CHAPTER XI.
HOPE.
BUT though the first thought had been that the Harry Fulbert she knew was golden gold, the second came with terrible desolation.
Too late! It was too late now! That letter, so hard to write, had gone on its way, and ere this Harry would have started for China, with his hopes crushed and his heart sore.
Miss Loveday tried to recall what she had said as she had sat that evening, three days ago, doing her uncle's bidding.
"If I were to disobey those whom my father told me to obey, I should never have a happy moment, nor could I look for God's blessing; and what would life be without God's blessing, Harry?" she had said.
She could hardly remember the words; it seemed months ago, instead of days. But at any rate, she was sure that they had not conveyed one word of hope!
Hope! As she lay on her bed with these thoughts chasing each other through her mind, it seemed as if there were some soothing balm being applied to her aching wounds.
"Hope thou in God!"
Yes, she had! She had hoped in God when things had been at their very darkest, when no ray of light had come, or seemed as if it could come; and now she would praise Him, who would not allow His child to be tempted above that she was able to bear.
Pollie had sat very still; she had waited till the closed eyes should open, and the contracted forehead grow smooth, like her own dear Miss Loveday.
"Pollie," said her teacher gently, "will you go down now and tell my uncle what you have found out for me?"
Pollie crimsoned, but rose to her feet instantly. If there were one person in the world she was afraid of, it was the vicar.
"Am I asking too much?" said Miss Loveday.
"No, no; I will do it," exclaimed Pollie. "But where shall I find him, and what—"
Her hand was already on the door.
"He will be coming in to tea very soon; go down and wait for him in the study. Ask one of the maids to take you there. I would rather my uncle heard it from you, Pollie!"
With one look at the dear face she loved so well, Pollie, with beating heart, sped on her errand.
She reached the hall and looked around. There were the pretty ferns and palms, making the hall look like fairyland; the stained glass doors, the drooping curtains, the carpeted floor, all joined in making Pollie feel strange and shy.
Where were the servants? She could hear a murmur of voices and the sound of teacups, but how could she dare to pass through one of those closed doors?
At length a bell sounded. The fact was, Miss Loveday had guessed her plight, and had rung for her maid so that she might insure Pollie's safe conduct to the study.
Suddenly one of the glass doors was pushed open, and the servant who had fetched her from the mill came forward.
"Why, Pollie," she said, "can't you find your way out?"
Then Pollie, with many blushes, explained that she had a message to the vicar, and was forthwith shewn into the study to wait his arrival.
The maid fidgeted round the room, looking at Pollie several times uncertainly, which increased Pollie's discomfort tenfold. She looked up in her face enquiringly, waiting for her to speak.
At last she said, "Hadn't you better come and sit in the kitchen till master comes in?"
"I don't mind," answered Pollie, "only Miss Loveday said I was to go to the study—"
"Master is very particular, and perhaps he won't like to find anyone here," objected the maid, who, it must be confessed, was somewhat jealous of Miss Loveday's evident partiality for her pupil at the Mill.
Pollie felt very uncomfortable, and though she had a dim perception of the state of the case, she was so disconcerted that she would fain have run home to escape from her difficulties.
But then, what would become of her important errand?
At length she said bravely, "If you don't think he'll like it, I'll go up and ask Miss Loveday! Shall I?"
"Oh no," said the maid carelessly; "I daresay it doesn't matter. Stay where you are."
She went back to the kitchen to her tea, and Pollie was left alone.
She waited in the darkening study till her heart was faint within her. She had had time to grow hot and cold three or four times over before the vicar came.
But at last, a thought quieted her, and, like Hannah of old, "her countenance was no more sad."
"If God has this in charge, why am I so worried and fearful?" was the thought.
And so when the vicar really did come, with his grave, dignified presence, Pollie told her story as sweetly and clearly as her friend upstairs could have wished.
"Don't you think he 'may' be the true golden gold?" she asked, looking up in the vicar's face as he bid her farewell.
"I hope so, my little girl," he said heartily; "and it shall be my business to find that out at once. But, Pollie—"
"Yes, sir."
"You would not wish your dear Miss Mary to love any one who was not good?"
"Oh no, sir! Nor would she—"
"No, no; I am sure of that. She and you may trust me to do the very best for her. Is she not God's child, as well as my brother's?"
He said the last words almost to himself, and Pollie, hearing them, went away comforted.
She ran homewards breathlessly. What would her mother think of her absence?
She had left home that afternoon assuring her mother she should only run down to the Vicarage and back again. She had had no idea of being detained, and was afraid her mother would be vexed with her.
Just as she reached the corner of the village street, she recognized her father's cart, making its way round the road to the back of the mill.
"Oh, father, stop!" she called. "I want to get in!"
"Eh, Pollie! Bless you, child; what do you want out so late?"
Then Pollie told him, glad to pour out all her news into such kind, sympathising ears.
"I'd not like you to keep anything from your mother," he said; "you had better tell it all to her when James is not by."
"Yes, father," said Pollie slowly.
"Mothers are good friends," said her father.
How she wished that he had been willing to let the secret be between her and himself!
But that was not her father's way. Once before Pollie had hoped her father would not tell her mother something, but she soon found her mother knew all about it.
"Mother's as safe to trust as I am," he said then, "and I never keep anything from her, nor she from me. It's a safe rule, Pollie, and a happy one."
They jogged along in silence for a few minutes. The hill was stiff, and her father got out to walk.
When he drew up at the door, and came to lift her down, he said soberly, "There is such a text as 'Honour thy father and thy "mother,"' Pollie; we must not forget that!"
"Why, my dear!" exclaimed her mother when she got in. "I've sent Jim down the field-path to meet you!"
"I've come up with father; he's putting up the horse. Mother, I waited to speak to the vicar, and I'll tell you all about it! Only—mother, I do believe I never was so hungry in all my life!"
"Well, here's tea," smiled her mother comfortably, "and while you eat it, you can tell me!"
*****
Through a mistake at the Post Office, Harry Fulbert only got that letter at his London hotel the very day he was to sail for China.
To go? Impossible!
To stay? Equally impossible!
Those were his first and second thoughts. Then slowly he turned and looked round the room.
Almost everything was packed; his cases had gone on board the P. and O. boat three days ago; his portmanteau lay open at his feet; nothing but a few last purchases had to be made.
His passage in that special boat had long been taken, his friends would turn up at the appointed time at Tilbury to wave him good-bye. He had parted from his mother—how could he alter now?
He stood with his elbow on the mantelshelf, looking at Mary's picture, and then suddenly, he walked over to the door, and turned the key in the lock; and then, with another sudden movement, he threw himself on his knees, and buried his head on his arms.
Was he the true golden gold after all?
Was he only giving way to his overwhelming disappointment? Or was he asking his best Counsellor what he was to do in this sore crisis?
When he arose from his knees, he looked round once more. He put away the photograph, locked his portmanteau, took up his hat and went out.
In another half-hour he was standing at the counter of the office of the P. and O., anxiously asking, if there were any way of getting out of going.
"I refused a gentleman, a Mr. Strong, this very morning," said the agent. "Every berth is filled up, and now it will probably be too late for him."
Harry Fulbert asked eagerly if the agent knew the gentleman's address, and upon its being produced, the cab was once more set going, and Harry found himself stopping at a mansion at the West End.
A few words of explanation introduced him to the would-be traveller, whom he found in the midst of his luggage, having just returned from his fruitless errand to the City.
Mr. Strong acknowledged he was anxious to exchange his berth, taken in the next boat, for one in Harry's, but the agent had assured him it was too late now to arrange anything.
"But your luggage?" said Mr. Strong, when in a few hurried words they had canvassed the whole subject, and arranged for an exchange of tickets.
Harry laughed.
"That I can do without till I follow it! I cannot tell you what a load is taken from my heart!"
And the gentleman shook his hand warmly with a genial smile.
"I expect you are as glad to stay as I to go!"
Harry was so overjoyed at the release, that it carried him over his surprise and grief at Mary's letter. Now he would have the opportunity to go back to her, and find out what she could mean by those few hurried sentences, in which she had told him that she must give him up.
Just now he was only anxious to enable his new friend to catch the boat. There was little enough time, but he kept his cab while the last few things were collected, and before long they were rolling together to Fenchurch Street, "en route" for Tilbury, the gentleman to start on his long journey, and Harry to meet his friends and tell them that unexpected and pressing business detained him in England.
As to Mary's letter he would not think of that! There must be some mistake!
So while Pollie was waiting with beating heart in the vicar's study to tell her tale, Harry was paying his bill at the hotel, and taking his ticket at the Great Western station to a country village sixty miles from London.
Little did she think that the threads which seemed in such a hopeless tangle were held in Hands which knew the end of every one of them; nor how surely out of the confusion was coming His perfect will for those who trusted Him so fully.
Little did Pollie think as she sat telling her mother all about it, receiving her sympathy and finding it more comforting than she had expected, that the subject of their thoughts was even now drawing nearer and nearer to that moonlit village, as fast as the train could bring him.
"Mother, you are 'very' kind," said Pollie gratefully, as she wished her good-night. How glad she felt now that she had "honoured" her mother from her heart, and not only obeyed "in the letter."
CHAPTER XII.
OFF TO LONDON.
"WHERE is uncle going?" exclaimed Mary Loveday the next morning, as she and her aunt sat in the vicarage dining-room after breakfast.
"Up to the mill, Mary."
"Oh, auntie, how kind of him, so early!"
"We were young ourselves once, Mary," she said; "and besides—"
Mary had been very brave, but at the kind tone she broke down. She had no mother into whose arms she might throw herself, and sob out her grief. Perhaps her aunt felt that, for she came over to her, and put her arm round her shoulders.
"It will surely come right in the end, if we trust it to God, Mary," she said gently, "but this suspense is a sore trial for you."
"It is not exactly suspense," said Mary brokenly "because—except for God having it in hand—it is too late. My letter must have reached him before he sailed yesterday, and he has sent me no answer."
Her aunt was silent. It was a great perplexity, and gave her more heartache than she liked to acknowledge.
But Mary raised her head.
"Aunt, I'm not going to think how hopeless it is. Pollie said, 'It couldn't happen without God's will,' and that is true. I am not going to grieve any more."
She was walking by faith, and not by sight. She had hold of her Father's hand, and knew that, come rain or shine, she was being led "by the right way."
Would she be able to thank Him by-and-by for even this dark bit?
In an hour the vicar returned, and he came at once to where his wife and Mary were sitting working.
"I'm going to London," he said, "by the two o'clock train. And if you are well enough, Mary, I am going to take you for the little jaunt with me, to give you a change."
"I? Oh, uncle!"
"Yes, you! And I thought there was another little body that would be pleased to go to London, so I've done a bold thing, my dear," turning to his wife. "I've asked Mary at the mill to bear our Mary company for two days. I like that girl! She's as true as steel—or what is it, Mary? Something better than steel, eh?"
"Asked Mary at the mill?" echoed Mrs. Loveday, astonished. "Did her father like her to go?"
"Yes, to be sure, he did! Why not? It was her mother who hesitated, but I think that was about a hat or something."
"'Just let her put on what she comes to church in on Sundays,' I said, 'and she will be all right. She is always neat, and what do you want more?'"
"Where will she meet us, uncle?" asked Mary. "Will she come here, or go to the station?"
"Yes, come here at half-past one. I said I would drive you both in the trap."
So Mary ran up to make her few preparations, and then, till lunch should be ready, she went out into the garden, glad to be quiet for a few minutes. What did her uncle mean by this sudden journey to London? And how could it be of any use if Harry had already sailed?
While Pollie was turning over her drawers at the mill, trembling with excitement, and wondering whether her things would be good enough to do honour to her dear Miss Mary, Mary herself, ready for her journey, stood looking into the stream at the bottom of her uncle's garden, and wondering what her journey to London would bring forth.
She had longed to be alone that she might recollect once more that she had given all up into her Lord's hands, and was going patiently to wait till He should do His will.
How still the water was. How silently it flowed on and on; how clear its depths; how bright its reflections when it caught the sunlight.
Mary was fond of turning to-day's sights and sounds into little lessons of love set by her heavenly master, so she thought now that she would wish to be as the stream, deep and still in the shade, and bright and praise-giving in the sunshine.
"I want to 'please' Jesus," she said, with a happy smile, turning away now she had had a glimpse, by faith, of her Saviour, "and He knows that!"
People often wondered why Miss Loveday had such an influence among her class of girls.
But some one had once said to her, "Never be satisfied in the day till you have seen Jesus!" and this was her secret.
So if a cloud arose, she tried to have a moment's quiet to get a sight of her Saviour, and having had that sight, she went on her way rejoicing.
So she turned from the stream and left its singing waters behind, with their shadows and sunshine, and made her way back to the house, ready to enliven her aunt, or meet Pollie, or do anything happily that came to hand.
Meanwhile Pollie was wishing her mother good-bye at the mill, and feeling as if, even for two days' absence, the parting was harder than she could bear. She tried to say everything, and ended in saying nothing. She wanted to tell her mother that she was sorry she had been so tiresome lately, but the words stuck in her throat and made a sort of ball there. She wanted to beg Jim to do everything for her mother, even better than she had, but instead she only got out the words, "Don't forget to water my plants!"
And then she found herself running down the field-path as if she were pursued, with her eyes so blinded that she nearly went headlong in her best clothes.
At last she paused at the stile at the bottom, and just as she was going to spring over it, she met the vicarage maid hurrying up.
"Pollie," she exclaimed, "Miss Mary wants to see you!"
"Why, I was coming!" said Pollie, surprised. "It isn't late, is it?"
"No—not late, only—"
Pollie had swallowed her tears. The maid did not explain, but seemed in a great hurry to get back, so Pollie followed her in silence, inwardly wondering why Miss Loveday had sent to meet her, but concluding it might be because she feared that she might be late for the train.
At the vicarage gate the trap was already standing waiting. Was she late after all?
As they entered the hall door, Mary ran out from the drawing-room and took Pollie by both hands, drawing her into the dining-room and shutting the door.
"Pollie!" she said. "Shall you be dreadfully disappointed if we do not go to London after all?"
"Why, no, dear Miss Loveday, if you would rather not!"
"Uncle says you and I shall go another time, if possible," she said hurriedly, "but such a strange thing has happened, Pollie! He's come—"
Pollie was just going to ask who, but something in Miss Loveday's face made it unnecessary.
"Harry?" she asked, and then crimsoned at her familiarity. "Mr. Fulbert—I mean?"
"Yes."
Mary sat down, still holding her little friend's hands; and then she disengaged one, and stroked the glowing cheeks softly, while she said, as if she could say nothing else, "How nice you look, dear! And how kind of your mother to spare you! I cannot bear that you should not go—and yet—"
"I do not mind a bit—not a bit, if you are glad, Miss Loveday!"
Mary paused for a moment, and then she said, looking down and speaking softly, "It has been so wonderful, Pollie, that I can hardly believe it. But you have been such a dear little friend to me that I should like to tell you all about it."
She took off Pollie's hat and gloves, she folded her necktie, but still she did not seem as if she could begin.
At length she said, in a low tone, "I went down to the stream this morning to have a little quiet time alone. I wanted to tell God all about it, Pollie—to ask Him to take every bit of anxiety away about all this, and to take charge of everything for us, so that we might know that He had it in hand.
"While I was there, and while my uncle was finishing up a few things before he started, a stranger came to the door and asked for him, and sent in his card—Mr. Filbert.
"Yes, Pollie, it was Harry! He did not get my letter till he was just starting for China, and then he could not bear to go. And I do not know yet how he managed it all, but he found somebody to exchange his passage, and the gentleman went to China instead of him, and he came here!"
"Oh, Miss Loveday!" exclaimed Pollie, with her face glowing. "And is he—is he the true golden gold?"
"How could you think anything else, Pollie? I 'knew' he was!"
"And will Mr. Loveday allow it now?" asked Pollie longingly.
"Harry does not wish it to be settled till he has sent for his mother, but my uncle is perfectly satisfied. He said, Pollie, that he knew 'the true ring' when he heard it."
Pollie did not know what "the true ring" meant; and before she could ask, Miss Loveday had risen.
"Harry is talking to my aunt, and I must go and put on my hat. He is going back by our train, Pollie, to meet his mother in London. He will telegraph for her at the station; and he says he knows she will come. She is staying near London, and they may be back here to-night. I am going to drive him to the station, only I wanted to see you first."
Mary stooped and kissed her little friend.
"I shall never forget what a comfort you have been to me, nor all that you have done for me," she added gratefully. "It was you who won my uncle to think it was possible there might be a mistake!"
"I had better go back home, dear Miss Loveday," said Pollie. "I am so glad that we had not started."
"So am I. But we will go to town another day, Pollie."
Pollie set off homewards, and just as she got to the stile, she heard wheels, and in a moment, before she could disengage her dress from a nail which had caught it, Mary and Mr. Fulbert were close upon her, as the vicar's fleet pony took them quickly past. Not too fast, however, for Pollie not to recognise, in her dear Miss Loveday's friend, some one whom she had seen before, and knew long ago to be the true golden gold!
CHAPTER XIII.
POLLIE RECOGNISES A FRIEND.
"MOTHER!" exclaimed Pollie, running over the green in front of the mill and throwing herself into her mother's arms, "I haven't gone! But it's all right. There is no need to go now."
"You don't say so?" asked her mother. "I am glad, but I expect you are rather disappointed, my dear!"
"No, I'm not; I'm too glad to care on my own account. And, besides, I could not bear to leave you, mother."
"Foolish little girl!" said her mother fondly, but there were tears in her eyes as she said it. Perhaps she felt at that moment rewarded for all the love and care she had expended on her wayward child.
"And, mother," Pollie went on unconsciously, "such a wonderful thing has happened. Come in, and I will tell you."
They entered the mill together, and Pollie went to put away her best hat, wondering if it could be true that it was only an hour since she had put it on with such care for her visit to London.
When she came back into the kitchen, her mother was getting out some teacups.
"Come along, my dear," she said in her cosy way; "you had but a mouthful of dinner before you started, and I daresay you will not be sorry to see a cup of tea. I shall not, myself, I am sure; and then you can tell me your tale."
Pollie thought that there was nobody in the world so comfortable as her mother, and sat down by the fire with a very contented face.
"Well, my dear?" asked her mother, smiling at her.
"Oh, such a wonderful thing!" exclaimed Pollie again. "Do you remember, two years ago, when I was at Aunt Elizabeth's?"
"I remember that very well—and so do you," answered her mother.
"Yes—; and do you remember I told you about the gentleman that was preaching there, and how good he was, and how interesting?"
"Yes, I remember that."
"Well, mother, 'he' is Mr. Harry Fulbert! No need for anybody to send up to London to ask about him now, for the moment I saw him driving by the side of her I knew him again. He's the one that—that brought me to Christ, mother; and now, if you will let me, I want to go back and tell the vicar. May I, mother?"
"I'll think about it. But you are sure, Pollie?"
"'Sure?'" asked Pollie. "I should know him anywhere. I could never forget him, never."
Then Pollie explained all about Mr. Fulbert's coming, and about the postponed visit, and the afternoon slipped away so fast that it was nearly her father's tea-time before she had finished.
When he came in, he did not see any objection to Pollie's paying the vicar another visit, and himself accompanied her down the hill, promising to wait for her at her Uncle Brown's till she should have made her call.
The vicar was standing at his door with his hat on. He greeted Pollie very kindly, and asked her if she would walk up the road with him, as he had just been called to a village two miles up the valley to see a dying man, and he could not venture to wait.
"Life and death are awful things, Pollie," he said solemnly. "Life without Christ is hopeless enough, but death—"
They walked along in silence for some time, till the vicar said suddenly:
"You wanted to speak to me."
Then Pollie told him about it, and was quite surprised at the vicar's gratitude.
"I call you a very kind little friend," he said, when she had finished. "It is not that I doubted him in the very least after the talk I had with him, but to find that my Master has honoured and blessed him by giving him 'souls for his hire' makes me more glad than I can say. Mary was quite right, you see, in saying that there could be no mistake in such an one as he. She 'knew' it was all right."
So Pollie retraced her steps a happy girl, and found her father deep in a political discussion with his brother, and not having found the time at all long.
"So you've never been to London after all!" he said, as she took his arm affectionately, and they turned homewards.
"No," said Pollie, shaking her head, "but that can wait. I never was so happy and grateful, I do believe, father! At least, never since that day at Aunt Elizabeth's. Of course that was the happiest day."
Her father nodded emphatically.
"It's a wondrous thing to be allowed to carry the King's messages," he said thoughtfully, referring to Harry Fulbert. "Perhaps some of us would be trusted with more of them if we were more willing!"
Meanwhile the lamp was lighted, and Mary and her aunt sat working in the pretty vicarage drawing-room.
The train could not come in till after nine that night. And unless Harry had sped wonderfully well, he and his mother could not arrive even by that.
But he had sped wonderfully well. His mother had been at home when the telegram reached her, and had prepared to start back with him as soon as he desired.
"I shall telegraph to you, anyway," he had said to Mary, as they were driving to the station, "then you will know when to expect us."
They sat very silent.
Mary's aunt was thinking of the change it would be to them all if Mary should go to China. And as to Mary, she was praying that the happiness which had come into her life might never make a cloud between her and her Lord.
She had said something of that sort to Harry that afternoon, and he had answered, "You cannot desire that more than I do, Mary. I want Him to be first to both of us."
Mrs. Loveday was called away to attend to the needs of some villager, and was detained some time. When she came back, Mary was sitting where she had left her, but her work had dropped on the floor, and instead, she was studying a pink piece of paper which had arrived during her aunt's absence.
"Here it is, auntie," said Mary, springing up. "Just read it yourself."
"All well; my mother and I just starting from Paddington."
How cheerful it all looked when at half-past nine o'clock the wheels were heard on the drive, and the travellers walked into the room!
Mrs. Loveday went forward to greet her guest, and one look into the sweet placid face, beaming with love and hopefulness, was enough to satisfy her.
"Where is Mary?" Mrs. Fulbert asked, and held out her arms. "I have wanted a daughter all my life, and now I shall have one!"
"You will indeed," said the vicar heartily. "Harry must forgive all the trouble we have given him, in the blessing of having our Mary for his own. I was convinced this morning that I might happily give her to him, but since then I have had most unexpected confirmation, and I have nothing to say but to thank God that my brother's child has found such a helpmeet."
Such a supper table as that was! Mrs. Fulbert sat with "her two children" by her, and when she looked at the face of one, she turned and looked into the face of the other with a mute appeal that touched them both very much.
"I was coming to see you directly Harry had sailed," she said once, "but I was not very well. Little did I think that you could have had all this to go through."
"It has been all for the best," said Mary, gently. "I would not have it different."
"Nor I," said Harry, smiling. "But for this, I should have been on my way to China!"
CHAPTER XIV.
"I NEVER THOUGHT OF IT!"
"HARRY! I shall never be able to spare you both," said his mother, looking at him earnestly, when, after supper, the vicar and his wife had left the three together to have a quiet talk. "Can you not come home again and settle down with me in my old age? I have enough for you both."
Harry took her hand in his, that dear thin hand that had guided him all those thirty years. After a pause, he said gravely—
"It shall be as you wish, mother. How can I refuse you anything to-night? Somebody else will be glad of my post in China, I suppose."
His mother smiled peacefully, with a little naïve nod at Mary.
"It never suited his health, and he will not be sorry in a few months. There is plenty to do at Exeter, and we shall be very happy and very busy, eh, my Harry?"
And when she wished Mary good-night, she said softly, "The Lord has given me this day my heart's desire."
Mary kissed her affectionately, but she made no reply. For herself she was glad enough for Harry to give up his post in China, but she feared that he would be very disappointed.
Mrs. Fulbert looked into her face questioningly.
"You do not think me selfish, I hope, my dear?"
"No—oh, no!"
"You can hardly look at it with my eyes," she said, smiling, holding Mary's hands between her own, as if to impress her words. "I always said that no money compensated in my estimation for such separations as residence in foreign countries involves. Of course, if you go as a missionary, that is a different thing; for Christ's sake we may have to forsake all that we have, but Harry had that situation before he knew what it was to belong to Christ, and so—"
She paused, for Harry was standing by them, looking intently into her face while she was speaking.
"'For Christ's sake'?" he echoed slowly. "I never thought of that. I had my situation, and it never occurred to me to be a missionary!"
"It has 'occurred' to you to do work for Christ out there, Harry," said Mary earnestly, "for you told me of several people that you had helped. Is not that being a missionary?"
"I never thought of it," he said again thoughtfully and even solemnly.
Mrs. Fulbert had turned very pale. Surely her heart's desire, which she thought a moment ago her Lord had given her, was not going to be taken away by her own suggestion?
Mary stood very still, for she guessed that a crisis was going on in both the hearts before her. What would be the end of it all? What a revolution his mother's words might cause in all their lives!
At last Harry turned, and fondly put his arm round his mother.
"I have promised to do as you wish," he said, "and so we will leave it. If my Lord has any other plan for me, He will show it in His own time."
Mrs. Fulbert looked in his face.
"Harry, I cannot say, 'Thy will, "not mine" be done,' to-night, but He will enable me, I feel sure."
She kissed them both in silence and left the room.
"Mary!" exclaimed Harry. "My mother's words have turned me upside down! What shall we do?"
"Our Lord will show us," said Mary, "and I do not think we have to settle it to-night, have we, Harry? Perhaps the light will be clearer to-morrow."
And the lonely mother upstairs, who had had her heart's desire so near her, knelt in beseeching prayer in her chamber, not asking so much that she might have her will, as that she should be willing from her heart to have God's will.
The clock struck several hours, and still her wakeful eyes could find no rest, till at last, a thought came swiftly and sweetly over her with soothing balm, "'Commit' thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him," and yielding to His will, she slept.
Mary was down the first on the following morning, and was busy preparing the breakfast when Mrs. Fulbert came in.
"Am I too early?" she asked, as she came forward.
"Oh, no," said Mary, kissing her affectionately. "I wonder how you slept, after all the excitement of yesterday?"
"Pretty well, dear. It was a long while before I could give him up, Mary, but I did at last. I will take God's will, whichever way it is, and trust Him."
"I am so glad," said Mary simply. Then, as if she could not help it, she gave Mrs. Fulbert another kiss, and added: "I know what it means, but it is such peace afterwards!"
Perhaps Harry understood at his first glance at his mother's face, for no further mention was made of the subject for the present, and Mr. and Mrs. Loveday were not yet aware either of the change of Harry's plans, nor of the fresh thought which his mother's words had put into their minds.
After breakfast, Mary and he set out to carry some of her aunt's jelly to a sick man, and as their road lay near the mill, Mary left Harry sitting on the stile while she ran in to see Pollie.
Pollie was sitting outside the mill, paring apples for a pie, and soon saw her dear teacher coming. She ran down to meet her, and asked if she would come in.
"Not to-day, dear, because Harry is waiting. But, Pollie, I wanted to tell you something, and to ask you to pray—"
Pollie raised her eyes expectantly. It was not the first time by a good many that she and Miss Loveday had "agreed" to pray.
"When we were talking last night, Harry's mother asked him not to go back to China—I mean not to stay—of course, he must go back till there is someone to take his place; and he promised he would do as she wished—"
"Oh, Miss Loveday!"
"And then she said half a word about it being different if any one went to China as a missionary. And, Mary, before we any of us knew, something had happened that could never be undone. Harry had seen that it might be that he should go to China as a missionary, and his mother saw that the very thing which she dreaded—the separation from her only son—might after all be a duty which she could not evade."
Pollie's eyes were gazing intently into her friend's face.
"Did he say?" she asked.
"No, not yet; but—"
"I'll pray," said Pollie earnestly. "I am sure God will make it plain, dear Miss Loveday."
"Yes, so am I; only, Pollie, I feel as if I wanted to 'see!'"
"Don't you remember that little story you told us last Sunday?" said Pollie, half-smiling.
"Which?" asked Mary.
"Don't you remember? About the little child going a journey in the dark? You said he did not know the way in the least, and yet he was not a bit anxious or worried, he knew he would get home at last, just as surely as if he were stepping over the doorway. But that was not because he was strong or wise, but only just for one very simple reason—his father's lantern lighted, the 'next' step, and he had hold of his father's hand."
Mary's eyes were full, and so were Pollie's to match. So full that they did not notice a shadow fall upon them from some one who had come up close.
"I will think of that," said Mary; "thank you, my little Pollie, for reminding me."
"And I will think of that," said Harry, who was standing behind them. "He will show the next step, Pollie, will he not?"
So before long "the next step" seemed to be that Harry must go back to China and wait for the filling of his post.
How quickly that week sped away!
Near the end of it, Mary and Mrs. Fulbert accompanied Harry to London to see him off on his long journey; and Pollie, to her great delight, was asked to go too.
So at last Pollie did go to London, and for the two days that elapsed before Harry sailed, she saw more sights than she had imagined it possible could be seen in the time. Anyone watching those four going about would have said that they were perfectly happy. And so indeed they were, though now and then the parting which was in front of them seemed to pass like a cloud over the brightness of the landscape.
Not a word more had been said about the missionary project. By universal consent the subject was dropped. The four were praying about it, but even Harry and Mary did not mention it to each other.
Mary had often watched Harry's face questioningly, but though he understood, he did not seem prepared to talk of it. But the last evening came at length, and still nothing had been settled.
"Mother," said Harry, as they all stood at the window in the hotel at Gravesend, "have you thought any more about my being a missionary?"
Mrs. Fulbert turned rather pale, but she put her hand very calmly on her son's arm.
"I should not like to keep you back, my dear, if God called you."
"What do you think, Mary?" he said, turning to look into her face. "I have not asked you before, because I wanted for us all to do nothing in a hurry."
"I am willing either way," said Mary, "but—"
"What is the 'but'?" he asked tenderly.
"We are young," she said, leaning her head on Mrs. Fulbert's shoulder, "and we have each other—but you—"
Mrs. Fulbert stroked her face softly.
"Thank you, my dear, for thinking of me."
Harry was watching them both intently, and as his mother spoke, he bent towards Mary and whispered, "You are right; and I love you more than ever for being good to my mother! Mary, I see the next step now. When I come back, if God spares us, we will stay a year with our dear mother. She will be 'our' dear mother then, you know; and after that—"
"After that, if God points out the way, I will let you go happily, or go with you!" said Mrs. Fulbert. "I am not too old yet to travel, if need be," she added, smiling a little.
"Oh, mother," said Harry, "how sweet you are! To think that we may be permitted to carry the unsearchable riches of Christ to some of the millions of China!"
That was a memorable evening to them all, and in one young heart a seed sank down to spring up and bear fruit in after days.
When Pollie went into her little room that night, she knelt in silence for a long time by her bedside, but the prayer that went up from her full heart was this:
"Here am I. Send me, send me!"