeting was over; the night is perfectly fine. I expected you before half-past eight, and now it is almost eleven.” Gaspar took a pinch of snuff to soothe his aggrieved feelings, this being the sole luxury in which he habitually indulged; his doing so happened unfortunately to be particularly disagreeable to Isa.

“My uncle kindly wished me to stay the evening with himself and Edith, and to pass every day on which lectures are given with them at the Castle,” said Isa.

“Gadding—always gadding; girls are never satisfied at home,” observed Gaspar with a sneer.

Isa felt irritated and inclined to make a retort, but she suppressed the words on her tongue, and replied as cheerfully as she could,—

“You cannot wonder at my liking to meet with some of my nearest relations; and were I to see absolutely nothing beyond our Wildwaste domain, I might grow as antiquated and whimsical as Robinson Crusoe himself. But I fear that you have passed but a dull evening without Isa to sing or read to you, Gaspar.”

The ungracious brother made no reply; he only applied again to his little brown box.

“Sir Digby asked me if you would not join his circle,” continued Isa; “but I told him that you did not yet venture to expose yourself to the night air. Was I right? You will, of course, call upon him some morning; you will find him a pleasant acquaintance.”

“I am not hunting after acquaintances; I’ve neither health nor spirits for society,” replied Gaspar, rising languidly from his chair; “and as for these grandees of the Castle, I should not find them much in my line, however much they may be in yours.”

The brother and sister, after a cold “Good-night,” retired to their several apartments, Isa asking herself as she ascended the chilly staircase whether it were his fault or her own that she was disappointed in Gaspar.

She found her little servant Lottie awaiting her in her room, ready to perform the offices of lady’s-maid, in which the young rustic took great pride and pleasure. Lottie Stone was a source of amusement as well as of interest to Isa; in her simplicity and ignorance she was so utterly unlike any of her class whom the lady had met with before. The girl, painfully shy before strangers, had a naive frankness with her young mistress, which was almost like the confidence of a child. Isa by no means discouraged this confidence, which gave her much influence over the young being placed under her care. The rustic knew little of manners, and was once detected in the act of snuffing the candle with her fingers. Isa in vain tried to teach her to understand the thermometer by which the valetudinarian regulated the heat of his room, and seemed to have no idea of the difference between hot weather and cold. Gaspar used angrily to declare that Lottie was certain to leave the window open whenever a sharp east wind was blowing. In defiance of etiquette, if anything playful were said at table, Lottie Stone was certain to laugh; and she would stand, dish in hand, to listen to a lively anecdote related by Isa to her brother, quite oblivious of the fact that the viands were growing cold. Gently and smilingly Isa corrected the mistakes of the inexperienced Lottie, and tried to soften down the displeasure of Mr. Gritton, who was far less disposed to show indulgence. Much might be excused, she would observe, in a girl so perfectly honest and truthful: the grain of the wood was so good, that it was worth taking the trouble to work it, and the polish would be added in time. Isa encouraged Lottie to open her heart to her without reserve: but for this kindly intercourse between mistress and maid, the life of the young girl would have had little of brightness, as Hannah, the only other servant, was both ill-tempered and deaf. “Miss Isa” was all in all to Lottie, looked up to, beloved and obeyed with affectionate devotion. Lottie’s happiest time was the half-hour spent at night with her mistress; for while she brushed Isa’s long silky tresses, the lady entered into conversation with her. When Miss Gritton first trusted her beautiful hair into Lottie’s inexperienced hands, she had something to suffer as well as to teach; but pains and patience had their usual effect, and it was only when the little maid was speaking of something of special interest that she tried the philosophy of her kind young mistress.

ISA AND LOTTIE STONE.

“So you were at the lecture to-night, Lottie. I hope that you were attentive to all that the clergyman said.”

“I did try to be so, Miss Isa; there were things as I couldn’t make out; but Mrs. Bolder and me, we was talking it over all the way home, and was looking for the Midianites in the heart.”

“And did you find any?” asked Isa.

“Mrs. Bolder, she was a-saying that it’s very hard to keep out distrust when things go so contrary in life. She has a deal of trouble, has Mrs. Bolder, now that her husband’s laid up and crippled with rheumatics, and she’s all the work of the shop upon her; it’s a’most too much for her, she says. She can’t help wondering why God should send such sickness and pain to her husband, who was al’ays a good, steady-going man, and a tea-totaller,”—Lottie uttered the word almost with reverence; “if he’d been given to drink it would have been different, you know.”

The saddened tone of Lottie as she uttered the last sentence reminded Isa of what Mr. Eardley had told her of the early trials of this more than orphan girl. A brutal father, addicted to intemperance, had made the hovel in which Lottie had passed the first years of her life, a den of poverty and woe. Then this father, unworthy of the name, had absconded, deserting an unhappy wife and two children, the elder of whom, a boy, from physical infirmities and dulness of mind, was yet more helpless than the poor little girl. Mr. Eardley had been for years the earthly protector of the family; he had procured employment for Deborah Stone, had had her children taught in his school, had, as we know, found a place for Lottie as soon as she was able to take one, and had often put such work in the way of her brother as the poor lad was not incapacitated from performing.

“And did you find the Midianite Distrust in your own soul also?” asked Isa.

The mournful tone of Lottie changed to a cheerful one as she made reply, “Oh! as mother says, who’s to trust God if we don’t, when He has helped us through such a many troubles, and given us such kind friends? Only—just—sometimes,” she added more slowly, “when I thinks of poor father, then a feeling will come; but I s’pose it’s wrong—God is so good!” and she sighed.

Isa perceived that the shadow of the poor girl’s great trial lay on her young heart still.

“You can always pray for your father, Lottie.”

“I do, Miss Isa, I do, morning and evening, and so does mother; and surely God will hear!” cried the girl, brightening up at the thought. “He knows where bees father, though we don’t; and maybe He will bring him back to us at last.”

There was something touching to Isa in the clinging affection of the young creature towards a parent whom she could not honour, and whom she had so little cause to love.

“And did you find any Discontent lurking within?” inquired the lady, returning to the point of conversation from which she had diverged.

“Discontent!” repeated Lottie, opening her black eyes wide at the question; “O Miss Isa, how could I—with meat every day, and a whole sovereign every quarter? That would be ungrateful indeed! Ah! if you knew how we lived here at Wildwaste when I was little, in the cottage that’s been pulled down—close by the ‘Jolly Gardener’ it was, where the school is a-standing now! We’ve been half the day—mother, brother, and I—without breaking a bit of bread; and we might have been the other half too,” added Lottie, naively, “had not Mrs. Holdich been so kind, and the tall gentleman from the Castle, bless him! he brought us nice things from his own table under his cloak.”

“Do you speak of Mr. Madden?” asked Isa, with a little tremulousness in her tone.

“Yes; the best, the kindest gentleman as ever lived—barring Mr. Eardley,” said Lottie, warmly. “He was al’ays teaching the children good, and looking arter the poor.”

“Lionel Madden,” murmured Isa, dreamily; it was the first time for years that that name had passed her lips.

“Oh no, not he!” exclaimed Lottie, in a tone more emphatic than her hearer liked, for it conveyed more distinctly than words that Lionel was one of the last persons likely to play the philanthropist in the manner described. “It was not he, but his brother. Mr. Lionel! he never gave to nobody, nor did nothing for nobody as ever I heard of; only,” added the girl, with a little laugh, “he switched my brother over the head with his riding-whip once, to make him stand out of his way.”

Isa did not care to keep up the conversation; she took up an elegantly-bound book which lay on her toilette-table, to convey a hint of silence to her little maid-servant. The volume was a collection of sacred poetry, and the lady’s eyes rested long and thoughtfully upon the well-known verse on which their gaze first fell as she opened the book. It appeared like a comment on what she had heard that evening on the subject of Disappointment.

“Good when He gives, supremely good,

Nor less when He denies;

E’en trials from His sovereign hand

Are blessings in disguise.”

So, whether she acknowledged the fact or not, had it been in God’s dealings with Isa Gritton.

CHAPTER V.

THE DEATH-BED MESSAGE.

Isa awoke on the following morning with a feeling of oppression on her heart, a vague impression that something had been neglected which ought to have been done, and she connected that something with the lecture which she had heard on the preceding day. Several minutes passed, however, before she could trace back the links of thought to the actual cause of her uneasiness, as it lay out of the general course of reflection suggested by the subject of the lecture. Then Isa recalled the words which at the time that she heard them had painfully reminded her of a death-bed scene, perhaps the saddest recollection left on a mind which had had of late much experience of sorrow. “The Christian may be called to draw upon himself the anger of men by defending the truth, or upholding the cause of the oppressed.”

“It is more than two years,” reflected Isa, “since I received a sacred charge from the dying lips of my dear father; and that charge I have never obeyed. For more than two years may an orphan have been suffering wrong on account of my brother, and during all this time I have let the sin rest on his soul. I first put off an explanation till I should meet him; then, when we met, I shrank from doing my duty. I quieted conscience with every kind of frivolous excuse; he was too delicate, too sensitive, too busy, it would be better to delay speaking till we should be alone together in some peaceful home. We have been alone together, we have passed hours, days, weeks in each other’s society, with nothing to hinder me from speaking, except my own cowardly dislike of saying what might probably offend. Surely cowardice like this is another Midianite in possession, and I shall never know real peace till I have wrestled it down. Whenever the remembrance of that charge comes over my mind, it is like a cloud darkening the sunshine, and throwing a chill around. God help me to fulfil at length a neglected duty! I will speak to Gaspar before this day has passed over.”

To some strong natures there might have appeared little that was formidable in the task before her, but to Isa it was peculiarly painful. Brought up as an only daughter, tenderly nurtured from her cradle, she had hardly known what it was to have to encounter even a grave look or a hasty word,—Isa had never learned to endure hardness. Fond of pleasing, both from natural kindliness of heart and love of approbation, Isa never willingly gave offence; with her to inflict pain was to suffer it. Isa delighted in deeds of kindness and works of beneficence; to comfort the sorrowing, or rejoice with the happy was congenial to her womanly spirit; but to restrain, rebuke, oppose—the sterner duties which are sometimes assigned to the most gentle of the sex in the battle-field of life—cost Isa an effort which can only be appreciated by those of a disposition like her own.

Isa’s heart throbbed uneasily with the feeling that the explanation so long dreaded, so long put off, was at hand, as she sat in the apartment which she called her boudoir, but which was always used as a breakfast-room. The bronze urn was hissing on the table, on which was spread a somewhat meagre repast. Awaiting her brother, who was late, Isa placed herself by the window, and gazed forth on the prospect before her. There was little to charm in that prospect, even on a bright spring day. A tract of common spread in front, dotted with golden patches of blossoming furze; but the picturesqueness of heath land was marred by the low-lying hamlet which was the foreground of the landscape. The cottages, or rather hovels of Wildwaste, wore an appearance of squalor and decay, which was not softened by the charm which moss and lichen and clustering ivy can throw around even ruins. They appeared rather falling to pieces because originally ill-built, than because they were ancient. The only tenement at Wildwaste which looked in perfect repair, and with some pretension to beauty, was the neat little school-house, erected by a Madden, but not, as Isa had soon learned from Lottie, either by Lionel or by Cora. “How pleasant,” mused Isa, as she watched the little clusters of cottage children entering the low-browed porch—“how pleasant to leave behind such a memorial of a passing visit to a place as that young Arthur has left!” and as she thought of her brother, with his ample means yet penurious disposition, she felt painfully how far better it is to possess the heart to give than the money.

The soap manufactory, lying a little to the right of the prospect, a huge unsightly square-windowed pile of brick and mortar, was a yet more conspicuous object than the hamlet of Wildwaste. It stood not two hundred yards from Isa’s home, so that when the wind blew from that quarter she dared not open the windows to let in the breezes, so polluted were they by smoke and evil scent. The only redeeming feature in the landscape seen from the lodge was the park which skirted the road beyond the common, the beautiful park above whose light leafy screen rose the gray turrets of Castle Lestrange. There, indeed, beauty and peace might dwell; thence no ruder sound would be heard than the cuckoo’s note or the nightingale’s song. Isa’s eyes, overlooking nearer and less pleasing objects, constantly wandered to those verdant woods, those lofty picturesque towers.

Gaspar entered the sitting-room with a complaint on his lips against “treacherous weather” on that clear April morn, for he was never weary of contrasting the climate of England with that of Jamaica, much to the disadvantage of the former, though the heat of the latter seemed to have dried up and withered his frame. He seated himself at the table, and began cutting the stale loaf (bread at the lodge was always stale), but interrupted himself with the observation, “How one misses the papers of a morning! Isa, I wish you’d ask your uncle, the baronet, to send over the Times every day.”

“I should hardly like to ask that favour,” replied Isa, leaving the window, and joining her brother at the breakfast-table.

“And why not?” inquired Gaspar peevishly; “are you afraid of robbing the servant’s hall?”

“No,” said Isa, as she occupied herself with the tea-caddy; “but my uncle would naturally think that we might take in a paper for ourselves, instead of putting him to the inconvenience of sending a mile every morning.”

“I’m not the idiot to throw away my money on what may be had for the asking; you have so much foolish pride,” muttered Mr. Gritton. “I feel myself out of the world where I can’t get a glimpse of the money-market or the shipping report.”

That word “shipping” served as a cue to Isa. While sitting by the window she had been revolving in her mind how she should introduce the subject of her father’s dying message to Gaspar. Isa was convinced that her long silence had been sinful, and having “screwed up her courage to the sticking point,” was on the watch for an opportunity of saying what she had determined should be said. Too anxious to make some commencement to be able to do so without the appearance of effort, Isa abruptly remarked, in a tone that betrayed a little nervousness, “Is not your interest in the shipping chiefly on account of the Orissa?”

“The Orissa?” repeated Mr. Gritton in accents of surprise; “why, all the world knows that she foundered nigh four years ago, passengers saved, cargo lost, and the greater part uninsured.”

“Had you anything to do with the vessel?” asked Isa, timidly feeling her way.

Gaspar looked a little embarrassed by the question. “Yes—no,” he replied, almost with a stammer. “I might have had a stake in that vessel—I thought of having—’twas lucky I had not; there had been such a run for certain goods in the West Indian market, that the cargo was expected to bring double its value. But—but you know nothing and care nothing about matters of business,” he added, stretching out his hand for the cup of tea which his sister had poured out. “Has the post brought any letters this morning?”

Isa did not suffer the current of conversation to be thus abruptly turned. Merely shaking her head in reply to the question, she nerved herself to go one step further. “Who was the orphan whose property was in some way or other connected with the Orissa?”

“Orphan! what do you mean? Who on earth talked to you about an orphan?” Isa felt—for she dared not look up—that her brother’s eyes were keenly scrutinising her face.

“Better have the whole truth out at once,” thought poor Isa, who, in her nervousness, was emptying the milk-jug into the tea-pot. “The fact is, dear Gaspar,” she said, speaking with rapidity and a sensation of breathlessness, “I have been anxious for a long time to talk to you about some words uttered by our beloved father a very, very short time before we lost him. When he was almost too ill to speak, he said”—Isa pressed her forehead as if to collect her thoughts—“he said, ‘Gaspar—you will be with him—the Orissa—not her money lost—tell him from me;’ the dear lips had not power to finish the sentence.”

“Did my father say anything more than these words?” asked Gaspar, who saw from the quivering of Isa’s lashes and the trembling of her lip that she at least attached some importance to the fragmentary message.

Isa pressed her hands very tightly together; she could hardly articulate the broken sentences—“He said, ‘something wrong—he should deal fairly by that orphan’—I can remember no more.”

THE CONVERSATION AT BREAKFAST.

Gaspar rose abruptly from his seat and walked to the window. Isa felt the brief silence which followed almost unendurable, and yet was thankful that she had been enabled to speak out the whole truth at last. After a few seconds Gaspar returned to his seat, and with a rapid—Isa fancied a slightly tremulous utterance—thus addressed his sister:—

“Isa, your ears deceived you—your memory is at fault—or—or there was a wandering of mind at the last. You shall know exactly how the case lies. A young lady, known to my father and myself, had some thousands of pounds which she wished to invest, four years ago, during my short visit to England. My father was consulted on the business. There was a sudden demand for a particular kind of goods in the West Indies; money invested in them might double itself if no time were lost; the girl was eager to increase her property—natural enough,—I was employed in making the arrangement—ship went down—goods uninsured—she had staked her property, and lost it. This was no fault of mine; you might blame the captain or the crew, or the winds and the waves; I was never blamed by Cora Madden herself.”

“Cora Madden!” ejaculated Isa.

“You know the whole truth now,” said Gaspar; “let us never come on the subject again.”

Isa felt bewildered by the sudden disclosure of the name of the orphan in whom she had taken such painful interest; so much so, that she could hardly tell at that time whether the explanation of Gaspar were satisfactory or not to her mind. When the name of Cora was uttered, Isa’s surprise had made her for a moment look full in the face of her brother, and that face—which had been almost ghastly—had become suffused with a colour which she had never before seen upon it, and the eyes of Gaspar had instantly sunk beneath the gaze of her own. Isa hardly noticed this in the excitement of the instant, but it afterwards often recurred to her mind, with an ever-strengthening persuasion that her brother had not told her all.

The subject of the death-bed message was dropped, but Isa felt during the remainder of that morning that her brother’s nerves had been shaken, and that his spirits were utterly out of tune; and she could not but refer this to its natural cause—the conversation at breakfast. Nothing pleased Mr. Gritton: the tea was bitter, cold, undrinkable; the room full of draughts; Lottie a useless idiot, and Mr. Eardley little better for having ever recommended her. Isa came in for her full share of peevish reproach, almost more difficult to be borne than angry rebuke. It was a great relief to the young lady when her companion at length quitted her boudoir to go down to his accounts, though Isa well knew that these accounts would afford a new cause of grievance, and that all her care to manage household affairs with strict economy would not prevent pettish remarks on the extravagance of the Saturday bills.

“I shall not be able to endure this kind of life long,” murmured Isa to herself, as she returned from ordering dinner, having had to encounter the ill-temper of Hannah, who, while her master inveighed against reckless extravagance, complained on the other hand that there were “some ladies as think that their servants can live upon nothing.” “I was never made to bear all this constant fret and worry,” sighed the discouraged Isa; “this perpetual effort to please, without the possibility of succeeding in doing so.” Isa was, like so many others, tempted to think that the post in which Providence had placed her was not the one that suited her; that she would do better, be better in another. Disappointment, discontent, distrust, had not been driven forth from her heart. Again Isa seated herself by the window which commanded a view of the towers of Lestrange, feeling disinclined to settle to any occupation, to take up her work, or to finish her book.

A visit from Edith made a delightful break on the dreary solitude of Isa.

“I have come with a message from papa, dear Isa,” cried the baronet’s daughter, after an affectionate greeting had passed between the cousins; “he has charged me to carry you back captive with me to the Castle, to remain there as long as we can make our prisoner happy. Oh, don’t make resistance—lay down your arms and surrender at once!” The pleading eyes seconded well the playful petition of the lips.

A prisoner! nay, to Isa the invitation came like an offer of freedom to one in irksome bondage. Her countenance lighted up with pleasure. “I should gladly surrender to so generous a foe,” she replied, “only—my brother—”

“He will let me carry you off, I am sure that he will,” cried Edith.

“I will go and ask him,” said Isa, hastily rising and quitting the room.

Edith, left thus alone, looked around the boudoir of her cousin with mingled pity and surprise. “Poor Isa, is this her abode? so small, so wretchedly furnished, so dreary and bare. And what a view from the window!” added the heiress, as she sauntered up to the casement; “the very look of those tumble-down cottages would make one miserable; and as for that hideous manufactory, it would spoil the fairest landscape in the world. No wonder that Isa was not able to echo my words when I said, ‘There is no place like home.’”

Isa soon returned with her brother’s permission for her to accompany her cousin, a permission which he could hardly have withheld. Edith knew not how ungraciously it had been accorded, how bitterly Gaspar had remarked, “I knew that you would never care to stay quietly here with an invalid brother.”

“Had he been like a brother to me,” was Isa’s mental comment when she quitted the room, “no pleasure would have drawn me from his side.” Nevertheless Mr. Gritton’s observation gave pain to his sister, and so did the distressed look on the face of Lottie, when hastily summoned to help her young mistress in her preparations for quitting the Lodge.

“O Miss Isa, I hope you’ll not be long away; we’ll be just lost without you;” and Isa saw that moisture rose in Lottie’s black eyes.

Isa returned with Edith to the Castle, where she was graciously received by her stately uncle. Two beautiful rooms, exquisitely furnished, one opening into the other, had been assigned to her; none in the Castle commanded a more beautiful prospect. Swiftly the hours rolled by amidst varied occupations. Cheerful was the afternoon saunter in the park with Edith, and the little dinner-party in the evening, when Isa met with congenial society. Pleasant on the following morning was the drive to the distant church, and very refreshing to the spirit the sacred service, conducted with none of the lifeless formality which cast such a chill over Isa’s devotion in the church which she had attended with Gaspar. Delightful was the evening converse with Edith; converse on high and holy themes. Then, on the Monday morning, Isa much enjoyed visiting with her sweet young cousin some of the dwellings of Sir Digby’s poorer tenants, bearing little delicacies to invalids from the baronet’s luxurious table. All these employments were in themselves innocent and good, and to Isa would have afforded unmixed gratification, but for a feeling which would intrude itself on her mind, that she was where she liked to be rather than where she ought to be—that even her holiest pleasures were rather of her own taking than of God’s bestowing. Whenever Gaspar or Wildwaste were mentioned, a slightly uncomfortable sensation was experienced by Isa. Well she knew that her presence was more needed in the dreary Lodge than in the stately Castle; more by the peevish invalid than by the happy young girl; a brother, an only brother, had a stronger claim on her care than a cousin. Isa suspected, though she cared not to search for confirmation of the suspicion, that Self-indulgence was another Midianite in possession of her soul.

So passed the time till Tuesday brought the little meeting in the cottage of Holdich, which the cousins attended. The first face which Isa caught sight of on entering the crowded room was that of her maid, Lottie Stone, beaming with an expression of honest pleasure at seeing her mistress again. Isa and Edith were a little late in joining the meeting, the former had therefore no opportunity of speaking to Lottie till the lecture and prayers were over.

CHAPTER VI.

LECTURE II.—FAITH IN THE PROMISE.

We left Gideon at his lowly task, threshing corn by the wine-press to bide it from the Midianites. The Israelite lifted up his eyes, and, behold, One stood before him, clothed in human form, and yet nor man nor angel; for from the words which He afterwards uttered, such as no created being dare have breathed, we recognize in Him the eternal Son of God. As the Lord appeared to Abraham in the plains of Mamre, to Jacob by the ford of Jabbok, to Moses on the height of Sinai, so appeared He now to Gideon beneath the oak-tree of Ophrah. Unconscious of the divinity of his Guest, Gideon still appears to have received with reverence the greeting of the mysterious stranger, as though aware that He came as a messenger from the Most High.

“The Lord is with thee, thou mighty man of valour!” was the salutation of the Holy One to the son of a despised and persecuted race.

“Oh my Lord,” exclaimed Gideon, “if the Lord be with us, why then is all this befallen us? and where be all the miracles which our fathers told of, saying, Did not the Lord bring us up from Egypt? But now the Lord hath forsaken us, and delivered us into the hand of the Midianites.”

How often must such thoughts have passed through the mind of Gideon before they thus found vent in words. Faith, sorely tried by present trouble, was trying to draw from memories of the past hope for the future. God, who had crushed the pride of Pharaoh, and led His people forth from Egyptian bondage, would He not now save and avenge? There had been miracles of old; such mercies as had been experienced by the fathers, might they not also be reserved for the children? Was the Lord’s arm shortened that it could not save; was He unmindful of the groans of His people? Oh, why had He forsaken Israel, and given His heritage unto reproach?

“And the Lord looked upon Gideon, and said, Go in this thy might, and thou shalt save Israel from the hand of the Midianites: have I not sent thee?”

Let us dwell for a few moments on the words, The Lord looked upon Gideon. Thrice in the Scriptures do we read of a look from Him who beholdeth all things in heaven and earth. In one sense the omniscient God is for ever gazing down upon His creation; from Him ocean depths are no hiding-place, and midnight darkness no screen. The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good. But on some special occasions God’s glance has in a peculiar way been directed upon man, as the sunbeams that shine on all may be concentrated in the focus of a burning-glass to kindle or to destroy. The Lord looked from the pillar of cloud upon the Egyptians, and they were troubled—they felt God’s wrath in that gaze; the Lord looked upon Gideon, and in that glance was new courage and strength; the Lord looked upon Peter, and beneath that gaze of divine compassion and love his heart was broken and melted, and fast flowed his penitential tears. Have we ever known the power of that look in our hearts, to crush our sins, to encourage our faith, to bring us in deep contrition to the feet of our merciful Lord?

Gideon, like Moses before him, seems to have shrunk from the post of high honour to which he was called by God; like Moses, he thought of his own unfitness instead of the almighty power of Him who can employ—and often does employ—feeble instruments to accomplish the most noble and difficult works. “Oh my Lord,” he cried, “wherewith shall I save Israel? Behold, my family is poor in Manasseh, and I am the least in my father’s house.” Before honour is humility; had Gideon been great or wise in his own eyes, we may well believe that God would have passed him by, to choose one of a lowlier spirit to be the leader of Israel’s hosts.

“Surely I will be with thee,” said the Lord, “and thou shalt smite the Midianites as one man.”

Still Gideon appears to have hesitated; perhaps a doubt lingered on his mind as to the nature of Him who spake as having authority, but who as yet had wrought no miracle to prove his divine commission. “If now I have found grace in Thy sight,” said Gideon, “then show me a sign that Thou talkest with me. Depart not hence, I pray Thee, until I come unto Thee, and bring forth my present, and set it before Thee.” And the Holy One said, “I will tarry till thou come again.”

Then—like his father Abraham, glad to entertain the heavenly Guest—Gideon made ready a feast. He prepared a kid, and unleavened cakes, and brought them forth to the Lord, who had graciously awaited his return under the oak of Ophrah—a spot which became as a temple consecrated by His divine presence.

The Holy One bade Gideon lay the food on the rock, and pour out the broth. What man designed for a feast, God would receive as a sacrifice. With the end of the staff which was in His hand the sacred Guest touched the flesh and the unleavened cakes, and the stone on which they lay became as an altar. Fire arose from the rock and consumed the offering of Gideon, and the divine Being—who had thus accepted as God what was presented to Him as man—vanished out of the sight of His servant.

THE SACRIFICE.

The first emotion of the astonished Gideon seems to have been that of terror. “Alas! O Lord God,” he exclaimed, “because I have seen an angel of the Lord face to face.”

A gracious promise of love came in answer to that cry of fear; we know not whether the divine voice sounded in the mortal’s ear, or but spoke with mysterious power in his soul. The Lord said unto Gideon, “Peace be unto thee, fear not; thou shalt not die.”

Then, in that holy spot where the Lord had deigned to appear in human guise, Gideon built an altar, and called it Jehovah shallum, which is, The Lord send peace.

And now, beloved friends, let us apply to our hearts the lessons contained in this portion of the history of Gideon. Hath not the Lord appeared unto us with a promise of help and deliverance, if we in His might will struggle against the enemies within? He comes to us not only in the house of prayer, not only in seasons of holy communion, but when we, like Gideon, are following the common occupations of life. His eye is fixed upon us in tender compassion, and His message to the lowly Christian entering on the battle-field of life is this: Go in this thy might: have I not sent thee? I will be with thee.

Let us glean from the Scriptures some promises of this blessing of the Lord’s peculiar presence with His people. To those obeying His command to preach the gospel amongst all nations, how precious through centuries of toil and peril has been the gracious assurance: Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. To those almost sinking under the heavy trials of life, how full of comfort is the promise: Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God. I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of My righteousness. Through life, even unto the grave, the power of that promise extends, so that the Christian can add in lowly trust: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.

But who are they who can thus take to themselves the precious promises of Christ? They who have come to Him in lowly faith; or rather, they to whom the Lord hath come in the power of redeeming love. In the history of Gideon we see a type of the Lord’s dealings with His people. He is found of them that sought Him not; He comes to the sorrowful, the oppressed, the tempted, and offers to them the free deliverance which His mercy alone can bestow. We have nothing to give the sacred Guest but the offering of a sin-stained heart, a heart wholly unworthy of His acceptance, till He touch it, as He touched the offering of Gideon, and the flame of divine love is kindled, and the sacrifice of a broken and contrite heart becomes acceptable unto the Lord. Then, like Gideon, may we raise our altar with grateful thanksgiving; and, while preparing for the struggle with indwelling sin, feel assured that the Lord will “send peace.”

We are also reminded, by this transient visit of the Son of God to the world, of His longer sojourn with the children of Israel, when for more than thirty-three years the Redeemer waited on earth till the bitter cup should be filled to the brim—till the great Sacrifice should be offered—and then ascended to His Father in heaven, thereby granting additional proof of His divinity to His adoring people. “The Lord send peace,” was the name given by Gideon to his altar, and our Lord’s words on the night before His crucifixion sound like a response to that name: Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

But what is the promised peace? To Gideon his heavenly Visitor had spoken of conflict: “Go in this thy might; thou shalt smite the Midianites as one man.” In this command to Gideon, my brethren, we hear our Master’s charge to ourselves, and learn what it is that can give us strength to obey that charge. The Christian is promised peace, but it is such as may be realized to some degree even in the midst of conflict; and it is that peace which, after conflict, in its perfection crowneth victory.

The Midianites within must be conquered, and the might which conquers is from God. If disappointment blight our hopes, discontent fret our spirits, dissension mar our peace, distrust shrink from expected trials, we must yet lift up our eyes unto the hills from whence cometh our help—we must yet ask, and we shall receive, the grace which can supply all our need, and enable us to rise above the infirmities of the flesh, the weakness of our fallen nature. Let us trust fearlessly, let us trust alone in the might of our Lord. As long as we remain in presumptuous self-confidence, the Midianites rest in possession; when we cast ourselves in earnest prayer at the feet of the Saviour, He maketh us more than conquerors.

We contemplated Faith, when last we met here, as the tree which in winter stands bare of foliage, black and leafless, yet with life within it. With Gideon now that tree had felt the warm breath of spring—the Lord had looked upon it, and the living sap had risen under the beams of the Sun of Righteousness; the green leaves of hope were budding on the boughs. Gideon had not as yet conquered his foes, but the Lord had promised that he should do so, and the expectation of triumph was before him.

Christian brethren, let us also rejoice in help, and so gird ourselves up for the struggle before us, taking as the motto on our banner, Go in this thy might, and as the cordial to our weak fainting hearts the promise, I will be with thee.

CHAPTER VII.

A SERMON BY THE FIRESIDE.

Isa stopped to speak a few words to Lottie after the short service was ended.

“O Miss Isa, I do hope you won’t be away long,” cried the young girl, looking up into the face of her mistress with a pleading expression; “we do miss you so sadly!”

“Is my brother better?” asked Isa.

“Master shuts himself up a deal in his room, and don’t care to be disturbed, and seems worried like—he do,” replied Lottie with rustic simplicity, and in a tone from which Isa too readily gathered that neither Gaspar’s spirits nor his temper had improved since her departure. “O Miss Isa, I wish you’d come back!”

“Tell my brother that, without fail, I’ll come and see him to-morrow.”

“And stay with him?” asked Lottie, anxiously.

Isa hesitated for a moment, but she could not bring herself to say “Yes.” There was to be on the following evening another of those delightful little parties at the Castle, at which Isa anticipated that she would enjoy one of the sweetest and purest of pleasures, that of converse with the intellectual, the refined, and the good—converse that gratifies at once the mind and the heart. Isa was little disposed to exchange such pleasure for a dull, cheerless evening at the Lodge, spent beside a peevish valetudinarian, who would neither appreciate nor thank her for the sacrifice. No; she would make a compromise with conscience; she would give the morning to her brother, and doubly enjoy the evening from the consciousness of having performed an irksome duty. Isa sent by Lottie a message to her brother, and then, only half satisfied with herself, returned with Edith to the Castle.

Lottie walked silently for a little time beside Mrs. Bolder, the grocer’s wife, who was always the young girl’s companion to and from the evening meeting. Lottie broke the silence by a sigh.

“Oh, but the house has grown dull and lonesome!” she murmured. “Half of the pleasure of going to the lecture was to talk it over after, and have the hard things explained.”

“You don’t find old Hannah much of a companion, I suppose.”

“Hannah!” repeated Lottie dolefully; “she never speaks to me but to chide; nor does master, for the matter of that. Oh, how I does miss dear mother and brother! there’s no one near me as cares for me, now that Miss Isa’s away. I’m afeard that the Midianite Discontent is creeping in after all.” Poor Lottie, with her warm, impulsive, affectionate nature, found even the “meat every day, and a sovereign a quarter,” insufficient to brighten her solitary lot.

“We ought to have learned this evening how to get rid of the Midianite,” observed quiet Mrs. Bolder, but in a melancholy tone, for she herself was oppressed with cares, and had by nature little spirit to struggle against them.

“Yes,” said Lottie more cheerfully; “I will be with thee, that is a wonderful word! I will repeat it over and over to myself, when I lie down, and when I get up, and when I’m about my work. We should never feel lonesome or sad when the dear Lord says, I will be with thee: with us all through our lives; and then when the time comes for us to die, we know that we shall be with Him.”

The same promise which strengthened a warrior of old for heroic deeds, cheered and encouraged a little servant maid in her path of humble toil. Lottie trod more lightly on her way when she thought of Gideon and his heavenly Guest.

Mrs. Bolder, after she had parted from Lottie, turned towards the single shop in the hamlet of Wildwaste, which was kept by herself and her husband. The shutters were up, so she saw no light, but the door was upon the latch, and she entered through the shop into the little back-parlour where Tychicus Bolder, seated by the fire, was awaiting his wife’s return from the meeting.

Sadly poor Miriam looked on what she called “the wreck of such a fine man!” Over the hard-featured, smoke-dried looking face of Bolder, wrinkled with many a line traced by care and pain, hung the white hair, streaked here and there with iron gray. His beard had grown long, and lay on his sunken chest; his back was bowed, his knees drawn up, as he sat with his feet on the fender, with a black shawl of his wife’s wrapped round his rheumatic frame. Bolder could not turn his head without pain; but he bade his wife shut the door, come and sit beside him, and tell him all about the parson’s lecture.

“Oh, how different it was in the days when it was you that went, and you that had the telling—you who can talk like a parson yourself!” sighed Mrs. Bolder, as she stirred the fire, which was getting low, as Bolder had no power to stir it himself.

“Wife,” said Bolder solemnly, “you’ve been to a lecture, and I dare say a good one, for I think more of Mr. Eardley now than I did in old times; but I’ve had my sermon too, as I sat here by the fire, and my preacher was one as spoke with more power than Mr. Eardley, or any other parson under the sun!”

MR. AND MRS. BOLDER.