Jack the Englishman

CHAPTER V

A CHURCH OFFICIAL

Neither game nor story was needed for the children's amusement that afternoon. They sat side by side on the grass with their heads very close together discussing the exciting event of the morning, the strange man's visit and his puzzling profession; at least Jack was extremely puzzled and not at all satisfied by Eva's explanation.

"He's mummy's brother, don't you see? and my uncle. That's what he means when he says he's a bush brother."

Jack shook his head incredulously. "Mummy's brother and bush brother can't mean the same," he said.

"Pr'aps he calls himself 'bush' 'cause he's got a beard," Eva suggested.

"That's silly! A bush has got nothing to do with a beard."

"Yes, it has," said Eva nodding her head, "birds build in bushes and they build in beards."

Jack fairly screamed with laughter. "Who's stuffed you up with that nonsense?"

"It's not nonsense," said Eva, almost in tears. "It's in a book mummy gave me, and there's a picture of the man and a verse about him too, so it must be true. Mummy teached me the verse."

"Say it, then," said Jack, mockingly, and Eva folded her arms behind her plump little person, knitting her brows in the effort to quicken memory.

"There was an old man with a beard,
    Who said 'It's just as I feared,
Two owls and a wren, four larks and a hen
    Have all built their nests in my beard.'

"THERE!"

Only capital letters could express the triumph of the final exclamation, but Jack laughed louder and longer than ever.

"But it isn't true," he said.

"O' course it's true. It's in a book, and there's the picture. Mummy shall show you," reiterated Eva, stamping her foot.

The quarrel promised to be a pretty one, when, all unperceived, the man whose beard was under discussion had come into the garden and stood by them. Eva ran towards him, putting her hand in his.

"Uncle Tom, tell him, please. He won't b'lieve me."

"It's all about beards," said Jack. "Eva says birds build in 'em same as they do in bushes, and o' course they don't. It's just nonsense."

"No bird has tried to build in mine at present," said Uncle Tom, stroking his thoughtfully. "What made you think of such a funny thing, Eva?"

It took a minute or two to unravel the thread of the children's discussion, and Uncle Tom sat chuckling to himself as they talked.

"The simplest way of putting the matter straight will be to tell you what I mean by calling myself a bush brother, won't it?"

"Yes," said the children in chorus.

"It's neither being mummy's brother nor the beard I grow that gives me the title——"

Jack gave Eva a nudge.

"But it's the calling that I've chosen for the present. There were a few parsons in England——"

"Oh! it's parsons who are called bush brothers, is it?" asked Jack, a little disappointed at so commonplace an explanation.

"No, not all parsons, but just a few of us who have undertaken a particular kind of work. We heard of Englishmen who had emigrated to the colonies and settled in places very far away from their fellows, who year after year lived out their lonely lives never getting a chance to have their little children baptized, or their sick people visited, whose Sundays were just spent like other days because they had no services to go to, so a few of us banded ourselves together in a sort of brotherhood——"

"What's that mean?" Jack asked.

"A society or company that binds itself together to do the same work, and the work we brothers put before us was to come out to the colonies for a few years and make it our special business to find out all the lonely settlers in the bush and visit them, and try to gather them together for little services. Now you see why we call ourselves bush brothers: because our work lies, not in townships and places such as this, although I am going to be here on Sundays for a little while whilst your clergyman is away on sick leave, but we wander from place to place, to all the most distant homesteads, some of them buried miles and miles away in the bush."

"Does you walk?" asked Eva in her matter-of-fact fashion.

"Sometimes I walk and sometimes, when I know the distance is too great, I hire a horse and ride, and sometimes the way is hard to find, and I get lost. I was lost for two whole days not long ago, and had to camp out at night without either food or shelter. I was glad, I can tell you, when I struck the track again and found myself not far from a farm where they showed me the greatest kindness. I spent a Sunday there, and the farmer and his sons gathered together a few other people not far away, and we had service in a barn, and I baptized three little children that had been born since last a parson had visited them. I stayed there for a week, and gave the children lessons every day, and they were so pleased and eager to learn, poor mites. They did not even know the stories about Jesus when He was a baby. It's not often I find children as ignorant as that, but many of them get very little teaching about the Bible. Very often there is not a Bible in the house. I don't always have tiny congregations. Last Sunday I was miles away up there," pointing to the bush-clad hills which bounded the horizon, "where there are some large lumber works, and quite a lot of men are at work there. So I spent the few days before in making friends with them, and asking them to meet me at service on Sunday, and we had quite a fine service in the open air, and you should have heard the singing. It was glorious."

"I'd like it ever so much better than going to the wooden church down here," said Jack.

Uncle Tom laughed genially. "Aren't you fond of going to church, then?"

"Not very; you've got to sit so quiet. I like the singing though, and it's not so dull now Eva comes too."

"Well, well; we'll see if you can't learn to like it better. Meanwhile, let's have a game before I pay my respects to your grandfather and grandmother."

"Cricket?" cried Jack joyfully.

"Capital! it's ever so long since I played a game of cricket."

Betty, as fresh as the morning in her trim white gown, came out to join the party in the garden, and Jack hastened to introduce her to his new friend.

"Here's Aunt Betty; she'll play too, if you ask her. She's a splendid field, and will catch you out first ball unless you're careful."

Betty and Uncle Tom laughed as they shook hands.

"I've already made friends with your nephew, Miss Treherne, and was coming to call on the rest of you this afternoon, when the children beguiled me by the way. Will you really honour us by joining in our game, though I ask it in fear and trembling after hearing of your prowess?"

"Jack gives me the credit for doing everything better than anyone else, a reputation I find it impossible to sustain, but I love to play."

A very spirited game followed, which ended finally in Betty's catching out the parson, to Jack's unspeakable triumph.

"And after your warning, too," he said, throwing down the bat in comic despair. "And now I must pay my call, and then Eva and I must trot home. My sister said she would be back at six o'clock, and we must be there to meet her."

"I'm so glad you've come; it will be so lovely for Mrs. Kenyon to have one of her own relations with her. I think she has been very lonely."

Uncle Tom turned to the kindling, sympathetic face.

"She would have been desolate indeed without the kindness she has received from you and yours. It was an unhappy chance that separated us, but such separation will be impossible again," said Tom Chance, and that was all the explanation that he felt it needful to offer or that Betty wished to hear.

When Tom and Eva returned at last to the cottage, the sound that greeted them as they entered was vigorous scrubbing, interspersed with fitful singing, and Tom pushed open the door of the inner room to see his sister on her knees scrubbing the floor with might and main, until the boards shone again with whiteness. He put his arms round her and swung her to her feet.

"How dare you do it, Birdie? What shall I say to you for setting to work like that at the end of a long day's sewing?"

The joy of hearing her old pet name, and feeling the masterful touch of his strong hands, brought tears to Clarissa's eyes, but a laugh to her lips.

"It's so good to hear you talk," she said, bending back her face to kiss him, "but I was bound to do it to get the room all fresh and clean for you to-night, for of course you'll come here to your prophet's chamber, just a bed and a chair and candlestick.

"Betty looked in half-an-hour ago, and wanted to do the scrubbing, but I would not let her. That joy was mine, I told her."

"Ah, I saw her slip away as I sat chatting with the old people, but I did not know she was off to lend you a hand."

"Lend a hand! she seems blessed with a dozen pairs, and they are always busy in helping other people, notably me. Had I a sister, she should be made on Betty's model. You must not think that I live in a muddle like this, but a visitor—and such a visitor—has upset the equilibrium of my establishment. Tea is laid out in the verandah. Just give me a moment to tidy my hair and wash my hands, and you will see I've not been unmindful of your creature comforts."

And truly, the meal prepared looked dainty and appetizing.

"I should say the catering of this household runs to extravagance," said her brother, smiling at her.

"Yes, for to-night, it's a case of fatted calf, and besides, I feel money at my back."

In clearing away afterwards, Tom showed himself as handy as any woman. Washing up plates and dishes he declared his speciality!

"But how did you learn it all?" asked Clarissa, pausing in her task of drying the things Tom handed her.

"In the same way you have done, by experience. In the course of my wanderings I have come across many a young fellow as gently nurtured as I am, batching in what I call squalor, so my task has been to put things straight, and keep them tidy and clean, as far as I knew how to do it. I think it lowers a man's self-respect to live in dirt and discomfort, so when any fellow has put me up for a day or two, I've tried to repay his hospitality by the labour of my hands, to make myself worth my keep as I hope to do here, if you will let me."

"But I won't! My augmented income will allow me to have a girl in now and again to do the hard work, and oh! if you knew the joy it is to me to have someone of my very own to look after again. Come along, Eva; it's time for bath and bed, and then, Tom, you and I will sit out in the verandah and talk."

Their conversation lasted far into the night, albeit desultory in character. They made no effort to pick up tangled threads, but Clarissa, nestling against her brother's side, with his protecting arm thrown round her, with the star-spangled sky overhead, and the silence of the night about her, experienced a sense of peace and happiness that had not been hers for years. Her mind went back to the early days at home, and many a childish reminiscence was recalled, over which the brother and sister joined in laughter that had something of pathos in it. And then she spoke of the first bitter trouble of her girlhood, the loss of the mother she adored when she was only twelve years old.

"I can't help feeling that if mother had lived, I never should have come to loggerheads with father. We both should have acted differently. He would have been less hard, and I less stubborn, but it's curious how the knowledge that he is dead has changed my own point of view. To-day I've felt myself more to blame than he. I wish I had taken dear George's advice, and offered to go back. Even if he had refused to have me, I should feel now that I had made some effort towards reconciliation."

"He would not have refused," Tom said. "I believe he was hungering after you in his inmost heart, but it's no use going back on the past. It only saps your energy for present action. If you made a mistake, dear, you've paid for it heavily, and God in His goodness can make even our mistakes stepping stones to lead us up to Him."

"I don't feel as if I had even begun to climb," said Clarissa, in a whisper.

"Ah, yes," was the reassuring answer, "in your devotion to husband and child, in your self-sacrifice, absolute and complete, you must have drawn nearer to God, whether you knew it or not."

Clarissa gave an indrawn sob. "You were always such a dear boy, Tom. You used to pick me up and console me when I fell, and the falls were so numerous—I was such a tom-boy—and now you are picking me up after a more serious stumble, and making me feel as if I shall walk again."

"I will run in the way of Thy commandments," said Tom, more to himself than to his sister. "I always think the man who wrote that led a very joyous sort of existence, a cheerful sort of fellow who had given up his whole life to God."

"You make religion seem so real, Tom. You always did."

There was a long pause, and the answer when it came was spoken from the depth of the man's heart.

"Surely—it's the one great reality; nothing else matters much."

The next day was Saturday, and directly breakfast was over Tom went down the township to find the little wooden fabric which represented the English church. He got the key from a house near by and let himself in by a door which had sunk on its hinges, and opened unwillingly. There was no sign of beauty in the barn-like building, and except that the altar was nicely cared for and had flowers upon it the whole place filled Tom with a sense of desolation. Truly church life in many of these places needed reformation. Small wonder that it took the heart out of many a man who began life filled with zeal and hopefulness to find himself with three or four scattered country parishes on his hands, with people kindly inclined and ever hospitable, but with narrow means, and whose church-life from want of fostering had become almost dead. To Tom Chance, fresh from the stirring life of a town parish at home, it seemed as if it needed a special outpouring of the Holy Ghost to set the thing in motion, and it was for that he prayed as he knelt for a few minutes on the altar-step. And then a step roused him, a child's step coming in at the door, and turning he saw his friend of yesterday, Jack Stephens, with his hands full of flowers, and a letter carried between his teeth. He laid down the flowers with due care, took the letter and turned it over lovingly in his hands.

"It's my very own," he said, smiling up at Tom, "I fetched it from the post office just now. I get one every week from father, and I have to answer it, but my letters are very short and his are very long."

"And the flowers," asked Tom.

"Oh, they are Aunt Betty's; I bring them down every Saturday, and she comes presently and puts them up there," pointing to the altar.

"I s'pose I'll have to wait until she comes to hear my letter."

"You can't read it for yourself, then."

"Not just all," breaking open the envelope and unfolding the letter. "I know the beginning: 'My dearest Jack,' and the end"—swiftly turning over the sheet he held and tracing the words with his finger—"'Loving father, Jack,' but I can't read the middles yet. I s'pose you can read letters as easily as Aunt Betty."

"I expect I can."

"Then you could read this to me, and I needn't wait."

"Will Aunt Betty mind, do you think?"

"Why should she? There's no secrets in it."

So Tom sat down on one of the wooden benches, and Jack sat beside him, and the letter was read aloud.

"Once more, please," said Jack, when it came to the finish, "and then I shall know all it says." So once again Tom read the letter very distinctly.

"I don't think it's wrong to read father's letter in church. He seems such a very good kind of man," said Tom, as he handed the letter back to Jack's keeping.

"Why should it be wrong?" Jack answered in great astonishment.

"Because this little house is God's special house, not to be used for just everyday things; but there are some letters one likes to read aloud here—St. Paul's for example."

"I did not know he wrote any," Jack said.

Tom took up a Bible and showed Jack some of the Epistles, explaining to him that the word meant the same as letter, and Jack grew quite excited and interested.

"And did they come by post same as mine," he said.

"No, there were no posts then; they were all carried by hand, and we can think of some room like this quite full of people listening to what the apostle had written to them. Such long letters they were; ever so much longer than father's, with a number of messages to different people at the end. As you grow older, you'll be able to read them for yourself."

It all sounded so real and interesting that Jack did not in the least realise that he was having a Bible lesson, and when Betty came in, he ran to tell her all about it.

"So you do the flowers. I thought them the prettiest thing in the church."

"It's not pretty, and there is no money to make it pretty," said Betty regretfully. "We are none of us well-to-do, and there are not many who seem to think it matters. The bell came down a little while ago, and no one has made any effort to rehang it."

Yes, there it lay in the corner of the porch; such a small bell, and yet it had served to show the church was alive and at work.

"But that seems such a small matter. Surely that could be readjusted."

"Well, father thought it really did not matter, for any boy who happens to be here rings it and pulls it too roughly, and it gets out of order."

"But here you have a ready-made bellringer," said Tom, looking at Jack. "Standing upon a hassock, Jack could quite well ring that little bell, and he would do it gently and carefully. I think Jack must be the bellringer, and I will see about the bell being put in order to-day. I think a bell is a good thing. It lets people know we are at work."

Jack grew crimson with delight. It made him feel quite a man that he should be singled out to ring the bell.

"May I, Aunt Betty: May I ring the bell?"

"Surely, Jack, if you're man enough."

So that afternoon saw Tom at work with a carpenter he had got hold of in the township, climbing up to the tiny bell-turret, and getting the bell once again into position with a brand new rope hanging inside wherewith to pull it, and on Sunday Jack awoke with the dawn and talked of nothing but the honour which was to be his that day, the office of bell-ringer. He was to call for Tom Chance on his way down to the church and to have his first lesson.

Eva was left to follow later with her mother, and never was boy prouder than Jack when he marched off, hand-in-hand, with the parson.

"S'pose I can't do it," he said with a little gasp as he entered, pulling off his straw hat.

"But you're sure to do it; it's a small bell and handled gently will be quite easy to ring. You may have to stand upon a chair."

That Sunday as the congregation dribbled into church much amusement and some pleasure was felt at the sight of the grave-faced little boy in a spotless sailor suit who stood upright as a dart upon a chair ringing the bell with care and precision, pink with the importance of his mission.

A nod from Tom as he came out of the tiny vestry in his robes told him when to stop, and he climbed down to the floor, tied up the rope so that no one should play with it, and crept to his place by Aunt Betty's side.

"He won't find it dull any more now he has his own work to do," thought Tom at the end of service, and Tom was right.

There was no keener churchman in the township than little Jack.

CHAPTER VI

MINISTERING CHILDREN

Jack's life seemed full of happenings at present, but the greatest of them was the advent of the bush brother. There was really more to tell father than the page of ruled copy-book paper upon which his weekly letter was written could compass. With the stimulus of that weekly letter his writing progressed by leaps and bounds, and expression did not seem so difficult when Aunt Betty told him to try and put down on paper the very things he would just say to father were he there to talk to, but it must be owned that the spelling, even with constant prompting from Aunt Betty left much to be desired.

"ive a chum a little gurl not so big as me we dus lesuns at wunce, but she nos nothin but her letters."

Then a few weeks later:

"a man has cum a parsun, but not like ours hes a bush bruther and hes tort me ring the bell so now I go quite erly to church on sunday and ring quite regler."

Betty indulged in many a laugh over the letters when completed, but to Jack's father they brought huge delight.

Much of what Jack said to father, and father said to Jack, was confided to Tom Chance at the rare intervals when the little boy could secure the parson's attention to himself, for Tom was a busy man and away for the principal part of every week, either touring in the bush or visiting the other three parishes, none less than twelve miles from the township, that were confided to his temporary care. Father's parable about Giants was also passed on in full with a few embellishments of Jack's own.

"A good notion that of father's," said Tom, "a notion that catches on. After all the world is just full of giants that we must subdue to our will. There's a many-headed giant that we may call Evil that we've all promised to fight, that we pray against every day. Deliver us from evil; everything that is wicked and bad, and then there's another giant God suffers in the world, the giant of illness and bodily suffering, but there are people who are fighting that with might and main, kind and clever doctors, such as you have here. If you want to find giants to subdue you will have no difficulty in discovering them."

"But I'm going to be just the same as father," said Jack sturdily. "I'm going to be an airman, same as he."

"Well, well, time will show," said Tom good-humouredly.

That talk had taken place one Sunday as they went down to church together. Tom usually made his re-appearance in the township on Saturday afternoon, and the moment after their dinner, Jack and Eva would wander down to the end of the lane and between their games watch eagerly for his coming. It was a matter of weekly speculation how he would arrive, whether walking, or on horseback, or upon a bicycle. It all depended upon the distances that he had to compass during the week, but it made the watching all the more exciting; but whenever and however he appeared he was sure of an enthusiastic welcome from his two devoted adherents. Although the vicarage was empty he remained with his sister, as it did not seem worth while to set up an establishment of his own for so short a period.

On one particular Saturday afternoon when the time for his appearing was long past, the children's patience began to ebb.

"Don't b'lieve he's coming at all," said Eva dejectedly.

"Lots of things may have happened," Jack answered, "his bike may have punctured, or his horse may have cast a shoe, or he may be very tired and can't walk fast."

Jack was prepared for every contingency but the notion that Tom would not turn up at all, that would be little short of a calamity, but a prolonged glance down the road showed something moving in the far distance.

"There's someone on horseback riding beside a wagon, but I don't think it's Uncle Tom," Jack continued, for Tom Chance had adopted him as nephew. "He's crawling like a snail."

But as the wagon drew nearer the outrider was without doubt their uncle, and Jack raised a shout of welcome which received no response by word or look. The clergyman's face was turned towards the wagon.

"It may be a——funeral," said Jack, under his breath. "Uncle Tom looks so solemn and sad."

Eva's rosy cheeks paled. "I think I'm going home to mummy," she said trotting off down the lane, but Jack divided between anxiety and curiosity held his ground.

"Uncle Tom, what is it? Why don't you look at me?" he said, drawing near as the wagon approached.

"A girl who's very ill; I'm taking her to the doctor. Run home now, Jack. I may see you later. If Aunt Betty is about ask her to come on to the doctor's. I know she will be of use."

Jack took in the situation with one frightened glance. The bottom of the wagon was filled with a mattress and pillows on which a girl of about thirteen or fourteen was stretched. Her eyes were closed and lines of pain were round nose and mouth, and occasionally a moan of pain broke from her lips. Pain was a new experience in his childish life, and Jack, charged with his message, turned and fled.

He soon found Aunt Betty, and told her about it, and the next minute she had put on her hat and was flying by a short cut across the paddock towards the doctor's house where the wagon had just arrived.

Dr. Wilson gave a pleased nod when he caught sight of Betty.

"Run on, will you, to Mrs. Mason's, just opposite the church. She will take in my patient if she has a bed to spare, and knows the way to look after them," and Betty with one sympathetic glance at the pretty face of the sufferer sped on her way. Mrs. Mason was at home and was able to put a room at the doctor's disposal, and Betty only waited until the girl was safely lodged there and to find out if there were any needs that she and her mother could supply, before slipping off home again. She found the family at supper, but Jack saw the face that nearly always smiled at him shadowed with anxiety.

"Is it a bad case, do you think?" her mother asked. "What is the poor child's name?"

"Jessie Butler, and she comes from some back block behind Wylmington. The only chance of saving her life was to bring her right away to the doctor, so Mr. Chance saw to her removal, but the doctor thinks badly of her. It's some injury to her spine, and he must operate to-night."

Jack had laid down his knife and fork, and was listening with bated breath.

"He's so clever, p'raps he'll conquer," he said.

Mr. Treherne turned with a little smile at the quaint phrase.

"Who told you Dr. Wilson was clever?" he asked.

"Uncle Tom," said Jack flushing a little; the talk which had led up to the remark he kept to himself, but of the doctor's victory over pain he felt fairly confident, although facts seemed against him. After supper Betty ran down to Mrs. Kenyon's to ask for the latest news, but Clarissa could only tell her that her brother had looked in for a few minutes to snatch a meal, but had gone again to his patient who it was feared would not live throughout the night. It was not until daylight that he crept home to get a few hours' rest before his Sunday work. Jessie had dropped asleep, and seemed a little easier. Jack came as usual to walk with him to church.

"There must be no bell-ringing to-day, Jack," said Uncle Tom. "There is Jessie Butler, the girl I brought here yesterday, lying very ill just opposite the church, and we must make no unnecessary noise."

"Oh!" said Jack, drawing a deep breath of disappointment.

"I'm sure you would not wish to wake her out of sleep, would you?" said Tom kindly, "but there is something we can all do for her to-day which may be of real help to her."

"What," asked Jack eagerly.

"Pray for her at the service. You listen with all your ears, and you'll hear her name given, and the prayers of the congregation will be asked for her and you must say yours, Jack, say them with all your heart."

"But you said—you said Dr. Wilson was so clever that he often conquered pain," said Jack a little reproachfully.

"With God's help, yes! We none of us can do anything without it, and it's God's help we are going to ask for."

So Jack's service that morning was just one eager waiting for the mention of Jessie Butler's name, and when it came he folded his hands over his eyes and just said, "Jessie Butler, Jessie Butler," over and over again. No other words presented themselves to his mind, but surely the name so earnestly repeated reached the listening ear of the good God to whom he appealed.

The next few days were just a tussle between life and death with Jessie Butler, but life conquered, and on the fourth day the doctor was able to pronounce her out of danger. Her recovery would be slow and tedious, and she might have to remain where she was for a great many weeks, but she was going to live. Tom had confined his ministrations to the township during the days of danger, so as to be near when Jessie asked for him. He had taken his share of watching by her bed every night whilst the crisis lasted, and was as tender and handy as any woman, Mrs. Mason told the doctor.

"Yes, he's a good sort," said the doctor.

Jack's excitement and delight were great when Tom told him that Jessie was going to get better.

"Soon, will it be soon?" he said.

"No, it will be a long time before she's quite well, but she has taken the right turn."

"Is the pain gone?" asked Jack in a half whisper, remembering the white face and the little moan.

"It's better but not conquered yet, but it will get better every day. Would you like to come with me the next time I go, and take her a bunch of flowers?"

Jack's head went down. "Not if she shuts her eyes and makes a noise," he said.

"But her eyes are very big and wide open, and she'll smile at you and be so pleased to see you. I want you and Eva to go sometimes to see her. It's rather dull for her lying there all day long, although soon she will be wheeled out into the verandah."

Thus reassured Jack accepted Tom's suggestion. Yet he experienced an inward tremor as he found himself at the house-door which Tom opened and entered without knocking, but he knocked at the half-open door of the room just inside, and a girl's voice bade him enter.

"I've brought you a visitor, Jessie, a little boy who has been very anxious you should get well."

Jack laid his flowers on the bed. There was no room for fear or distress in looking at the girl who lay there with her pretty oval face framed in two big braids of dark hair, and with great, big grey eyes that smiled a welcome.

"Are they for me?" she said, nodding at the flowers. "I'd like 'em near, so as I could smell them," so Jack shifted his nosegay nearer the pillow.

"You must know his name, for he's coming again, and going to bring a little chum of his with him, my niece, Eva Kenyon. This is Jack Stephens, and his titles are numerous. He's Jack the Englishman, and Jack the Bell-ringer—he rings the bell in church, don't you, Jack?"

"Not last Sunday, because we didn't want to make a noise as you were ill," said Jack gravely.

"I'll hear it next Sunday, maybe," said Jessie. "I wish I could come. It's months and months since we've been to church. We live too far away from one, and I've been ill a long time, too."

"When you're well enough to be wheeled out into the verandah, you'll hear the hymns on Sunday night. We always prop the door open."

"That'll seem like old times," said Jessie, with quaint old-fashionedness. "I lived in the township with Grannie until I was ten years old, went to the State school every day and to Sunday school over there"—with a nod at the church. "Then Grannie died, and I went home to father and mother, but I don't like it. It's so lonesome in the bush. It's lovely to lie here and see the coach go by twice a day and the horses and bullock drays and things."

But Tom, watching the delicate face flush, thought Jessie had talked enough, and kneeling down, said a prayer or two, and standing, sang a hymn, and then bade the girl good-bye.

"Will you come again, and bring the little girl you spoke of?" asked Jessie, as Jack laid a shy hand in hers.

"Yes," said Jack gravely.

Once outside, he was full of talk about his visit.

"I shall go every day; she liked it, didn't she?"

"Yes, but you must not go too often yet, until she's stronger. She still has a good deal of pain to bear, though we hope it will grow less every day."

"I thought Dr. Wilson had conquered it."

"He's made it better, but only time can make her well."

"But she's smiling all the time."

"Yes, she's extraordinarily brave, as many girls are."

"Not so brave as boys," said Jack quickly.

"Often a great deal braver in bearing pain."

"I could take her some toys, p'raps," said Jack, not caring for the turn the conversation had taken.

"Books are more in her line; she's a great reader."

"I s'pose you'd have to read if you could not run about," Jack said.

"But Jessie loves reading as much as playing games, almost better,"—a statement so wonderful that it reduced Jack to silence.

"It was odd of you to take Jack to see that poor sick child," said Tom's sister that evening. "He's been telling Eva about it, and she's wild to go with him, but I don't think I shall let her."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I think children should be kept away from the sight of painful things as long as possible."

"But there is nothing painful to see in visiting Jessie. She's a singularly pretty child, lying in bed and nearly always smiling. Don't you think the sooner children learn to think about other people the better?"

"Oh, I don't know; let them be happy as long as they can, poor mites. I don't believe in leagues for making children kind. It only turns them into self-conscious prigs."

"I quite agree, but to teach children to minister to others without being conscious of such ministry, is surely only teaching them the lesson of unselfishness. They should give out sympathy as a rose gives out scent. Besides, I really think the child will be lonely when I'm away. I've been staying about here purposely, as long as she was in danger, but next week I must be off again about my business. Mrs. Mason gives her all the necessary looking after she requires, but has no time for sitting with her or diverting her thoughts, and it struck me that the children looking in from time to time would be very delightful for her and for them."

"Oh well, Eva shall go with Jack sometimes, and the fowls are laying pretty steadily now, so I shall be able to send a few eggs occasionally."

"I knew you would do what I asked; you always do," Tom said, smiling at his sister.

"But it's too delightful to have you here to ask things." said Clarissa, bending down to kiss him.

The pleasure the children's visits gave at the cottage was mutual. On their side it was delightful to plan little gifts by way of a surprise to Jessie, in which they were aided and abetted by their home people, but Jessie on her side proved a capital companion, who could teach them quiet games, such as "Beggar my neighbour," etc., or she would tell them wonderful tales of the bush, of fires, or people who were lost, tales that were true, that she had picked up from one or another.

But, greatly as Jessie looked forward to her little visitors, the happiest hours of her week were still on Saturday and Sunday, when her clergyman friend came to see her, for he was making the most of the time of Jessie's enforced inactivity to talk to her and teach her about sacred things, and he found in her one of the brightest and most intelligent pupils he had ever had. She was fairly familiar with the Bible stories, but as must necessarily be the case in wide districts where one clergyman has to do the work of four, her definite Church teaching was of the slightest.

And yet, that she had very strong groping in that direction was discovered to Tom one Sunday when, after some simple, direct teaching about her baptism, she looked up into his face with a sudden smile, and said:

"Why can't I be confirmed? I was all ready once, about six months ago. There was a confirmation at Wylmington, and then I could not go, and I cried myself sick with disappointment. I was ill, you see. My back had begun to be troublesome. Can't you confirm me?"

Tom did not smile at the vague conception of what confirmation meant, but answered the hungry longing for more grace that the question implied.

"You've asked me something I'm unable to give you, Jessie," he said gently. "The rite of Confirmation is not mine to perform. It's the Bishop, the chief shepherd of the flock, to whom belongs that Laying on of Hands, which brings with it, we believe, very special gifts of the Holy Spirit."

Jessie hung her head and blushed a little.

"I knew it was the Bishop who came to Wylmington, but I did not know just what you were. You seem quite different from most clergymen. I thought, maybe, you could confirm people."

"No, I'm just an ordinary every-day Parson, but as you seem keen about it, we will have some talks, and see how much you understand of its meaning. Who prepared you before?"

"Oh, Mr. Marston, the clergyman who has gone away ill, would stop after service on the Sundays; he came up to Wylmington, and told us boys and girls who wished to be confirmed to stay behind whilst he talked to us about it. And he asked us to get our Catechism perfect in between, and he said, if we kept regular to the Sunday class, he would try to see each one of us separately before the Bishop came, but I could only go to one or two of the classes, what with bad weather and being ill, but if I'd been well enough to get there on the day, I believe he'd have let me come, because I wanted it so much."

"Be confirmed, you mean," said Tom. "Why were you so eager?"

"Because, because," stammered Jessie with shining eyes, "it will help to make one good. You promise to be good, and God helps you."

It was not a very lucid way of explaining it, but the spirit was willing if the learning was weak, and Tom left her with a determination that, if possible, the girl should have her heart's desire.

CHAPTER VII

A BISHOP'S VISIT

"Everything comes to an issue to him who knows how to wait," said Tom Chance, folding up the local newspaper with an air of deep satisfaction.

He was sitting in the verandah at the farm, and Betty busied herself with a pile of mending that lay on the table before her. Tom often found his way up to the farm on a Saturday evening when his work was finished, for devoted as he and his sister were to each other, in Betty he found a more understanding sympathiser with his work. She looked up now with a quick smile.

"What have you been waiting for?"

"Waiting to catch the Bishop, and I believe the time has come when I may hope to hook him. Anyway, I will write to-night."

"Then he's likely to be in the neighbourhood?"

"He's advertised in that paper as due at Rumney in a fortnight's time to open their new little church."

"Not really!" cried Betty, laying down her work. "How perfectly delightful! Do you know that church has taken twenty years in the building? at least the first money for it was collected twenty years ago, but it was not nearly enough to cover the cost, so it was laid aside to wait for better days, and it seemed as if the better days were never coming. Now one energetic farmer has taken it up, and pushed it through by hook or crook, but I did not know it was so near completion. I must get over to the opening."

"It is to be a very gala day by the newspaper account, and I think you might take me with you, and we'll get hold of the Bishop and bring him back with us. Can you manage it, do you think?"

"What makes you want him so much?"

"I'll tell you if you care to hear."

Betty nodded, and there, in the glory of the setting sun which was flooding the western sky with every hue of the rainbow, she sat and listened to Jessie's story, her eyes filling with tears.

"But how lovely," she said, when he finished. "So you've planned that the Bishop shall come here on purpose to confirm her?"

"If he will and can; I've never had a keener candidate. Since that first talk with her I've been giving her a regular course of preparation for confirmation, not holding out any hope that it might be here and now, in case no opportunity presented itself, but just to have her ready in case one might be given me."

"Shall you tell her about it?"

"Not till I get the Bishop's answer. The disappointment would be too bitter if it came a second time."

But the Bishop's answer was kind and favourable. He had just four hours to spare, and provided he could be fetched and taken back to the nearest railway station when the service was over, he would be delighted to come.

The children happened to call immediately after Tom had brought Jessie the wonderful news, and found her simply radiant with joy.

"The Bishop's coming on purpose to confirm me. Isn't it good of him and of Mr. Chance to have settled it? I'm so happy, I don't know how to lie still. I'd like to be up and jumping for joy."

But Jack stood looking at her with wondering eyes.

"I don't understand," he said. "What makes you so happy?"

"That I'm going to be confirmed," said Jessie simply. "I've wished it ever so much, and thought I might wait for years."

"What's being confirmed?"

Jessie flushed a little. "Being strengthened by God's Holy Spirit. It's only the Bishop who can confirm you, you know."

Jack asked no more; here was something quite beyond his understanding. Perhaps Uncle Tom could make it clearer if he could talk to him about it when they were quite alone.

He approached the subject cautiously on the following morning as he trotted down to church by Tom's side.

"Is a Bishop a sort of head doctor?" he asked.

Tom gave an inward chuckle, but kept outwardly grave.

"That's not exactly how I should describe him; he is the head of the clergy in any diocese where he may be placed, a diocese means a certain division of the church which is given into his keeping, and the clergy have to look up to him as their head. What made you think he was a head doctor?"

"I didn't understand, but Jessie said he would lay his hands upon her and make her strong."

They had reached the church door, and Tom unlocked it and passed in before he answered. Then, in the simplest language he could command, he drew Jack to his side and gave him his first lesson on the sacraments, the outward signs which—God appointed—convey the inward grace. He talked to him of baptism, pointing to the tiny font, as he spoke, where the water poured on the baby's face, accompanied with the clergyman's prayer, was the sign of the Holy Spirit descending upon the little child; how, after confirmation, that child would be dedicated to God to be His faithful soldier and servant until his life's end.

"And when you are a big boy, Jack, you will, I hope, do what Jessie is so anxious to do now, you will stand before the Bishop——"

"Will Jessie stand. Will she be strong enough?" broke in Jack.

"No, God will know she can't stand, but she will lie with folded hands and make her promise to go on serving God all her life and to fight against the devil and all his works, and then the Bishop will lay his hands upon her head and pray that the Holy Spirit may come upon her and make her strong enough by His gifts to keep this promise. It is that strength, we believe the laying on of hands conveys."

"Then it won't make Jessie walk?" said Jack dejectedly.

"Dear boy, it will make her walk straight on the road towards God, and that is the first thing, the most important thing in all the world, to get nearer to God. But if ever she is able to walk again it will be God that gives her the power. And now it is time you began to ring the bell."

But Jack had some more questions to ask.

"Shall I see Jessie confirmed, see the Bishop lay his hands on her head?"

"Why, surely, if you wish it, and join your prayer with his. 'Pray God give Jessie Thy Holy Spirit.'"

"And when will I be big enough?"

"To be confirmed, do you mean? It's not so much a question of years, or size, as of understanding, Jack; understanding what you are doing. Jessie quite understands."

"You said when I was big. I want to be big most of all to go to father. He will fetch me when I'm big enough."

"Well, perhaps it might be before father fetches you, in this very church. Who knows? But no one can settle that now."

Jack did not speak of his talk with Uncle Tom even to Aunt Betty, but it sank deep in his heart, taking its place side by side with the great event that he looked forward to in future years, when "he was big," when father would come to fetch him; and before that, Uncle Tom had suggested that he might be confirmed as Jessie was going to be confirmed. He could not have put the notion into words yet, but the seed which was planted in his heart that Sunday sprouted lustily. Meanwhile, the day of the opening of Rumney Church and of Jessie's confirmation drew near. Happily the day proved fine, one of those wonderfully brilliant Tasmanian days that almost beggars description. Tom presented himself in good time at the farm, and failing to find anyone in the house, passed round to the stables at the back, where he found Betty putting Tim, the handsome mettlesome pony, into the shafts of the cart.

"But let me," said Tom, springing to her assistance.

"Thank you, no," said Betty with a laugh. "Tim resents strangers and gets possessed of an evil spirit if anyone handles him but a known and trusted friend. I always have to harness him when I go anywhere. Gently, Tim, gently," as Tim's head went up with a snort as Tom drew near. "I hope you don't mind trusting yourself to me. There's no room for father if we bring the Bishop back. It's a lovely drive, but very rough for the last two miles through a bush road. To go round makes five miles difference."

"If I minded unmade roads or untrained horses I should hardly be fitted for my work as a Bush parson," said Tom with a gay laugh.

"Very well, get in then, and we'll be off."

The descent through the paddock was made chiefly on the pony's back legs, but once on the open road he settled to his paces and conversation was possible. The going was rapid, for uphill or down—and in that part of the world it is always one or the other—seemed to make no difference to Tim.

"'My steed on his journey was gay, As I on my journey to Heaven'" quoted Tom, "a little break-neck, perhaps, for the bush road you promise me for the last part of the way."

"Which shows how little you know of Tim; you will see how soberly and sure-footedly he will pick his way. I believe you are nervous, notwithstanding your boast when you started!"

"Well, I will promise not to have hysterics or clutch at the reins," said Tom, jumping down to open the gate which barred the bush road from the highway. And here it meant careful going, for bullock drays had been lately along carting away some freshly hewn timber, and in many places the cart sank into the ruts almost up to the axles. Tom got out and walked to lighten the weight on the pony's back. It was really pretty to see the dainty way the creature put down its feet, avoiding bigger stones and curvetting past the huge logs that often-times blocked the road, making a diversion into the fern-clothed sides necessary.

"But it's hardly a safe way for even as good a driver as Betty," he thought, and almost before the thought framed itself, Tim was rearing and backing, and then, with a swift swerve, would have smashed himself, Betty, and the cart, against the enormous bole of a tree, but for Tom's hasty dash to his head. For a moment the issue seemed doubtful, but Tom's strong hand and soothing voice brought him into subjection, and he stood trembling from head to foot.

"And what was all the fuss about?" said Tom, patting Tim's head with as much confidence as if they were friends of long standing. "Let's have a look, old man, and see if we can't get over the difficulty," and round the curve which Tim had just come, Tom saw the half length of a tree which had been lately felled from which a long piece of bark had been stripped and the dazzling flicker of sunshine across it had startled Tim and terrified him.

But realizing now what it was, the difficulty was at an end, and Tim passed by without further resistance.

"It's smoother now; you can get in if you like," said Betty, a little crossly, and Tom mounted to her side.

"It's a nasty fall to my pride," she said after a moment. "We should have been smashed up into matchwood but for you, and hitherto I'm the only one in the family with whom Tim has never misbehaved himself."

"But it puts me on equal terms with you again, and soothes my wounded vanity. You can't forget that on the first occasion we met you caught me out at cricket," Tom answered, good-humouredly.

"But I am doubly in the wrong, for I told you Tim would not let you touch him, and he was as a lamb in your hands," went on Betty, still put out.

"But that is something I was born with: that is no credit to me. I love all animals, and I think they know it."

They were through the bush now and trotting gaily along the road to Rumney, passing groups of people from the various farms, all bent in the same direction.

"Everyone comes," said Betty, "on an occasion of this kind. Roman Catholics and every denomination that calls itself Christian."

"That seems to me rather beautiful. Ah! there is the Bishop waiting by the foot of the hill with quite a cluster of people about him."

"I'll let you down with your bag and drive on to the inn, and put up Tim," said Betty, and Tom tactfully made no offer to do it for her.

Very soon she was wending her way, with many others, to the new little church built on the side of a hill just beyond the township in a clearing in the bush. There was no fence round it, no properly-made path to lead up to it, but there was a nameless charm in the primitive simplicity of it all, and Betty went in and thanked God that at last the church, so long in hand, was completed.

There was a pretty little altar with a wooden cross and vases of fresh flowers on either side of it, a prayer desk, which at present had to serve as lectern desk, and pulpit, and a very simple font, but benches had had to be borrowed from the school-house hard by. It was hoped that the offerings of the day might help to provide some new ones. But Betty's attention was arrested by the sound of singing, and glancing through the open door of the porch, she saw a little procession of clergy winding its way up the hill towards the church, the Bishop bringing up the rear.

"The Church's one foundation
Is Jesus Christ her Lord——"

so the words rang—at first only sung by the clergy, but as they neared the door the congregation rose as one man to their feet, and the well-known hymn was taken up lustily until the little building was filled with the volume of sound.

To Betty, all unused to church functions, it seemed the most beautiful service she had ever attended, the touching words of consecration, the collects that followed when the Bishop, kneeling in the middle of the step that led up into the tiny sanctuary, prayed God to let His blessing rest upon this house and upon the people that should worship therein, and last of all the Bishop's address, quite short and simple, so that everyone present could fully understand, and yet so forcible in its simplicity, so impressive on the importance of this dedication day, which he begged them to observe as a holiday from that time forward, a day of joyous thanksgiving that God had allowed them, as to Solomon, to build Him a house. And then the Bishop raised his hands in supplication.

"Prosper Thou the work of their hands upon them, O Lord; O prosper Thou their handiwork."

The Blessing and a recessional hymn closed the short and simple service, and then, whilst the congregation trooped off to the paddocks where sports were to finish the day's holiday, the Bishop, after a hasty lunch provided at the farmer's house near by, announced himself ready to accompany Betty and Tom Chance.

An hour later the cart drew up at the door of the cottage opposite the church, and the Bishop stood for a moment bareheaded on the threshold.

"Peace be to this house," he said in his kindly tones, then stooped to pat the head of the little boy in a white suit who stood with his cap in his hand earnestly looking up into his face.

"Jessie's little brother?" he suggested.

"No, my little nephew," smiled Betty, "but he was very anxious to see Jessie confirmed."

"And it's always well to have a congregation," answered the Bishop, and then he passed into the room where Jessie lay, a pretty picture in her soft tulle cap and white muslin jacket which Betty had provided for her confirmation day. A flush was on her cheeks, and her eyes glowed like stars as the Bishop bent over her and took her hand, speaking a few kind encouraging words. And then his eye glanced round the crowded room, for Jessie's parents had driven over for the day, and a neighbour or two had expressed the wish to be present.

"It seems rather close and crowded, doesn't it?" said the Bishop, turning to Tom who stood by the open doorway, "and there is plenty of room over there," with a nod at the little church opposite. "I think we could carry her, bed and all, over there, don't you? Will you see to it, whilst I adjourn to the vestry and put on my robes?"

"But of course I could nearly carry her alone," said Tom, so between him and her father, Jessie was gently moved over the road through the porch, and into the church beyond, whilst Jack to make the thing complete, climbed on to his usual hassock and rang the bell until the Bishop, preceded by Uncle Tom, issued from the vestry, and then he slipped quietly into a seat where he could watch the whole service from beginning to end. It was just as Uncle Tom had pictured it; Jessie lay there with folded hands and a radiant face making her promise with a clear confident voice, and then the Bishop drew near and laid his hands upon her head, and Jack watched with awe-struck eyes, and wondered if the wind that came rushing down from the hills at that moment and went whistling by the church was the outward sign of the Holy Spirit descending upon Jessie and making her strong. She was not strong at present for she was crying!

And then the Bishop still stood by her looking down on her with a tender smile, and talked of how once our Lord had called a child to Him, and how he was sure His call had come to her to-day, a call to which she was very ready to listen, and he believed she would follow Him to her life's end.

"Yes, I'll try," said Jessie, smiling through her tears.

There was quite a long pause at the end of the service, when the tiny congregation remained kneeling, praying for the child who had so earnestly renewed her baptismal promises.

"Don't carry me back home yet. I want to see the Bishop, and to thank him for coming," whispered Jessie, and the Bishop, bag in hand, came down the church and took her hand in his.

"Mr. Bishop, if I live to be quite an old woman, I won't forget your coming here to-day," she said.

"It's been a happy day for us both, Jessie," was the kind answer. "God have you in His keeping now and evermore," and with that final blessing the Bishop hurried off to his train. After putting him into the cart, Tom and her father returned to carry Jessie back.

"Yes, I'm ready to go now," she said. "I'm very tired, but it has been the happiest day of my life, the grandest, happiest day!"

"And when I'm big I'll be confirmed like Jessie," thought Jack, as he sped home, "but I hope I'll stand on my feet, not lie on a bed as she did."

"It was the loveliest confirmation I have ever been at," said Tom to his sister that night. "I wish you had come to it, Clarissa."

"I was too shy," his sister answered.

CHAPTER VIII

TWO LEAVE-TAKINGS

It seemed quite natural to Jack that Jessie's strength improved marvellously from the day of her confirmation, for although Tom had tried to teach him something of the outward sign which denotes the spiritual grace, his childish mind recurred to his first idea, and he did not for a moment question that Jessie's quickened recovery was chiefly due to the Bishop's laying on of hands.

"You said the Bishop's hands would make her strong, didn't you?" he remarked one day to Tom, and Tom smiled down on him.

"I was talking of her soul rather than her body, Jack, but it seems as if God in His goodness were sending her both together."

So it was that from sitting up in a chair for a considerable portion of the day, Jessie soon began to walk a little, first to the garden gate, then a few steps along the road, and one summer evening in the autumn, to Jack's great excitement and delight, he saw her seated in a chair at the bottom of the church when he went down as usual to ring the bell. What did not please him so well was that his wandering thoughts in the service were brought back to everyday life by the mention of her name in church, in what connection he was too greatly astonished to discover. He was only certain that he had heard her name, and what could be the good of saying prayers for her when she was sitting behind all the time and looking nearly well? His puzzledom, it almost might be called annoyance, at the unreasonableness of the thing kept his mind straying for the remainder of the service, and he was glad that under cover of waiting behind to carry something back for Uncle Tom after church, he had a chance of putting the matter before him.

"Uncle Tom, we didn't want to pray for Jessie Butler, to-night. What did you do it for? Did not you see, she was in church and quite better?" he said.

"Which shows you weren't listening very much, Jack, or you would have found out we weren't praying for her in the way of asking God to give her anything. We were thanking Him for making her better, and, of course, it was much better to wait until she could be there to give thanks for herself. It would have very little meaning else. Now, I will tell you a story," and very picturesquely Tom related the story of the ten lepers.

"Only one out of the whole lot, Jack, who remembered to give thanks to God. A lot of us are like that! We say 'Give us this day our daily bread,' and at the end of the day we forget to thank God for the food we never lack."

Jack said little, but the lesson went home.

Jessie's lessons with her clergyman still continued for many weeks after her confirmation, for Tom was preparing her for her first Communion, and the next time he was able to hold a celebration at the little church, Jessie was one of the communicants. Jack's interest over that was far less keen than about her confirmation. It was "something grown-up people stayed for, and children could not," was all that he grasped at present, and Tom left it at that, willing that the teaching about the greatest Sacrament should be given a little later. Very quickly after Jessie's first Communion there came the letter suggesting that it was time for her to go home. She was quite independent now of the doctor's attendance. She showed the letter to Tom when he came to see her, making no comment.

"You'll be glad to go back and see them all again, I expect," but Jessie lifted her great eyes to him quite full of tears.

"Yes—no—" she said. "Of course, I want to see them, but although I've been ill down here, and had a lot of pain, I've had the happiest time of my life. You've taught me a lot, and I've been confirmed and been to Communion, and when I go back I'll see no one p'raps for weeks and weeks. It seems so easy to be good when you are here, but when no one talks to you, and Sunday after Sunday you never get nigh a church, and you work and work and always feel tired it doesn't come so easy."

"But you won't work for a bit yet, Jessie; you're not fit for it."

"It's easier to work than to sit still all day and do nothing, and see mother bustling round with never a minute to herself. Here there is no work I ought to be doing, you see."

Tom sat pondering. "Well, for the present you must try and make yourself content. I quite see that your father and mother, hard-working people, can't afford to keep you here any longer than is necessary——"

"Yes, I was selfish. I'd forgotten that," said Jessie.

"And I want you to think of this, Jessie; that God who has given you so much help lately will still be near you, and able to keep you in the straight path when He takes some of those helps away. I know it's much more difficult for you, but it may help to strengthen your spiritual life, to teach you to stand alone. You'll say your prayers and keep your Bible reading regular."

"Yes," Jessie said, "but it's not easy when there's no one who can tell you what it means when you get puzzled."

"I can't quite tell where I shall go when my time here comes to an end, but I will try and see you sometimes."

"Oh, thank you, ever so much! That will make everything different; for when I sit sewing in the verandah—I'll do all the sewing—I shall feel that one time I shall look up and see you come riding through the bush, and p'raps—p'raps, if you've nowhere else to go, you'll stop the night. Mother would be pleased."

"There are many more improbable things than that," Tom said.