Title: The beautiful garment and other stories
Author: A. L. O. E.
Language: English
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Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.



                                  The

                           Beautiful Garment

                           and Other Stories



                                   By

                              A. L. O. E.



                           ROCK ISLAND, ILL.
                        AUGUSTANA BOOK CONCERN



                            COPYRIGHT 1927
                                   BY
                        AUGUSTANA BOOK CONCERN



                          PRINTED IN U.S.A.



                           ROCK ISLAND, ILL.

            AUGUSTANA BOOK CONCERN, PRINTERS AND BINDERS

                                1927



CONTENTS

   The Beautiful Garment

   The Captive

   The Voyage



                            The Beautiful Garment

"You'll find our Lydia a child after your own heart, Martin," said
Captain Neill, a retired officer, to his elder brother, who had lately
returned from India.

"She seems to be a quick, intelligent girl," answered Mr. Neill, in a
less enthusiastic tone.

"She is that, and a great deal more!" cried the father. "It is
wonderful to see the good that child does! From cottage to cottage she
goes, reading, talking—really like a grown-up woman; it would surprise
you were you to hear her."

"Perhaps it would," said his brother, a pale, reserved man, with dark,
thoughtful eyes, and a face on which love to God and good-will to man
seemed to have set their stamp.

"Certainly, dear Lydia is a very uncommon child," lisped Mrs. Neill
from the sofa, to which long and tedious, though not dangerous illness
had confined her for several months.

"You see," pursued the captain, "we've no child but Lydia, so we've
devoted all our care to our pet."

"An only child runs some danger of being spoilt," observed Mr. Neill,
with a smile.

"Yes, yes, but we never spoil ours," answered the father, quickly.

"Oh, dear, no!" said the lady, from the sofa.

"We have always from the first taught Lydia her duty; and I must say
that we've found her an apt pupil," continued the captain. "Would you
believe it—though she is just twelve years old, that child has twice
read through the Bible, and has started on the third reading of her own
accord!"

The partial father looked into his brother's face, expecting to
see depicted there admiration and surprise. There was, however, no
expression of the kind. Perhaps Mr. Neill was thinking that one verse
of the Holy Scriptures, treasured in the heart, might do more for the
soul than the whole Bible read hastily over for the sake of boasting
that so much had been done.

"And then her charity," recommenced Captain Neil; but he was
interrupted by the entrance of a fine-looking girl, who came in with a
quick step and self-possessed manner, her checks glowing beneath her
white hat from the exercise which she had been taking.

"Where have you been, my darling?" asked her father.

"Oh, round by the mill, and as far as the seven cottages. Poor Jones
is getting worse and worse; his wife says that he cannot last long. I
tried to get Mrs. Brown to send all her children to school, but she
tells me they can't go in such rags. I'm about to make a parcel of my
old clothes, my green dress, and a lot of other things—"

"But, my dear," said Lydia's mother, "that dress was quite new this
spring; I don't wish—"

"I'm tired of it," interrupted Lydia; and seeing that her mother was
about to speak, she cut her short by a decided, "I hate green dresses,
and I'm not going to wear it again."

The mother looked vexed, but said nothing. "You've had a long round, my
darling; sit down and rest," said Captain Neill, kindly.

"I'm not tired, and would rather stand," replied Lydia, in her short,
decided manner, as she flung her hat back on her shoulders, and shook
the curls from her heated face. Then, turning to her mother, she said,
"Whom do you think I met on the way? All the Thomsons on ponies. I wish
I had a pony, too, I should so enjoy riding about."

"Could we afford it, you should have one," said her father, who, though
very fond of riding, had never mounted a horse since he had quitted the
army. It pained him that his child should ever form a wish which he had
not the power to gratify.

"I don't see why the Thomsons should ride when we walk!" observed
Lydia, with a little toss of the head. "We are as good as they any day.
Their mother was no fine lady, I've heard, and they say in the village
that Mr. Thomson is deep in debt, and will have to sell his fine house."

"People say ill-natured things, my love; I would not repeat them,"
observed Mrs. Neill, mildly.

Lydia looked annoyed at the gentle reproof, and began humming an air to
herself, to show that she did not mind it.

"Have you written the notes as I desired you, my dear?" asked the sick
mother, after a silence.

"No, I've been busy, and shall be busy all day; I'll write them
to-morrow," replied Lydia, sitting down, and carelessly opening a book.

"Did you carry your missionary subscription to the Vicarage?" asked the
captain. "My girl keeps a collection box," he added, smilingly turning
towards his brother to explain.

"No; I did not," replied Lydia, shortly.

"And why? for the clergyman told us he was anxious to send in the
subscriptions directly."

"I would rather wait till I have collected more," answered Lydia. "The
Barnes had one pound nine in their box."

"But we cannot attempt to compete with the Barnes, my love; we can give
but little, but we give it cheerfully."

"I will wait till I have collected more," repeated Lydia. "I should be
ashamed to send in less than my neighbors."

"It is a great privilege to be able to help a good cause," said the
captain, again addressing his brother. "My girl does not content
herself with gathering money; she gives her work, which is something
better. Her little fingers were busy for the fancy fair held for our
schools: she made two bags and seven purses—"

"Four bags and eight purses," interrupted Lydia, "and six round
pincushions besides. The Charters did not furnish so much, though there
are three of them to work. But they are such an idle set of girls, and
I don't think they care about schools."

"Four bags and eight purses, to say nothing of the pincushions; pretty
well for one little pair of hands!" said the captain, turning again
to his brother, in expectation of an approving smile or word; but no
smile was given, no word was uttered. Lydia glanced at her uncle in
surprise, but could not understand the almost sad expression on her
relative's kind face. Could she have read his thoughts, they would have
run somewhat as follows:

"It is clear that these fond parents are content with their child, and
that the child is content with herself; she has enough of the sweet
poison of flattering praise without my pouring out more from a selfish
desire to make myself a favorite here. My brother thinks his Lydia
perfect, and believes that the soil, cultivated with tender care, is
already covered with a glorious harvest. But what is it that eyes
less blinded by partial affection see there? In ten minutes I have
unwillingly beheld the weeds of pride, selfishness, and disobedience,
a disposition to evil speaking, covetousness, and a silly thirst for
praise. Small indeed the faults now appear, as weeds scarce showing
above the soil; but it is evident that the roots are there, and I fear
that the harvest will be different indeed from what my brother expects.
What shall I do? Speak openly to him? I fear that the only result
would be to wound—perhaps to offend him; he would think me unjust or
severe, and retain his own opinion. I must gain some quiet opportunity
of speaking a word to Lydia herself; she is an intelligent, sensible
girl; but I can see too plainly by her manner toward her mother that
nothing will be welcome to the young lady that comes in the shape of
reproof. My conscience will not suffer me to leave my niece to her
blind security; I will make at least an attempt to open her eyes to the
truth."

The party now dispersed—Lydia to take off her hat and cape; the
two gentlemen to visit a friend. During their walk, Captain Neill
could scarcely discourse on any subject but that of his daughter.
He told anecdote after anecdote, which had been treasured up in his
affectionate heart; but his conversation only served to convince Mr.
Neill that Lydia, brought up in a pious family, had acquired but a sort
of hothouse religion, that could stand no blast of temptation. He felt
that though his niece might do many things that were certainly proper
and right, she only did them when they suited her pleasure; her proud
will was yet unbroken—her impatient temper unsubdued.

In the evening, Mr. Neill was sitting alone in the little study, when
Lydia entered the room. The girl was anxious to please her uncle, of
whose character she had heard high praise, and whose gentle, courteous
manner was well suited to win young hearts.

"I like him," thought Lydia, "and I will make him like me." So
approaching Mr. Neill, and laying her hand on the back of his chair,
she said in her most pleasing manner, "Can I do anything for you, dear
uncle?"

"Yes, my dear, you can read the Bible to me; I shall be glad of the
help of your young eyes, for mine have suffered from the climate of
India."

"I will read with pleasure," said Lydia, taking up the Bible; and she
spoke no more than the truth. She was glad to do a kindness to her
uncle, but was more glad still of an opportunity of showing him how
beautifully she could read aloud.

"Do you wish any particular chapter?" she inquired.

"Pray, begin the twenty-second chapter of St. Matthew."

In a tone very clear and distinct, Lydia commenced her reading—

"And Jesus answered, and spake unto them again by parables, and said,
'The kingdom of heaven is like unto a certain king, which made a
marriage for his son, and sent forth his servants to call them that
were bidden to the wedding; and they would not come. Again, he sent
forth other servants, saying, Tell them which are bidden, Behold, I
have prepared my dinner; my oxen and my fatlings are killed and all
things are ready; come unto the marriage. But they made light of it,
and went their ways, one to his farm, another to his merchandise; and
the rest laid hold on his servants, and treated them spitefully, and
slew them. But when the king heard thereof, he was wroth; and he sent
forth his armies, and destroyed those murderers, and burned up their
city.'"

"Do you understand the meaning of the parable?" asked Mr. Neill.

"Yes," replied his niece, looking up from her book; "the Jews, to whom
the invitation of the gospel was first sent, in their pride, would not
accept it, but rejected and slew the Lord, and some of His faithful
servants; and so the armies of the Romans were sent to take and to burn
Jerusalem. The command was given that the gospel should be preached to
every creature, as we hear." And Lydia proceeded to read aloud:

"'Then saith he to his servants, The wedding is ready, but they which
were bidden were not worthy. Go ye therefore into the highways, and as
many as ye shall find, bid to the marriage. So those servants went out
into the highways, and gathered together all, as many as they found,
both bad and good; and the wedding was furnished with guests.'"

"'And when the king came in to see the guests, he saw there a man which
had not on a wedding-garment: he saith unto him, Friend, how earnest
thou in hither, not having a wedding-garment? and he was speechless.
Then said the king to the servants, Bind him hand and foot, and take
him away, and cast him into outer darkness; there shall be weeping and
gnashing of teeth. For many are called but few are chosen.'"

"Was it not strange," said Mr. Neill, "that a poor man, taken from the
common highway, should be expected to be found in a wedding-garment at
the feast of the mighty king?"

"No," replied Lydia, without hesitation, "for it was the custom in the
East to provide wedding-garments for the guests, and this man must,
through pride, have refused to accept one, thinking his own dress good
enough to wear."

"And what is the deeper—the spiritual meaning of this parable?"
inquired her uncle.

"The merits of our Lord form the wedding-garment, which all must wear
who would enjoy the feast of heaven. If we try to appear in our own
righteousness, we shall be cast out like the miserable man of whom we
have just been reading."

"You have been well-instructed in the Bible, Lydia."

The girl colored at the praise, and said, "I ought to know it well, for
I read four chapters every day, and a great deal more on Sundays, and
can repeat hundreds of verses by memory."

"And yet," observed Mr. Neill, "there is a wide difference between
head-knowledge and heart-knowledge, between understanding the meaning
of the Scriptures, and making their truths our own. I suspect that many
of us fall unconsciously into the error of the man in the parable, and
fancy that there is something in ourselves to make us acceptable in
the presence of our Heavenly King. When you came into the room, Lydia,
my mind was dwelling upon the very subject, and I was forming a little
allegory, or story, about the garment of human merits."

"I wish that you would tell me your allegory," said Lydia; "I often
make such stories myself."

"Close the Bible, and place it on the table, my child, and you shall
know what thoughts were suggested to my mind by the parable of the
wedding-garment."

Lydia obeyed and listened with some interest and curiosity to this, the
first story which she had ever heard from the lips of her uncle. Mr.
Neill thus began:

"Ada was a bright young creature, brought up in a happy and a holy
home, where, almost as an infant, she had been taught to pray, and
where Scripture had been made familiar to her from the earliest dawn of
reason. Ada was an invited guest to the feast of the great King, and
she had accepted the invitation. She knew that she must appear in His
courts robed in righteousness not her own, a garment provided by the
Lord of the feast, spotless, holy, and white."

"But Ada had a friend, or rather let me term her an enemy, in a
companion named Self-love, whose society was so delightful to the
girl that they were constantly found together. It was wonderful to
behold the influence quietly exerted by Self-love over the mind of her
young companion. She joined Ada in her amusements, assisted at her
studies, went with her wherever she went, even to the cottages of the
poor, even to the house of prayer. But Self-love was treacherous as
well as pleasing; her influence was never exerted for good; her one
great object was to draw Ada away from religion, and cause her to be
rejected at the great banquet, to which Self-love never herself could
be admitted."

"'Is it not hard,' whispered Self-love one night, 'that all the guests
at the banquet are to wear the same kind of dress, whatever their
former character or station may have been? I can well believe that
poor wanderers from the highways, and beggars from the street, will be
glad enough to lay aside their rags, and wear the garments provided;
but you have a white robe of your own, fit to be worn in any palace,
even the robe of innocence, embroidered all over by your hands with the
silver blossoms of good works. How often has the world admired you in
it! How it has been praised by your family and friends! It would, at
least, form a beauteous addition to what you must wear at the banquet
of Heaven."

"Ada turned her eyes towards the robe of which Self-love had spoken,
which was spread out on a table before her. Very beautiful indeed,
and very white, it appeared to the admiring eye of the girl. Hundreds
of delicate silver flowers, work of charity, faith, and obedience,
glittered in the light of a large flaring torch which Self-love had
placed beside it. The robe was studded with innumerable pearls, which
Ada knew to be her prayers, so that nothing could seem more splendid
than the robe which Ada had prepared for herself."

"I suppose," interrupted Lydia, "that this Ada was really a very
excellent girl. I do not wonder that she was unwilling that so lovely
a robe should be laid entirely aside, and not be worn at all at the
banquet."

"Ada listened and looked," continued Mr. Neill; "and the more she
looked and listened, the more she regretted that ragged beggars should
one day be clothed in just the same manner as the possessor of a
garment so fine. 'I almost think that I might wear both,' she murmured,
half aloud; 'I might appear in my own beauteous robe, and if my dress
should be not quite complete, the King's mantle would cover all
defects.'"

"'Ada, Ada!' whispered a voice in the air. The girl started and gazed
around, but no human form was to be seen."

"'Ada, my name is Conscience,' continued the voice, 'and my accents
fall not on the ear; they are heard in the depths of the heart. I have
read thy thoughts, I know thy desires, and I come unto thee with a
message. If thou, for but one day, canst keep thy garment quite white
and fair, thou mayest wear it with joy and honor. But thou must see it
by sunlight, and not by torchlight, and thine eyes must be anointed
with Self-knowledge,—a salve which thou shalt find close to thy Bible
when thou lookest on it first in the morning.'"

"'Be content, Ada,' said Self-love, with a smile, 'a single day is no
long time of trial, and thou hast hitherto kept thy garment so fair,
that thou hast small reason to fear a stain.'"

"The first thing that Ada did in the morning was to anoint her eyes
with the golden salve which, as Conscience had promised, she found
lying close to her Bible. She resolved not to look at her robe till a
part of the day should be over, and then to examine it closely, to see
whether the smallest speck or stain had sullied its pearly whiteness."

"Had I been Ada, I should have been very careful in my conduct on that
day," observed Lydia, with a smile.

"So Ada determined to be. She resolved to crowd it with fresh good
works. She read double her usual number of chapters, was very long at
her prayers, though it must be confessed that all the time that she was
perusing God's holy Word, or making show of pleading with her Maker,
her thoughts were wandering in every direction—now to her birds, now to
her new book, now to her plans for the morrow, and now, alas! resting
with bitterness upon some affront received from a neighbor. While Ada
read or knelt, a dim, misty stain was slowly spreading over her white
garment; that which she believed to be a merit, in God's eyes was full
of sin."

"But Ada was not always in the quietness of her own room; she had to go
forth and mix with others. She determined to visit a great many poor
people, and do a great deal of good; but she lost her temper twice
before she set out. First, with the servant, for keeping her waiting
while preparing some broth for a poor invalid; then with her mother
for sending her to change her dress for one of coarser material, as it
seemed likely to rain. That half-hour of peevish impatience left its
mark on the beautiful garment."

"Oh, uncle, such trifles could never be counted," exclaimed Lydia.

"Life is made up of trifles, Lydia, and especially the life of a child.
But to return to the story of Ada. On her way to the cottages, she met
with a companion, a silly, frivolous girl, and they entered into such
conversation as that which is known by the name of gossip. They spoke
not of the beauties of nature, or the wonders of art, or of the deeper
things of God; they spoke of their neighbors, and their neighbors'
affairs, and the ill-natured remarks, silly jests which they made,
were certainly not such as beseem the lips of youthful Christians. Ada
was very amusing and very merry; but her face would have worn a graver
expression had she but seen how, at each foolish and unkind word, there
fell a speck, as if of ink, on the folds of her beautiful garment."

"A carriage, splendid and gay, drove past the girls, as, heated and
tired, they walked along the dusty road. Ada knew the young ladies
within, and, as she returned their bow, thoughts of discontent,
covetousness, and envy possessed the mind of the girl."

"'How hard it is to walk when others are rolling in their carriages,'
was the secret reflection of Ada. 'I wonder why things are so unequal.
I'm sure we've a better right to comforts than those girls, whose
father made all his money by manufacturing tapes and bobbins.' Ada
expressed not her thoughts aloud; but she fostered and indulged them
in her heart, and deeper and duller grew the stain that clouded her
beautiful garment."

"Uncle, uncle," exclaimed Lydia, who now perceived pretty clearly that
Ada represented herself, "I think that you are hard on your heroine.
It is almost impossible to govern our words, and quite impossible to
control our thoughts."

"If so," replied Mr. Neill, "would the Bible have contained such verses
as these, 'Keep thy tongue from evil, and thy lips from speaking
guile,' 'Covetousness, let it not once be named amongst you, as
becometh saints; neither filthiness, nor foolish talking, nor jesting,
which are not convenient'? When our Lord declared what doth defile a
man, evil thoughts were the first things mentioned, the sin that cometh
from the heart."

Lydia looked grave, and was silent.

"Ada paid many visits, read the Bible in several cottages, and
returned home with a comfortable persuasion that she had passed a most
useful morning. She felt herself wonderfully better than the ignorant
creatures who had listened with admiring attention to the words of 'the
dear young lady.' Ada was impatient to look at her robe, and could
not, as she had at first intended, wait till evening before she did
so. What was her astonishment and distress when she cast her gaze on
the treasured garment! With the salve of Self-knowledge on her eyes,
she could no longer flatter herself that it was anything approaching
to white. A dull, dirty hue overspread it; it was besprinkled here
and there with dark and unsightly stains. Poor Ada was so badly
disappointed, that she could scarcely restrain her tears, till
Self-love whispered, 'It is somewhat soiled, it must be owned, yet see,
it is embroidered all over with the silver flowers of good works.'"

"Yes, that was some consolation," murmured Lydia.

"Then again the low voice of Conscience was heard, piercing the inmost
soul, 'Ada, Ada! there is indeed a blessing on works done for the love
of God; precious and bright is such silver. But while man sees our
actions, God sees our motives, and tarnished with sin is the work, be
it ever so good in itself, which is done from vainglory, emulation,
or self-pleasing.' As the words were uttered, to Ada's dismay she
beheld every one of her silver flowers become tarnished and dull; some,
indeed, less so than others; but not one remained that retained its
brightness, while some appeared actually black."

"Poor Ada had nothing left but her pearls, her prayers," observed
Lydia, with something like a sigh.

"Nay, the pearls shared the fate of the flowers. What is the worth
of prayers uttered from habit, or fear, or love of praise, prayers
with which the heart has nothing to do? The pearls appeared pearls no
longer, but dull, discolored, unsightly beads."

"Oh, what a wretched discovery!" cried Lydia.

"Self-knowledge showed Ada something besides," pursued Mr. Neill,
without looking at his niece as she spoke. "On bending over her
garment, Ada perceived many large rents, which seemed to grow in number
and size the longer she examined the robe. Again was heard the whisper
of Conscience—'These are thy sins of omission, neglected opportunities
of serving God, acts of kindness or obedience left undone, a tender
mother's wishes disregarded, duties put off in order to gratify the
idle whims of self-love.'"

Lydia remembered the notes which she had put off writing for so long
that her sick mother had that morning done the little business herself.
This had been but one of a series of trifling neglects for which Lydia
had never before felt self-reproach; for she had not reckoned them to
be sins. Tears started into her eyes, and she wished that the story
would come to an end.

"'I can never wear this,' exclaimed Ada; 'it would take me months to
repair these rents.' As she spoke she bent down to lift the garment
that she might examine it more closely; to her astonishment, the whole
fabric came to pieces in her hands. The moth of Pride had fretted the
garment, and not only was it tarnished and stained, but no sound piece
was to be found in the whole of the once goodly robe."

"Oh, I can't bear this story of yours," exclaimed Lydia; "it is one to
put us all in despair."

"If it puts us in despair of ourselves, my child," replied Mr. Neill,
laying his hand gently on the arm of his niece, "it will prove a story
not without profit."

"Ada seemed such a good girl at first, and you have made all her
righteousness fall to pieces in the end! How could any one go to a
banquet in such soiled and miserable rags?"

"The knowledge of our helplessness and sin, Lydia, is beyond measure
precious to our souls. While we wrap ourselves in our fancied merits,
while we nourish a secret hope that we can stand before a holy God
in the garment of our own poor works, we will never earnestly and
thoroughly seek for the grace which alone can save. Let us ask for the
gift of self-knowledge, that we may see that we are in His sight."

"Self-knowledge only makes us miserable," exclaimed Lydia, whose pride
had been deeply wounded.

"It would be so indeed, were it not united to knowledge of the
blessed Redeemer; if the same Bible which shows us that our fancied
righteousness is but as a moth-eaten rag, did not show us, also, the
spotless robe washed white in the blood of the Lamb, prepared for the
meek and lowly in heart who come to the banquet of heaven. Let this
then, dear child, be our constant prayer to the Giver of good— 'Lord,
show me myself—my nothingness, my sin. Lord, show me Thyself—Thy
holiness, Thy love. Pour Thy Spirit into my heart; let it rule my lips
and my life, and clothe me in the robe of righteousness, even the
merits of my blessed Redeemer.'"



                            The Captive

It was with a thankful and joyous heart that Grace Milner wended
her way through the crowded streets of London. She had just been
granted her heart's desire; she had been accepted as a female teacher
by a missionary society for the conversion of the Jews, and a life
which few, perhaps, would covet, but which to her appeared one of
delight, was opening before the clergyman's orphan. It was a life of
independence, and Grace had an honest pleasure in earning her own
bread, and having the means even to assist others; it was a life
of usefulness, and Grace longed to be able to do some good in the
world. And the teacher was young, and of an ardent spirit; to her the
very journey offered great attractions: traveling gave her exquisite
pleasure, all the greater, perhaps, because she had hitherto seldom
enjoyed opportunities of traveling. Grace had not a single relative
from whom it would be a pain to part—she stood alone in the world,
except so far as she belonged to the family of God. She was full of
hope that she might be made a blessing where she was going. Grace
had a great talent for learning foreign languages, and what to many
is a weary task, to her was only an amusement. She felt that she was
peculiarly suited for the position in which Providence had placed her,
and would not have exchanged her lot for that of any queen in the world.

"Oh! to think of visiting the land in which my Saviour lived and
died!" was the reflection of the young teacher as she threaded her
way, careless of all that was passing around her; "to think of gazing
upon Jerusalem, the guilty, yet sacred city, of standing in the garden
of Gethsemane, where the Holy One knelt and prayed! And then to be
permitted to lead the little ones of Israel to the footstool of the
Saviour! To be surrounded by young descendants of Abraham, to whom
I can speak of their fathers' God! Oh! Sweet command of the risen
Saviour, 'Feed my lambs!' With what delight shall I obey it, with
what delight shall I seek out His jewels, to be my joy and crown of
rejoicing when He comes in the clouds with glory! Blessed work to labor
for Him! I thank God for the talents which He has given me; I thank
Him for the opportunity of spending them all in His service; I thank
Him for the hope that I—even I—may one day hear from my Saviour the
transporting words, 'Well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou
into the joy of thy Lord.'"

Grace was startled from her dream of happiness by a sudden shock!
Absorbed in thought, she had not taken sufficient precaution in
crossing a road, and was struck down by a cab that had, unnoticed,
turned sharply round the corner of a street.

The young teacher uttered no cry; she fell stunned and senseless to
the ground. She saw not the pitying crowd who thronged around her.
When raised from the ground, and carried on a shutter to the nearest
hospital, she felt no pain from the motion. It was not for some hours
that Grace had sufficiently recovered her senses to know what had
happened, or to comprehend the nature of the injury which she had
received.

Great indeed was the trial to the poor girl when she awoke to a sense
of what was before her. Her spine had sustained an incurable injury,
such as might not perhaps shorten life, but which might render her
utterly helpless as long as that life should last. The once active,
energetic young woman would never again be able even to sit up in bed,
and all her hopes of usefulness as a teacher were crushed in a moment
for ever!

Dark indeed were the prospects of the orphan, when this cloud of
misfortune so suddenly swept over her sky! Where should she go—what
should she do—when dismissed, as she soon must be, from the hospital
which had received her? Her little savings as a governess had all
been expended; she had no home to which to return, no friend wealthy
enough to be burdened with the support of a helpless cripple. There
was sympathy shown to Grace by the supporters of the charity which had
so lately accepted her services. There was even a subscription raised
for her; but the assistance thus given was far too small to render the
lady independent. As she was unable, and would always be unable, to
rise from a lying position, it would be hopeless to attempt to gain a
miserable pittance by her needle. Drops of agony stood upon the brow of
the poor young lady, as the terrible truth forced itself upon her mind,
that, henceforth, the only home that she could look to on earth was the
poorhouse.

Grace could not at first bend her spirit to submit to a fate which she
looked upon as worse than death. She quitted the hospital for a lodging
where the kindness of strangers enabled her to struggle on for a time.
But she knew that this could not last; the evil day might be put off,
but was certain at length to arrive. Grace thought that it was wrong
to draw so heavily upon the charity of others, when so many of her
fellow-creatures were in want of common necessaries. What was given to
her lessened the power of the generous to assist them; and Grace was of
too unselfish a spirit to bear to encroach on the kindness of the rich,
or draw away relief from the poor. So she made up her mind at last she
would go where she had a right to food and shelter; she would claim the
support of her parish, now that she could not support herself.

Deep gloom was upon the soul of poor Grace, when she was carried to
the large, dull, cheerless-looking building, which to her appeared but
as a prison. She sank beneath the weight of her cross, and even her
religion seemed for a time to bring her no comfort. Satan, ever busy
to tempt us, whether in days of wealth or tribulation, was whispering
hard thoughts of God. Grace saw in her trial no sign of the love of her
Heavenly Father; she thought herself forsaken—forgotten; she longed for
death, little conscious at that moment that she was unfit to die!

"Oh! That I should ever be brought down to this!" was her thought, as
she was borne across the court-yard of the poorhouse, where a few old
women, in pauper's dress, scarcely turned their heads to observe a new
sufferer carried to a place where sickness and sorrow were things too
common to attract much notice. "I, well-born, highly educated, degraded
to the position of a pauper! Why has God, in whom I trusted, forsaken
me? Why has He placed me in a position where I can be but a burden to
myself and to others? God gave me talents, and with a willing mind I
had devoted all my powers to His service; but now He has taken away the
opportunities which once I possessed, of exercising my talents to His
glory, and the good of my fellowmen."

Grace was wrong in three important points: first, She was wrong in
thinking herself degraded by becoming a pauper, when she was so not
from idleness, nor extravagance, nor any other sin of her own. It was
God who had appointed her place, and the post which He assigns to His
people must be a post of honor to those who faithfully fill it. Oh! Let
the lowly ones of Christ remember this to their comfort! Can poverty be
a disgrace when it was the state chosen by the Son of God for Himself,
when He deigned to visit the earth? The Lord's people are kings and
priests unto God, heirs of a crown, and inheritors of heaven, whether
they dwell in a palace, or lie in a poorhouse ward.

Secondly, Grace was wrong in doubting for one moment the loving care
of her God, because He was trying her faith in the heated furnace of
affliction. "Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." Grace had been an
earnest and active Christian; but she had little knowledge of the
weakness and sin of her own heart, till affliction stirred up the quiet
waters, and showed her what evil lay below. She had hoped and believed
that her will was conformed to the will of God, till sudden misfortune
revealed how much of self-pleasing, pride, and unbelief had lurked
behind her devotion. Grace now thought herself worse than she had ever
thought herself before, only because she now knew herself better; the
medicine for pride was most bitter, but it was the hand of love that
had mixed it.

And thirdly, Grace was wrong in supposing that all opportunity of
glorifying God and of serving others had been taken from her for ever.
Never, perhaps, does the Christian's light shine more brightly, or
more profitably, to those who behold it than from the bed of sickness
and pain. Wherefore glorify God in the fires! is the watchword for
the suffering saint. Happy those who to the words, "We rejoice in
hope of the glory of God," can add, And "not only so but we glory in
tribulations also," knowing that tribulation worketh patience, and
patience experience, and experience hope; and hope maketh not ashamed,
because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost
which is given unto us!

Grace was carried to a ward containing twelve of the aged or sick,
and placed on a bed in a corner of the room. The ward was clean and
airy, and, in some respects, more comfortable than Grace had been led
to expect; but she was little disposed to see in it anything but the
dreary aspect of a prison. She looked with sadness on the bare walls,
the high windows—affording no prospect but the sky—and the rows of beds
occupied by those with whom she deemed that she would have not a single
feeling in common. Grace particularly shrank from the pauper whose bed
was next to her own. Ann Rogers, a coarse-looking, red-faced woman,
with a rough manner and loud voice, which jarred on the nerves of the
sufferer.

"Well, poor soul, how came you into your troubles?" were the words with
which Ann first addressed Grace, standing beside her with her arms
akimbo, and surveying the newcomer with a look of mingled curiosity and
pity.

Grace flinched like one who had a rough hand laid on a wound, and
murmuring a short reply, she closed her eyes in the hope of stopping
further conversation.

"You have seen better days, I take it, and so have I. I was cook in a
gent'man's family, I was, and little thought of ever coming to this—."
Ann added an epithet so coarse that I do not choose to repeat it.

"Oh, misery! can I not even suffer in silence?" thought the poor girl.
"Must I have that horrible voice for ever dinning in my ears?" Grace
said nothing aloud, but her face probably betrayed something of her
feelings, for Ann went on in the tone of one who is offended. "There's
no use in anybody's playing the fine lady here, or turning up her nose
at the company she meets with. This ain't the place for airs, and I'd
advise no one to try 'em upon me!"

The heart of Grace sank within her. Weak as she was, and in constant
pain, she needed gentle sympathy, tender care, and perfect quiet; and
it appeared that none of these could ever be her own. She had no spirit
to bear up against the thousand petty annoyances inseparable from her
condition. She resolved that she would never complain, but the resolve,
it must be confessed, came as much from pride as from patience. She
would shut herself up in her sorrow, and have nothing to do with her
companions. In her desponding gloom, Grace forgot that those around her
were God's creatures as well as herself: that they, like herself, were
afflicted, and that the command, "Love one another," is as binding in
the poorhouse as in the brightest, happiest home.

The poor lady might long have remained in this miserable state, with
her mind suffering still more than her body, impatient, despairing
under her cross, unloved, unloving, and desolate; but for a seemingly
trifling incident which occurred a few days after her arrival. This
was a visit to the ward from a lady who came regularly once a week to
read the Bible to its inmates. Mrs. Grant was not gifted with talent:
she had little power of influencing others; she could not, like some
more honored servants of God, so plead with sinners that the hardened
heart should be touched with the holy eloquence of love. She was a
plain, quiet woman, somewhat stiff in her manner, who did her duty
indeed as unto God, but who in herself was little capable of making any
impression on others. Conscious perhaps of her own defects, the lady
contented herself with reading the Scripture without making any remarks
upon it. The portion which she chose upon this occasion was the parable
of the talents. Grace listened in deep depression; the words reminded
her so painfully of her own shattered hopes, of her joyous praises
on the morning on which her accident had occurred—"I thank God for
the talents which He has given me: I thank Him for the opportunity of
spending them all in His service."

But the parable does not end with the account of the "good and faithful
servants who entered into the joy of their Lord.' There is a second
part, and it was this which especially fixed the attention of Grace as
she lay on her couch of pain.

"Then He which had received the one talent, came and said, 'Lord, I
know thee that thou art a hard man, reaping where thou didst not sow,
and gathering where thou didst not scatter; and I was afraid, and went
away and hid thy talent in the earth: lo, thou hast thine own.'"

"His Lord answered and said unto him, 'Thou wicked and slothful
servant—'" And then followed the stern but just rebuke, closing with
the terrible sentence—"'Cast ye out the unprofitable servant into the
outer darkness: there shall be the weeping and the gnashing of teeth.'"

The plain, forcible lesson from Scripture went straight to one heart
in that ward—a loving, obedient heart, that received the truth in
simplicity. Grace did not turn from the light, because it showed her a
blemish in herself; she did not try to persuade herself that the lesson
was meant for some character quite different from her own.

"Is not this God's message to me," thought the sufferer; "and is not
this warning for me? Would not I have been glad to have been trusted
with the ten talents, or the five; but when only one was left to me,
did I not, in discontent, despair, bury it deep and hide it? And why,
why have I done so? Because I have dared to entertain gloomy ideas of
my God. I have thought His dealings hard, and my faith and patience
have failed! But have I, indeed, one talent: I who am so feeble that
my voice could scarcely reach beyond the bed next to mine? Yes, there
is one soul at least in this ward which I might influence for good:
there is one at least to whom I ought to show how meekly a Christian
can suffer. There is great ignorance which I have made no attempt to
enlighten. I have even repelled my fellow-sufferers by coldness that
looked like pride. I have been gloomy—perhaps sullen in my grief. Alas!
alas! I have buried my talent. God help me to use it ere it be too
late!"

In the meantime Mrs. Grant had quitted the ward, and some of the
paupers began to make observations upon her.

"I daresay, now that 'ere lady thinks she has done a mighty good deed
in sitting there starched and stiff for ten minutes, and then sweeping
away in her rustling silk, without so much as asking one of us how we
be!" said Ann Rogers, in her harsh and insolent tone.

"Yes," observed the nurse, "she's different from the lady who visited
the ward that I had down below. That lady smiled so kind, and talked
so pleasant that it was a real pleasure to see her; and she made
everything in the Bible so plain. Then, it seemed as if she really did
care for us; she talked to us quietly one by one, and was as sorry for
any one sick or in pain as if she had been an old friend. That's the
kind of visitor for me."

"I knew a lady, afore I came into the house, who allowed a poor old
soul as lived in a garret a pound of tea every month, and a sack of
coal at Christmas. That's what I calls a friend," said Ann Rogers.

"The kindest thing I ever heard of," observed an old, bedridden pauper,
"was a clergyman's taking in my poor brother, who had chanced to fall
down in a fit at his gate, and nursing him, and paying his doctor, and
giving him a half-crown and a good warm coat when he left. A real kind
Christian was that parson, who knew how to practice what he preached."

There was a general murmur of assent through the room. When it was
silenced, Grace Milner said, in her soft, faint voice, "If you are
comparing deeds of kindness, I think that I know of one greater than
any that you have mentioned. I do not mean to undervalue the generosity
of either the clergyman or the lady; but I could tell you of one who,
without spending a farthing, did more than either of the two. My story
is a true one, and belongs to the history of the famous general, Sir
David Baird."

"A story—let's have that," said the nurse, who, like most of those in
the poorhouse, was glad of anything that gave promise of affording five
minutes' amusement.

"So you've found your tongue at last," observed Ann Rogers, who had
been inclined to take offence at the previous silence of the invalid
lady.

Grace slightly flushed at the rude remark; but without appearing to
take notice of it, and lifting up her heart to God to ask for His
blessing on her attempting to use her one talent to His glory, she
recounted the following little anecdote, in the hope of drawing from it
some spiritual lesson.

"Some seventy or eighty years ago a fierce war raged in India between
the English and a native monarch called Tippoo Saib. In the course of
this war, which ended at last triumphantly for our country, our troops
sustained a terrible disaster, and some of our most gallant officers
fell into the enemy's hands."

"And mighty little mercy they found, I'll warrant you," observed Ann
Rogers.

"The officers, amongst whom was Baird, then a young man, were thrown
into a horrible prison, where those who had been brought up amidst the
comforts of an English home were exposed to hunger and miseries untold.
What made their condition yet more wretched was that some of the
officers had been wounded—Baird, in particular, had been shot in the
leg, and pain and weakness were added to confinement, want, and anxious
fears for the future. A wild beast was at one time kept near the prison
of the unfortunate English, and its howls greatly disturbed them; for a
dread arose in their minds that the tyrant Tippoo intended to give his
captives as a prey to the savage animal."

"Poor souls, they were worse off than we," said the nurse, who had
seated herself on the edge of Grace's bed, to listen to her tale.

"One day the English were further alarmed by a great clanking noise
just outside their prison. The door opened, and a number of native
smiths came in, bearing a quantity of iron fetters, which they flung
down on the floor. The wretched captives too easily guessed who were to
wear these chains. A native officer then entered, who gave command that
a pair of fetters should be fixed upon the legs of each of the unhappy
gentlemen."

"What! The wounded and all?" exclaimed Ann.

"A gray-haired officer," continued Grace,—"I grieve that I have
forgotten his name—determined to make an effort to save poor Baird from
the agony to which he was destined. 'It is impossible,' said he to the
dark Indian, 'that you can think of putting chains upon that suffering
young man. A bullet has been cut from his leg; his wound is fresh and
sore; the chafing of the iron must cost him his life.' But the heart of
the heathen whom he addressed seemed cold and hard as the iron itself.
What cared Tippoo's servant if the prisoner suffered; what cared he if
the prisoner died!"

"'There are just as many pairs of fetters as there are captives,' he
said; 'let what may come of it, every pair must be worn.'"

"'Then,' said the noble officer, 'put two on me; I will wear his as
well as my own.'"

"Bless him," exclaimed the nurse, warmly. "That was a friend indeed;
and what was the end of the story?"

"The end of the story is that Baird lived to regain his freedom,
Jived for victory and reward, lived to besiege and take the very city
in which he had so long lain a wretched captive. In the last deadly
struggle, Tippoo was slain."

"And the kind officer?" interrupted Ann.

"The generous friend died in prison," replied Grace.

"Well," said the nurse, with a sigh, "he did more indeed than either
the clergyman or the lady. To be willing to wear two chains, and all
for the sake of his friend!"

"What would you have thought," asked Grace, "if he had borne the
fetters of all in the prison? What would you have thought if instead of
being a captive himself, he had been free, and wealthy, and great, and,
for the sake of the unhappy sufferers, had quitted a glorious palace to
live in their loathsome dungeon, to wear their chains, to bear their
stripes, to suffer and die in their stead that the captives might go
free?"

"Such a thing would never be done," cried Ann Rogers.

"Such a thing has been done," exclaimed Grace. There was a murmur of
surprise from her hearers; she paused a minute, and went on, clasping
her hands as she spoke. "Helpless captives of sin, doomed to wear
the heavy chain of God's wrath, trials in this world, endless woe in
the next; such are we all by nature—such would we all have remained,
had not the Son of God himself deigned to visit our prison. He bore
the weight of all our guilt, He endured the punishment which we had
deserved; and now, for all who receive His grace, the prison is thrown
wide open; victory over sin here, and glory in heaven—such are the
blessings bought for His people by the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ."

"Ah!" observed the nurse, in an undertone, "that's how my lady used
to speak. Many a time has she told me that there's no friend like the
Lord; for there's no one on earth would do for us what He did of His
own free will."

Grace felt joyful surprise on finding that there was some one in the
ward who looked to the blessed Saviour. An ignorant but simple-minded
Christian was near her, ready and glad to be instructed; and the lady
reproached herself for having ever thought that her own work for God
was ended.

"Well," observed Ann, in her blunt manner, "I went to school when I was
young, and I learned a good deal of the Bible there, which I've not
all forgotten yet. I know that the Lord died for us, and that, when
we've done with the troubles of this life, we shall go and be happy in
heaven."

Grace had already heard enough of the bad language, and seen enough of
the bad temper of this woman, to fear that Ann was deceiving herself;
believing her soul to be safe, although she had never yet repented of
sin, or struggled against its power; never yet given her heart to the
Lord. Oh! Fearful mistake of multitudes deceived by Satan, who, because
salvation's stream flows within their reach, believe that its blessings
are theirs, though they never have tasted of its waters. Grace felt
that the conscience of Ann was asleep, and she silently prayed that God
might awaken it.

"Suppose that the generous officer during his captivity," said Grace,
"had called Baird to his side, had entreated him to do something for
his sake whenever he should quit the prison; suppose that, when Baird
was free, and rich, and happy, he had totally forgotten his friend, had
quite neglected his dying wish, and had even done dishonor to his name,
what should we think of such conduct?"

"Think," exclaimed the indignant nurse, "we should think it shamefully
ungrateful."

"The world's bad enough, I take it," cried Ann; "but there's none of us
bad enough to neglect the dying wish of a friend like that."

"Ah! let us take heed that our own words condemn us not," faltered
Grace. "We have seen that the love of the Saviour to us has exceeded
all other love; has not our ingratitude to Him exceeded all ingratitude
beside? On the very night before He suffered, did not the Lord utter
the words, 'If ye love me, keep my commandments?' And how has that
dying charge been fulfilled? Have we not, at least too many of us,
quite forgotten the Saviour? Have not our hearts been as cold and dead,
our conduct as careless and sinful as if we had never known His love,
or heard of His holy commandments?"

"Well, well, we all go wrong sometimes; but the Lord won't judge his
poor servants," said Ann, in a tone which seemed to say, "Let's have no
more of this preaching."

[Illustration: But the heart of the heathen whom he addressed
 seemed cold and hard as the iron itself. What cared Tippoo's servant
 if the prisoner suffered, what cared he if he died?]

"If we be His servants!" exclaimed Grace, with earnestness, "but let
us not forget that God's Word declares, that 'if any man have not
the Spirit of Christ, he is none of His'; yea, the Lord Himself hath
said, 'He that is not with me is against me; no man can serve two
masters,'—if we be not heartily upon the Saviour's side, we are upon
the side of the world and Satan."

"It's just like this, I take it," said the nurse, "it's just as if
Baird had chosen to forget all about his country and his duty, and had
gone into the service of Tippoo, and had even fought in his cause."

"He'd have been a vile rebel," cried Ann.

"And have been punished as such," observed Grace. "What would have been
to him the name of Englishman? It could only have increased his shame;
and what to us will be the name of Christians, if we are found in the
ranks of Christ's foes? Oh, let us pray that we may be of the number
of those who are saved from wrath by His death, and freed from sin's
prison by His grace, and who bravely fight in His cause against the
world, the flesh, and the devil! To such the victory is certain, to
such the crown is sure; we shall be 'more than conquerors through Him
who loved and gave Himself for us.'"

Grace ceased, for her strength was exhausted; but a feeling of peace
and hope, such as she had not known before since her accident, stole
over the lady's soul. She felt that she had done what she could;
however little that might be, and that the Lord would not despise
the one talent which she sought to lay out for Him. Grace sank into
refreshing sleep, with the promise sounding in her ears, "They that be
wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and they that turn
many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever."



                            The Voyage


"Oh! is not this delightful!" exclaimed little Minnie Mayne, as she
sprang upon the deck of the steamer which was to take herself and her
mother back to their beautiful home in Scotland.

Mrs. Mayne, a widow lady, was returning from a visit to an aged parent
in London. Her child had become very weary of dull brick streets, and
the noise and smoke of the city. Minnie longed to see her bright home
by the sunny lake, to feel the breeze on the healthy mountains, which
to her young eyes were more beautiful than any other scene upon earth.
Mrs. Mayne and her daughter had come to London by land, so this was
the first time that Minnie had ever entered a steamer. Everything was
new, and everything seemed delightful. The child promised herself great
enjoyment from the voyage, as well as from the arrival at home.

With curiosity and pleasure Minnie surveyed the scene around her. The
deck piled with luggage, the funnel black with smoke, the compass in
its little glass frame, the pilot at the wheel, the hurrying to and
fro, the sailors busy with the rope, and outside the vessel the view
of the river crowded with shipping—boats, steamers, and barges; all
afforded intense amusement to the light-hearted, intelligent child, who
was full of eager questionings about each new object that caught the
eye.

"Oh, mamma! What a noise the steam makes! I can hardly hear myself
speak. I wish that the vessel would begin to move; but I can't think
how it will ever make its way through such a crowd of boats! What a
number of passengers there are; and, oh! What a lot of carpetbags and
boxes! I don't think that any more people can be coming; the sailors
had better pull up the plank that joins us to the shore, and let us be
off at once. Oh! no; there are some more people arriving. Such a grand
gentleman and lady, mamma! And a little girl so splendidly dressed!
They had better make haste and get on deck, or the vessel will move off
without them."

As Minnie concluded her sentence, a stout man passed along the plank,
followed by his wife and daughter. The child wore a pink frock, and
pea-green silk tippet, and a quantity of light curls streamed on her
shoulders from a hat adorned with a long drooping feather. While
Minnie surveyed the girl's finery with admiration approaching to envy,
Mrs. Mayne glanced at the mother with an impression that that face
was familiar to her, though she could not for some time recollect
where she had seen it before. While the woman was bustling about her
baggage, and in a loud voice disputing with the porter about his
dues, the lady recalled to memory that the person before her was Mrs.
Lowe, a greengrocer's wife, who had provided Mrs. Mayne's mother with
vegetables nearly ten years previous. Mrs. Mayne recollected also the
circumstances under which her family had given up employing the Lowes.
The ladies had in vain tried to persuade the greengrocer to close his
shop on Sundays; his wife had even been insolent when the duty of
obeying the third commandment had been pressed home on her conscience,
and had thus lost her customers, as well as her temper. Mrs. Mayne
was not sure whether the greengrocer's wife now recognized her, but
felt sorry that such a person was to be her companion on the voyage to
Scotland.

"She looks as though her business had prospered," thought the lady, "to
judge by her comfortable appearance and dress; and she has decked out
her poor child in finery purchased by her ill-gotten gains. But how
impossible it is to tell who is happy by mere outside show! However,
those who wilfully break God's laws may appear to prosper, yet in the
end it shall be seen that 'the blessing of the Lord it maketh rich, and
He addeth no sorrow with it.'"

In the meantime, the plank had been raised; the huge paddles had slowly
begun to go around, and a stream of foam, white as cream, on either
side, marked the track of the steamer down the river. Minnie watched
the banks with delight, as they appeared to move faster and faster
with the vessel's increasing speed. There was so much to see, so much
to wonder at, as every bend of the river brought new objects to view.
The child's delight reached its height, when the noble hospital of
Greenwich appeared with its stately park rising behind, and at the same
time from the deck of a passing steamer, gliding with fairy speed,
sounded the air of "Rule Britannia," borne towards them by the fresh
breeze.

"How happy she is!" thought her mother, looking fondly at the child
by her side. "She is like some joyous young creature just beginning
the voyage of life, to whom all around seems beautiful, and everything
bright ahead. She is troubled by no thought of storm or trial; she
rejoices that she is going to a home, and she trusts to a parent's care
to provide all things needful on the way. Lord, give me this childlike
spirit of trust, and hope, and love, as I journey to the heavenly home,
which my dear husband has long since reached."

Pleasure seldom lasts long without a check. Shortly before passing the
Nore, as evening was coming on, a shower of rain warned the voyagers
to seek shelter below. Minnie had not yet seen the place in which two
nights were to be passed, and it was with some curiosity that she
descended the steep stairway that led to the ladies' cabin.

"What a dark, dull room!" she exclaimed, as she entered and looked
around; "and how hot and close it feels! I wish that we could stop all
night on deck. Why, where are we to sleep?" she added; "not in those
little pigeonholes surely! Are twelve or fourteen ladies to be crowded
together in a room no bigger than our parlor, and not nearly so nice
and high?"

"These are our berths," said Mrs. Mayne, with a smile, showing to her
daughter a little recess, almost perfectly dark, in which were four
"pigeonholes," as Minnie called them, two on each side, one above
another, each containing a bed; while in the centre was a space only
wide enough to turn round in. "The berths on the right hand are ours.
You shall have the one over mine."

Minnie laughed at the idea of clambering up to her little nest, though
she did not much like its appearance. "And will two other ladies," she
asked, "be packed into these tiny berths on the left?"

"No doubt, as the steamer is full."

"I hope they'll be quiet and pleasant," murmured Minnie, who was quite
unaccustomed to be brought into such very close contact with strangers.
She had scarcely spoken, when Mrs. Lowe and her Jemima came bustling up
to the recess.

"What a wretched dark hole it is!" exclaimed the greengrocer's wife,
in disgust, as with her dress spreading out like a balloon, she almost
entirely blocked up the entrance.

"Mamma, we can't sleep in such a place," cried Jemima. Minnie wondered
to herself in what corner the pea-green jacket and plumed hat could
be stowed, and for the first time felt glad that her own dress was so
simple and plain.

While the Lowes went for their bandboxes and provision bag, Minnie
whispered to her mother, "So they are to be our companions in this
funny little place! I would rather have had some people not quite so
dashing and grand."

Mrs. Mayne smiled to herself at the ignorance of her child, whose eye
had been caught by mere outside glitter. "She will know better in
time," thought the lady, "and learn to distinguish between tinsel and
real gold."

The Lowes returned to their little recess, which, small as it was,
they made smaller, by stuffing it full of their luggage, without the
least regard to the comfort of their unfortunate fellow travelers.
The night had now come on, and a lamp was lighted near the end of the
cabin, which threw but a dull gleam into the part portioned off for the
four. The steamer had entered the open sea, and to other discomforts
was added that of a heaving motion, which, with the close air, gave to
Minnie a tightness and pain in the head.

"Mamma," said she, sadly, to Mrs. Mayne, who was sitting beside her on
a sofa near the recess, but in a more open part of the cabin; "mamma, I
am afraid that we shall find this a miserable voyage after all."

"It is something like the voyage of life, my darling, in which we must
all expect to find some things to annoy and try; but let us make little
of trifling discomforts, and cheerfully look to the end. We know that
we are going home—the voyage will soon be over."

"Yes, mamma; and the less we like the way, the more glad shall we be to
get home. It makes one think of the verse about our heavenly rest:"

   "'There fairer bowers than Eden's bloom,
       Nor sin nor sorrow see;
     Blest land, o'er rude and stormy waves,
       I onward press to thee.'"

"And now, Minnie," said her mother, "the sooner you can forget your
discomforts in sleep, the better. I will just read a small portion of
the Bible to you as usual, and then you shall climb up into your berth,
and, I hope, slumber quietly till the morning."

"Mamma, you can't read the Bible here," whispered Minnie, "where there
are so many strangers;" and she glanced timidly at the tall, portly
figure of Mrs. Lowe, who was standing very near her.

"Why should we not read it, my child? It makes no difference in the
importance of a duty whether we perform it quietly in our own room,
or with many around us. You know that you are not able to read to
yourself, and must therefore hear your mother."

So saying, Mrs. Mayne drew forth a Testament from her bag, and in a
low, clear voice began reading to the child, who nestled close to her
side. Minnie felt shy and uneasy. Though her mother read softly, the
Lowes were so near that they must overhear every word; and the child
fancied that she saw a scornful look on the face of the elder, and on
that of Jemima a wondering smile, as though hearing the Bible read was
something strange to both. It is very possible that Mrs. Mayne wished
to be overheard; and it was with more than usual earnestness that she
prayed God to bless the reading of His Holy Word.

"'Then shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten virgins, who
took their lamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom. And five of
them were foolish, and five were wise. For the foolish, when they took
their lamps, took no oil with them: but the wise took oil in their
vessels with their lamps.'"

"Mamma," whispered Minnie, "I do not understand what is meant by the
virgins and their lamps."

"The virgins, my child, are the whole Christian world, now expecting
the coming of their Lord. The oil is God's grace in the soul, shining
forth in a holy life. What would a lamp be without oil? What would a
soul be without grace?—a dark and a worthless thing!"

Minnie fixed her eyes upon the lamp, which was now throwing around its
yellow light, and thought what a fearfully gloomy place that cabin
would be, but for its cheering gleam. Mrs. Mayne turned her page, so
that the light should fall upon it, and continued reading the parable,
so full of deep and solemn meaning:—

"'Now while the bridegroom tarried, they all slumbered and slept. But
at midnight there is a cry, Behold, the bridegroom! Come ye forth to
meet him!'"

"'And the foolish said unto the wise, Give us of your oil; for our
lamps are gone out. But the wise answered, saying, Peradventure there
will not be enough for us and you; go ye rather to them that sell, and
buy for yourselves.'"

"We see here," observed Mrs. Mayne, pausing in her reading, "that no
human being has power to save the soul of another, or to share with him
that grace which is the gift of God alone. The wise cannot supply the
foolish; each must answer for himself before God."

"'And while they went away to buy, the bridegroom came; and they that
were ready went in with him to the marriage feast: and the door was
shut.'"

"'Afterward came also the other virgins, saying, Lord, Lord, open to
us. But he answered and said, Verily I say unto you, I know you not.'"

[Illustration: Mrs. Mayne drew forth a Testament from her bag,
 and in a clear, low voice began reading to the child, who nestled
 close to her side.]

"Oh!" exclaimed Minnie, "Does that mean that the foolish virgins—the
people who have no grace in their souls—will be shut out from heaven
for ever?"

"Shut out from light—shut out from glory—shut out from the presence
of the Lord! To me few words in the Bible are so fearfully solemn as
those, 'The door was shut!' Mercy's door is wide open now, open to
all who repent and believe. All are invited guests to heaven. All are
welcome now to the Saviour. All may have grace for the asking; yea,
'without money and without price'; it is promised to the prayer of
faith. But a time will come when it will be too late for sinners to
seek for grace—too late to sue for pardon, when mercy's door will be
shut upon those who would not repent and be saved. 'Watch therefore;
for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man
cometh.'" And with this solemn warning on her lips, Mrs. Mayne closed
the Testament.

"Mamma," said Minnie, resting her little hand on the arm of her mother,
and looking earnestly into her face, "do you think that the Lord will
come soon?"

"God only knows the time," was the reply; "but it is for us to live as
those who are ready and waiting for His coming. Of one thing we all are
assured—death is not very far off; it may come soon to the young; it
must come soon to the aged: and death is as the midnight cry, 'Behold,
the bridegroom cometh!'"

"I can't imagine," said Mrs. Lowe, addressing herself to Jemima, but
in a tone to be overheard, "why people who are strong and hearty
should always be thinking about death. I for one never trouble
myself with sickly fancies;" and as she spoke, she plunged her hand
deep into her provision bag, and brought out of its depths a rather
suspicious-looking flask.

Little Minnie, assisted by her mother, was soon safe in her tiny nest,
which she found less uncomfortable than she had expected. The child
did not, however, feel disposed to sleep. She seemed in a strange, new
world, and sat up for some time in her berth, watching the movements
of the Lowes by the light of the lamp, and listening to the voices of
the ladies who occupied the cabin. Presently, however, the motion of
the vessel became so disagreeable to Minnie that she was glad to lay
down her aching head. She heard poor Jemima complaining bitterly, and
Mrs. Lowe abusing steamers and all their arrangements, and scolding the
stewardess for not attending at once to her unreasonable wants.

"It's a comfort," thought poor little Minnie, "that the voyage can't
last for ever. I wonder if any people feel the same way about the
voyage of life—if any are really glad to know that it soon may come to
an end! Ah! Only the wise virgins, who had oil in their lamps, could
start up with joy at the midnight cry! They were glad at the thought of
seeing the bridegroom, for they were ready to go to the feast. I wonder
how I should feel, if I heard that I soon should meet my Lord."

As the night advanced, the sounds in the cabin became gradually
stilled; Jemima ceased to complain, and her mother to scold; both
showed by their welcome silence that they were fast asleep. The weather
was by no means stormy; there was nothing to disturb or alarm, and an
occasional heavy step on the deck overhead, or a slight creaking in the
cordage, with the constant beat of the paddles, were all the noises
now heard. Minnie, wearied by the day's excitement, sank into peaceful
slumber at last; she knew that her mother was close beneath her, and
that God was watching above.

Suddenly every occupant of the ladies' cabin was startled from sleep by
the sound of great commotion on deck, tramping of feet, and loud and
repeated cries of alarm, that thrilled every heart with fear. Anxious
faces were bent forward from every berth, and eager questions were
passed from mouth to mouth, to which none seemed able to reply. "What
is that noise? What can have happened? Has the ship struck? Have we
run down some vessel?" And as the sound above continued and increased,
rapid movements were made on all sides, as the ladies began hasty
preparations for appearing on deck, should there prove to be real cause
for alarm.

"Stewardess, stewardess!" called out Mrs. Lowe, as she searched here
and there for her mantle, "run up-stairs; ask what is the matter; I'm
sure something dreadful has occurred. If ever I travel by steamer
again—"

"Mamma, mamma!" cried the terrified Jemima, "How awfully hot it has
grown!"

"I feel half stifled," murmured pour Minnie, as, half dizzy with sleep,
and trembling with fright, she held out her arms to her mother, who
lifted her down from her berth.

The stewardess hurried to the door. The instant that she opened it,
to the horror of all in the cabin, in rolled a suffocating volume of
smoke, and only too distinctly sounded the voices above—"Fire! Fire!"
was the terrible cry.

"Don't let the women come up—they must keep down—we can't have them
here on deck!" called out the loud voice of the captain. Several of the
ladies attempted to rush up the hatchway, but were roughly ordered back
by the sailors.

"You would but hinder us here; go down and pray," cried a tar, all
begrimed with smoke.

"Yes, let us pray," re-echoed the voice of Mrs. Mayne, as she sank on
her knees in the cabin, her hands clasped, and her arms enfolding her
daughter.

In that hour of terror and danger, the varied characters of those
in that crowded cabin showed in strange distinctness. Differences
of rank and age were quite forgotten—a common fear seemed to level
all; while far more marked than before grew the contrast between the
foolish virgins and the wise. Poor Jemima stood trembling in the
recess, unconsciously trampling under foot the plumed hat which had
once been her pride. Mrs. Lowe was almost mad with terror. Wringing
her hands, and imploring those to save her whose peril was as great
as her own—wildly asking those who knew as little as herself whether
there were no hope of deliverance—she stood a fearful picture of
one who has lived for the world and self. What were then to her the
comforts or pleasures bought at the price of conscience! With what
feelings did she then recall warnings despised and duties neglected!
Could all her unrighteous gains—gains by petty fraud, by bold
Sabbath-breaking—procure her one moment's peace when she feared that,
within an hour, she might be standing before an angry God? No; those
very gains were as fetters, as dead-weights, to sink her soul down to
destruction. "Your gold and silver is cankered, and the rust of them
shall be a witness against you, and shall eat your flesh as it were
fire. Ye have heaped up treasure for the last days."

Mrs. Mayne was pale but calm. Her best treasure was safe where neither
storm nor fire could touch it. She knew that a sudden death is, to the
Christian, but a shorter passage home, a quicker entrance into glory.
The grace which she had sought for by prayer in time of safety, shone
out brightly now in time of danger, and she was able to sustain others
by the light which cheered her own trusting soul. Mrs. Mayne prayed
aloud, and many in the cabin fervently joined in her prayers.

"I can't pray, I can't pray!" cried Mrs. Lowe, sinking her face on
her hands, while her long, loose black hair streamed wildly over her
shoulders. Then suddenly changing her tone, and stretching out her
arms, she exclaimed, "O God! Spare me, spare me yet a while; I will
lead a different life, I will turn from my sins; mercy, mercy on a
wretched sinner! Let not the door yet be shut; save me, save me from
this terrible death!"

Minnie clung round her mother; the greater the danger, the greater the
fear, the closer she clung! "We shall not be separated!" she gasped
forth; and Mrs. Mayne, bending down, whispered in her ear, "'And who
shall separate us from the love of Christ?' My precious one, He is with
us now; He has power to subdue the fire, or to bear us safe through it
to glory."

It was a strange and awful scene, and strange and wild were the
mingling sounds that rose from the ship on fire. Shouting, shrieking,
praying; the clank of the pump incessantly at work, voices giving
hurried commands, the crackling of flame, the gurgle of water, the
rushing of feet to and fro. Then—oh, blessed hope!—can that sudden,
sharp clatter be indeed that of rain, pelting rain, against the window
of the cabin, that dark window, which has only been lightened now and
then by a terrible gleam from the fire?

"Rain, blessed rain!" exclaimed Mrs. Mayne, starting up. "Rain, rain!"
repeated every joyful tongue; and then there was a momentary silence
to listen to the clattering drops, as thicker and faster they fell, as
if in answer to the fervent prayers that were rising from every heart.
Surely never was shower more welcome!

"Oh, God sends the rain!" exclaimed Minnie. "There's no red glare now
to be seen. It is pelting, it is pouring; it comes down like a stream!"
And even as the words were on her tongue, a loud, long, glad cheer from
above gave welcome tidings that the fire was subdued.

"Thank God, ladies, the danger is over," said the captain, at the door.
He was now, for the first time, able to leave his post-upon deck, to
relieve the terrors of his passengers below.

Then was there a strange revulsion of feeling amongst those who had
lately been almost convulsed with terror. Strangers embraced one
another like sisters, sobbing, laughing, congratulating each other;
the passengers seemed raised at once from the depth of misery to the
height of rapture. This, also, soon subsided, and it became but too
evident that, with some, gratitude was almost as short-lived as fear,
and that God's warning made no more lasting impression on the heart
than the paddle-wheels on the water—creating a violent agitation for a
few minutes, leaving a whitened track for a brief space longer, which,
melting away from view, all became as it had been before.

Mrs. Lowe was very angry at the carelessness which had occasioned
her such a fright; she was angry with the captain, the sailors, the
passengers; in short, angry with every one but herself.

"I'll never set my foot in a steamer again! As if all the discomfort
were not enough to drive one out of one's wits, one is not left to
sleep for a moment in peace. Ah, tiresome child!" she exclaimed, almost
fiercely, turning upon poor Jemima, "What have you done! Trampled your
new hat, crushed the feather to bits!"

Jemima, who had by no means recovered from the shock of the alarm, made
no attempt to reply to her mother, but sat crying in the corner of her
berth. Mrs. Lowe, declaring that she would stay no longer to be stifled
down below, made her way up to the deck, though the first faint streak
of dawn was but beginning to flush the sky.

Minnie was on her mother's knee, peaceful, happy, thankful. From that
dear resting-place she looked upon the poor little girl, whom she had
half envied on the preceding evening, but whom she regarded now only
with a feeling of pity. Mrs. Mayne saw that the child's nerves had been
severely shaken, and, bending forward, she gently drew the weeping
Jemima to her side.

"God has been very good to us; shall we not love Him, and thank Him?"
said the lady.

Jemima squeezed her hand in reply.

"And shall we not try to set our affections on things above, so that,
trusting in our Saviour God, our hearts may fear no evil?"

The tears were fast coursing one another down the pale cheeks of
Jemima, and Minnie, with an impulse of joy, raised her head from her
mother's bosom, and kissed her little companion.

This trifling act of kindness quite opened the heart of the girl.
Jemima threw her little arms round the neck of Minnie, and, burying her
face on her shoulder, sobbed forth, "Oh, where shall I get the grace,
the oil for my lamp, that I may never be so frightened, so miserable
again, when I hear the midnight cry!"

Never had Mrs. Mayne and her daughter spent a holier or more peaceful
hour than that which followed, as in that narrow recess of the cabin,
while the morning sun rose over the sea, the lady spoke to a trembling
inquirer of the Saviour who died for sinners.

"Do you, my child, long for more grace to make you holy in life, and
happy at the hour of death? 'Blessed are they who hunger and thirst
after righteousness, saith the Lord, for they shall be filled.' It is
the Spirit of God in your soul that alone can make that soul holy.
Kneel, and ask for it in the name of the Saviour, who hath promised,
'Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it
shall be opened unto you.' Sweet is His service, rich its reward;
pardon and peace, happiness and heaven, such are His gifts to His
children. The world and all within it must soon pass away; its
pleasures, its riches, its glory: for 'the day of the Lord will come
as a thief, in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great
noise, and the elements shall be dissolved with fervent heat, and the
earth and the works that are therein shall be burned up.' But is there
anything in this to terrify the Christian? Oh, no! For to him 'the day
of the Lord' will be the day of joy, and thanksgiving, and triumph.
For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven, with a shout, with the
voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in
Christ shall rise first; then we that are alive, that are left, shall
together with them be caught up in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the
air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.'"

Deep sank the words of Scripture into the hearts of the two little
girls. Each in her different path trimmed her lamp with the oil of
grace, and the holy life of a wise virgin waiting for the coming of her
Lord.





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