Drifted ashore;

THE boys were frightened enough themselves now, and their only thought was to get to land as quickly as possible and find help for Bertie. They hardly knew whether they were most relieved or most alarmed to see that their uncle had now come down to the shore, and was standing with Queenie and Phil, waiting for the boat to come back.

They were glad he had come, because he would know what to do with Bertie; but they had an uneasy feeling that he would not approve their treatment of him, and their own consciences began to tell them that they had not acted well towards the helpless child.

But they had not much time for thinking or for planning excuses. Five minutes of hard rowing brought them to the shore, and Uncle Fred hailed them in his hearty way, and was waiting to help them to run the boat aground.

“Where’s Bertie?” cried Queenie. “Did he mind the water to-day?”

Walter’s face was very red.

“I think he’s fainted, or something. I never guessed he’d be scared like that.”

Uncle Fred looked searchingly at the speaker, and then, catching a glimpse of the huddled-up figure in the bow, he stooped down and lifted out the unconscious child.

Bertie’s face was deadly pale, and quite rigid. His wrists were bleeding where the cord had cut into them.

David uttered a frightened cry; and Uncle Fred’s face was very stern.

“What does all this mean?”

The boys were silent; and Queenie tried to make some explanation that should also be an exculpation; but as soon as her uncle had gleaned the bare facts of the case, he cut her short very unceremoniously.

“Go home, all of you! There will be no boating to-day. I have nothing to say to you now. Another time we must talk of your cowardly and cruel conduct. Go away now at once. You must not be in sight when the child recovers. Go! I am very much displeased with you all.”

The boys and their sister moved slowly away in a shamefaced manner, very unlike their usual rattling pace. They heartily wished they had never indulged their teasing propensities to the extent of trying to give Bertie a lesson. Their own good feeling told them they had been wrong, and they were terribly vexed at having incurred Uncle Fred’s displeasure. Queenie and Phil wished now that they had followed their first impulse, and interfered on Bertie’s behalf; but they had been ashamed to do so at first, and now the mischief was done.

Meantime, Uncle Fred had cut the cords that bound Bertie, and had bathed his face with vinegar and water that David brought from the cottage. Very soon Bertie heaved a long, shuddering sigh, and slowly opened his eyes. He did not at first seem to know where he was or who was with him; but after Uncle Fred had spoken to him once or twice kindly, reassuring words, the child appeared to recover himself, and put out a small hand, saying questioningly,—

“Uncle Fred?”

The young man smiled at hearing himself so addressed, but he was pleased to be accepted on such terms.

“Yes, my little man, it is Uncle Fred; and if Uncle Fred had only been here a few minutes earlier, all this should not have happened. I am very sorry those rascally nephews of mine have given you such a fright; but you will be a brave boy, I know, and not think of it more than you can help, and you will be none the worse in the long run.”

Bertie remembered all about it now, and he began to tremble in spite of the kindly pressure of Uncle Fred’s arm round him.

“What is the matter, my child? You are not afraid now?”

“No—not exactly—if they won’t do it again.”

“I will take care they do not.”

“They said they would throw me in to teach me to swim,” and the child’s teeth chattered at the bare recollection.

Uncle Fred muttered some words that Bertie did not catch, and then said aloud,—

“Never you mind what they said. They shall never have another chance.”

Something in the tone warned Bertie that his tormentors were going to have rather a warm time of it, as they themselves would phrase it, from this favorite uncle of theirs.

He was sorry then, and looked up suddenly with appealing eyes.

“Please don’t be angry with them. I don’t think they understand. You see, it never happened to them.”

“What never happened to them?”

“Why, the water coming in—the cold, dreadful water—rising higher and higher—and the people crying and shouting and rushing to the boats;” and Bertie pressed his hands into his eyes, as if to shut out some terrible picture.

Uncle Fred remained long silent, hoping the child would go on, and perhaps utter words that might be a clue for his identification; but he said no more, and presently the young man asked,—

“And did all that happen to you, Bertie?”

“Ye—es—unless I dreamed it;” and Bertie slowly took his hands from his face and looked wonderingly up at Uncle Fred.

“And when did it happen? Just before you came here?”

But the child shook his head with a look of distress.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember. But in the boat it seemed just like it.”

Uncle Fred was much interested; but he judged it better to say no more on such an exciting topic. Bertie’s eyes glowed strangely, and his face, a little while ago so deadly pale was now flushed and hot, and the little frame still quivered with excitement, and perhaps with fear. It was evident that the child needed soothing, and he purposely turned the conversation into a channel that could not but be safe.

“Bertie,” he said, gravely, yet very kindly, “when you are frightened and troubled about anything, do you remember to ask God to take care of you and to make you brave and strong?”

Bertie looked up quickly and wistfully into the face above him.

“I do sometimes; I pray to God every day; but when I get frightened, I think I forget.”

“Do not forget again then, my child; for you will never pray to God in vain. He never forgets.”

Bertie’s glance was more touchingly appealing than before. It made Uncle Fred ask,—

“What is it, my child?”

Bertie’s lip quivered.

“I’ve been asking Him for weeks and weeks to let me remember who I am; and He never does. I do try to believe He will; but He does make it such a long time. Sometimes it seems as if He must have forgotten, though David says He doesn’t ever forget really; but I do think He must have forgotten me;” and then the child’s voice broke altogether, and he told amid his sobs how he and David tried to meet every day at the turn of the tide, to pray for something that they seemed to ask in vain.

Uncle Fred was much touched by the simply-told tale, and he put his arm round the little boy in quite a fatherly fashion, and let him sob out his trouble upon his shoulder, and then, when the child had grown somewhat calmer, he began to talk to him in a quiet and reassuring fashion.

“My dear little boy, you may be quite sure of one thing, and that is that God hears every word you say, and that not one of your prayers is lost; but you must be patient, and wait for the answer until He sends it. He knows when that will be, though you do not, and He knows best.”

“I know,” answered Bertie, quickly. “I always try to remember to say ‘Thy will be done’ too;” and the old look of perplexity stole over his face as he added, “Somebody told me to say that—it was when the water was coming in.”

“You do not know who told you?” asked Uncle Fred, gently.

Bertie shook his head and looked distressed. Already the recollection had passed like a flash, leaving only the blank behind.

“Whoever it was said quite right,” said Uncle Fred, gravely. “You know who it was that taught us that prayer, Bertie?”

“Jesus,” answered the child, softly.

“Yes, Jesus; and you must never forget how much He had to bear, and to bear for us. He prayed that the bitter cup might pass away if it were God’s will, and yet He drank it to the very dregs, and all for our sakes. He once thought God had forsaken Him; but do you think He had?”

Bertie shook his head.

“Oh no. He could not forget His Son, you know.”

“And He cannot forget one of His children either, Bertie. Are you one of His little ones, my child?”

Bertie looked up wistfully.

“I don’t know. I should like to be. How can I tell?”

“Have you ever gone to Him in His own way, and asked Him to make you His?”

“I don’t know,” answered Bertie, slowly. “I have prayed to Him; but I don’t know how to go to Him—I don’t know what His way is.”

“His way is the way of the cross,” answered Uncle Fred, very gravely; and then, seeing that the child did not understand his meaning, he added, “I mean, my child, that you must go to Jesus first, and the rest will follow of itself.”

“How can I go to Him?” asked the child.

“You can go in prayer, my little boy. You must take all your troubles with you and all your sins. Your burden of sins may not be very heavy, but I daresay it troubles you sometimes.”

Bertie hung his head.

“I feel very naughty sometimes. I get angry and cross, and I think naughty things, if I don’t say them; and then I am miserable, and it doesn’t seem as if God would care for me any more. Once or twice, when I’ve been frightened, I’ve said things that were not quite true. I know God can’t love me any more if I do that. I sometimes think that is why He won’t hear me when I pray to Him.”

Uncle Fred was too wise to make light of Bertie’s little recital of sins. He said gravely, and gently,—

“You will have to get those sins taken away, Bertie, before you can feel quite happy again, or before you will feel to be one of God’s little children.”

Bertie look up pleadingly.

“Will Jesus take them away if I ask Him?”

“Yes, Bertie, indeed He will. He is always waiting for us to come to Him with our sins. He can see our hearts. He knows when we are really sorry; and if we are, He washes away our sins in His precious blood, and make us worthy to call ourselves the sons of God.”

“But—but—”

“Well, my child, what is your difficulty?”

“I don’t quite know how to say it; but don’t you think He might not care to listen to anybody like me? He would love you—perhaps He likes grown-up people to come; but I’m only a little boy—and I don’t belong to anybody—and perhaps—”

“You belong to Jesus, Bertie,” was the gravely-spoken answer. “You belong to the dear Lord who died on the cross to save you. And can you not tell me who it was that said, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not?’ Is He likely after that to forbid them Himself?”

Bertie looked up with a sudden smile.

“He is very good, isn’t He? I should like to belong to Him always.”

“Yes, Bertie, go to Him, and leave your burden of sin at the foot of His cross. Be one of His own little children—His faithful little soldiers, ready to obey Him and to fight for him as well as to love and trust Him; and then, whatever happens to you here, whatever may be His will about you, whether He gives you back to your earthly parents or not, you will always have a loving Father in heaven, a Friend and Guardian in His Son, and in His good time, I trust, a Comforter and Counsellor in the good Spirit He will breathe into your heart. Whatever else may happen to you, Bertie, you will never be alone.”

The child could not understand all this speech, yet he entered into its spirit, and it comforted him strangely. He felt as if once he had known something of the grand truths now unfolded before him, as it were, for the first time, and the sweet, undefined sense of familiarity brought them home to his heart with a peculiar sense of warmth and light.

He looked up with one of his rare smiles.

“I think I understand. I think I had forgotten about Jesus; but I shan’t forget any more. I love Him very much now.”

“And you will not love Him any less as time goes on,” answered Uncle Fred, in the grave, kind way that Bertie liked so much. “And now, my little boy, I am going to take you home, and tell the Squire all about my naughty nephews.”

Bertie looked rather disturbed.

“I don’t want them to be punished. They did not mean to be unkind. They did not understand.”

“Well, well, we will not talk of that any more. They were old enough to know better; but if it distresses you, they shall get off easily. Do you feel quite able to walk home now?”

“Oh yes!” answered Bertie, getting up, but finding himself a little unsteady on his feet. However, with the help of Uncle Fred’s hand, he was able to get along quite easily, and his new friend talked so pleasantly and kindly to him all the way, that he enjoyed the walk very much, and was almost sorry when it was over.