CHAPTER XVIII.
SORE HEARTS.
WHEN Nellie shut herself into her room on the evening Christina's plans had been explained, she sat down on a chair, and rested her head on her hand. Ever since the afternoon, she had been trying her hardest to be outwardly calm, but the effort had been almost more than her gentle nature was able to bear. And now that the strain was removed, she sat as one stunned. A tap at the door made her start; but she did not move, and her mamma came in and stood by her. Nellie looked up with a white face, and her mamma bent down and kissed her tenderly.
"Darling," she said, "I guess it all! I wish I could have spared it to you and Walter; but I did not know till something she said to-day that his hopes would be in vain."
"How did you guess?" said Nellie, leaning her tired head against the loving shoulder.
"I have eyes," said her mamma, smiling.
"How shall I tell Walter?" said Nellie dolefully.
"Perhaps—" said Mrs. Arundel, and stopped.
"Yes, mamma?"
"If he waited."
Nellie shook her head sorrowfully. "I thought, mamma, I was disappointed enough about his going away for a few days; but this—I never, never thought it could end so."
"No, dear; it is indeed a grief for him, poor fellow; but I do think, Nellie, I should try to cheer him with hope; Christina is young."
"She said she should never marry."
"Well, dear, we shall see. We must ask God to help him to bear it, and to show us what to do in it. We must wait patiently, Nellie; God brings light out of darkness."
Nellie's heavy eyes could hardly look up. She nestled nearer her kind stepmother. "Thank you, dear mamma," she said lovingly, "you are so good to me."
"Now, darling, go to bed; you can do Walter no good by thinking about it to-night. Tell our Father in a few words how it is, and then leave the burden with Him. He loves Walter better than you do, Nellie."
"Oh, mamma! Mamma!" exclaimed Nellie, sobbing convulsively.
"My dear child, I do grieve; but let that thought comfort us both in all our trials. He loves our beloved ones better than we do; what can we ask more, Nellie?"
Kissing her tenderly, she left the room.
And Nellie did as she suggested, and told her Father all about it.
Then she got into bed, and, worn out with her trouble and excitement, fell asleep.
Half an hour afterwards, Mrs. Arundel came in again to peep at her child.
"Poor little thing," she said to herself, "it is almost her first sorrow. May they both win well through it."
When Nellie got a letter the next morning telling her that Walter hoped to arrive at eight o'clock that evening, she found it hard work to settle down to any employment. Her dread grew with each hour as it passed, and Mrs. Arundel was quite grieved to see what a hold this disappointment had taken on her.
She went to meet the train alone. No entreaties from her brother and sister could prevail to let them come too.
"I want to talk to him, dear Ada," she said at last.
"Well, we would keep half a mile off, and not hear a word," said Arthur.
"Don't tease her," answered Ada, who had noticed that Nellie's usually calm face had looked worried during the last day or two.
The uncommon occurrence of Ada's being unselfish, and of something in herself being noticeable, set Nellie thinking very deeply as she walked down alone to the station.
"Am I adorning the doctrine of God my Saviour?" she asked herself. "Why am I so cast down? Mamma said God loves him better than I do. Oh, I must try! How very unprepared I have been for such a trial. I thought I had only to guard myself from impatience with the children, or getting tired of endless little duties; but I never thought such a temptation as this could overtake me. It is harder than anything else could be. I suppose God sends it on purpose, just to show me how very weak I am, how sinful, how unable to stand alone. I do hope He will forgive me and strengthen me."
It did not take Nellie long to look up and turn this wish into a prayer. Long ago she had learned the habit from her stepmother of telling God everything the moment it happened; and she did so now. And before she reached the station, her extreme fear and depression had passed away.
Walter's bright face when he jumped out of the train gave her a pang; but she tried to remember her mamma's words, "God loves him," and taking his arm, they left the station.
But all Nellie's plans were frustrated; for just outside, they met Christina and her aunt, who had an inquiry to make at the station, and willingly consented to Walter's proposal to accompany them back to the Farm.
Thus it happened that he heard from Ada and Arthur all about what Christina hoped to do almost directly he arrived.
He did not say much to it, beyond a word or two of how nice it would be for the little children; but then Nellie knew that this project of itself would not be enough to give him a hint of the true state of the case.
"I do not think there will be any moon to-night, Nellie; but we will have our little walk," he said, "unless you are tired?"
"Not so tired as all that," answered Nellie, getting her hat.
He took the road leading upwards towards the country. "Well, Nellie?" he asked presently.
"Yes, dear Walter," she answered, faltering.
"Have you had a nice time, dear, while I have been away?"
"Pretty well, Walter; and now I do not know how to tell you something that will grieve you."
"What is it, Nellie? It will be no better for waiting. What has happened, dear?"
Nellie still hesitated; then she said slowly, "I do not think Christina will ever marry."
"Why?" asked Walter; "What makes you say so?"
His tone was light and easy, and suited ill with Nellie's highly-wrought feelings.
"Because she was to have been married once, and he died," she answered very low.
Walter did not answer. There was a long silence, broken only by the tread of their feet on the rough road, and by the beating of Nellie's heart, which to her sounded above everything else.
"How do you know?" at length he asked.
"She told me when we were discussing her scheme."
"An absurd scheme!" he exclaimed angrily. Then suddenly stopping short. "No; if it is as you say with her, it is a good, noble scheme, and she could not do better. Let us go home now, Nellie."
She turned with him, her heart aching at the suffering he was trying to hide. Then she remembered she had not said much about "hope," and she tried to think what would comfort him most.
"Dear Walter, it is a good while ago now, more than a year; perhaps some day—"
"Yes, dear," he said quietly.
"Mamma says, 'God loves you better than I do,'" said Nellie in a broken voice.
"So He does, dear; I do not doubt it."
The tone was very quiet; but Nellie felt there was a depth of disappointment which she could not fathom.
"Another day we will talk it over, Nellie; but not to-night, my dear. I must hear what my Heavenly Father has to say to me about it first."
CHAPTER XIX.
"SHE WAS SENT ME BY GOD."
"PUT away that work, child," said a clean-looking elderly woman, who was carrying a saucepan across a bright little kitchen.
She placed it on a very small fire, and turning round, faced a young woman in black, who was bending over some fine needlework in the window.
"Not till you are ready for me, mother," she returned, without raising her eyes.
"Take a run down the garden, child," still persisted the older woman; "you will not lose any time for it in the end."
Yielding to this second injunction, the young woman folded up her work quickly and carefully, and placing it in a little covered basket in the windowsill, she turned to the door which led straight from the kitchen into the garden.
Just in the doorway, looking very sweet and clean, but rather thin, sat a little girl of four years old.
"Why, Maggie," she said, "I did not know you were there. Come and have a run with mother."
"Oh, yes, mother, but Maggie wants her dinner!"
"And Maggie shall have it," said the young mother, bending her golden head down over the child with a fond embrace, "grandmother is getting it ready."
Thus assured, the child raced down the little garden, and her mother, not yet twenty-four years old, ran after her till she caught her.
Then they sat on a little bench under an apple-tree, and Maggie climbed up in her mother's lap, and laid her head on her bosom. It seemed a place well-known; and when the young woman softly began talking, the child did not seem surprised, but raised her eyes and listened.
"Long ago, Maggie, there was a poor woman. She was very poor indeed; but she had one thing that made her rich."
"Was it a shilling?" asked Maggie.
"No; it was something I have, something I love best in the world next to God."
"That's me!" said Maggie, nodding.
"Yes, you; and this poor widow had a boy, just only one."
"I'm glad she had," said Maggie, "'cause that would comfort her."
Her mother pressed her closely. "Well, they were very poor, so poor that at last they had only a little flour and a little oil left."
"What was oil for?"
"Like butter, to make it nice with."
"Oh!"
"Just as they were gathering some sticks to make a fire to bake their last little loaf, a man came up and asked the woman to fetch him some water.
"In the country where they lived, Maggie, people could not get water everywhere, and he had been a long journey, and was very thirsty. So she went directly to get him some; but he called her back, and said he was hungry too, would she give him some bread?"
Maggie's eyes looked sorrowful. "Poor woman, she had not much herself."
"No; and she explained this to the man; but he promised her in the name of the Lord God of Israel, whom he served, that if she would do as he asked, she should never want as long as the famine lasted."
"What is a famine?" asked Maggie.
"When people have eaten up all the bread there is, and there is no more, even in the shops."
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Maggie.
"Very," said her mother.
"But this poor woman believed that the Lord could do what He said, and every time she went to the barrel of flour, she found just as much in it as there was before; and so there was in the bottle of oil, it never wasted away."
"That was nice!" exclaimed Maggie.
"Yes; the Lord took care of them; and the prophet Elijah, for that was the man's name, and the widow, and her son, had enough to eat all the time."
"There is grandmother clapping her hands for us, mother."
"So she is; come along."
The child needed no second bidding, and they were soon seated round the table, on which stood one covered dish and three plates, and a salt-cellar.
The grandmother rose, and the others rose too, as was their custom. "Father," she said, "we thank Thee that Thou has kept Thy promise to us, and given us our daily bread; may we have contented hearts to serve Thee, for Jesus' sake. Amen."
Then the grandmother uncovered a large dish of steaming, floury potatoes, and helped them round. It was a simple meal; but it was cooked beautifully, and was served clean and hot. The colour came into the younger woman's cheeks as she ate.
"Nice potatoes, aren't they?" said her mother.
"Beautiful! You do boil them well, mother."
The moment the frugal dinner was over, the young woman took up her work and diligently went on with it; while the grandmother arrayed Maggie in a fresh pinafore, and sent her off to the village school; after which she washed up the few plates, and swept up the kitchen.
"I wish, child," said the woman, "you could get something to do that tried your eyes less, and that paid you better."
"So do I, mother," she answered, passing her hand over her eyes wearily; "but I do not hear of it."
"I am afraid this hard fare is injuring your health, Margaret; you have not been brought up to it, and it makes such a difference."
"I do not mind it, mother, so long as we can all keep together."
"But I do; what would our Jack say if he saw your thin checks?"
"He is not here to see," said the girl, lowering her head, while there was a sound of distress in her voice.
"No, my blossom; if he were here to see, he would soon alter it; but God has taken him from us. Still, child, we must be wise and do the best we can. You see you have been used to service all your life till you married my Jack, and I can't help thinking it would suit you better than this close needlework."
"But there's my Maggie!"
"True, I don't forget her; but you could earn good wages as a nurse, child. There's Mary at Mrs. Arundel's, how nice she gets on."
"But I should have to leave my Maggie," said Margaret, shaking her head; "I don't think I could do that, mother, even with you."
"I would take good care of the child, that you know. And my little bit of washing would keep the home over our heads; if only I could get more of it."
"Yes; there is nothing to be got in our village; but, mother, she was sent me by God, and while He gives me strength, I will try to bring her up for Him. No one must take my duty while He spares me."
"So be it, Margaret; then we must wait God's time. We have never really wanted yet."
That evening as they sat at tea, which was their favourite meal, the postman came up the garden. "Why here's a letter from Mary!" exclaimed the grandmother joyfully. "I didn't expect one to-day."
"So it is; and it is for me, mother."
"Well, to be sure; what does she say, child?"
The younger woman read—
"My dear Margaret,—Our young lady, Miss Nellie, came into my nursery
last night, and she says, 'Mary, have not you a sister-in-law, a widow,
with one little girl?'
"Of course I said, 'Yes.' And she asked a lot of questions about you
and Maggie; and then she says, 'Do you think she would be willing to
take a nurse's place, where there might be nine or ten little children?'
"I said you would not leave Maggie; and she says quickly, 'Oh, no!
I never meant her to; she would bring Maggie with her, and Maggie would
be brought up with the other children.'
"I suppose it is some sort of school; but Miss Nellie did not explain.
She said I might write and ask you; and if you were pleased at it, her
friend (that's Miss Arbuthnot, I fancy) would pay your fare to come and
see her.
"What do you think of it, dear sister-in-law? Please write and tell
me at once.
"Give my love to dear mother. We are going home in two or three days
now; but we are very happy, and all are well, as I hope this finds you.
"Your affectionate sister,
"MARY FENTON."
The grandmother sat during the reading of the letter with wide staring eyes.
"Praise the Lord!" she said. "Praise the Lord!"
Margaret's tears were falling fast and bright; and the letter was in danger of being obliterated.
"If it is all it looks, mother," she said, "it is like the barrel of meal and the cruse of oil."
"It is, my child. 'Praise the Lord; for His mercy endureth for ever.'"
CHAPTER XX.
THE HAY-LOFT.
"ONLY four days more, and here is a soaking wet one!" exclaimed Ada dolefully at breakfast one morning. "What shall we do with ourselves, Arthur?"
"I can't conceive," said Arthur; "what can you suggest, mamma?"
"Have you thought of the hay-loft?"
"Ah, capital!" exclaimed Arthur. "And Mrs. Ross said we might go there when we liked, but we have only been once."
"Well, mind, if you do, you shut down the trap-door safely; and I shall have to come and see the little ones safely up and down the ladder."
"I'll do that," said Walter; "when you are all ready to go up, I'll come."
They were soon assembled, with two balls and several books; and Walter helped them whisk across the dripping wet rick-yard, and helped them all carefully up the ladder.
"Now," he called, "if any of you get tired and want to come in, Arthur is to fetch Nellie or mamma; mind! I am going down to the reading room."
A grand romp was the first excitement in the hay-loft, and the enraptured children climbed up the hay, first up, one following another in clambering, and then sliding down the steepest place they could find—one after another, one after another, some feet first, some head first, some rolling and tumbling in wild frolic. Dolly soon got into the wars, and had to be comforted by Ada before they could go on playing; but when her tears ceased to flow, they set off again, and shouts and screams were all that could be heard.
At eleven o'clock, Nellie made her way across in the rain with a large jug of milk, and began calling at the foot of the ladder. Bump, bump, bump, went the feet overhead; shout, shout, shout, went the voices. It was of no use; she set down her jug and went back to the house.
"I can't get them to hear; you never heard such a commotion in your life, mamma; what shall I do?"
"Take the bell," suggested Mrs. Arundel.
So Nellie again set forth, and this time with more success. A tinkle of the bell was heard between the up and down rush, and Arthur hastened to the trap-door and looked down.
"Hurrah!" he shouted. "Here's lunch, I do declare, and dear Nell."
"Yes; here it is! And a nice dance you have led me," she answered good-naturedly. "Now is anybody tired, and wishing to come down?"
"Oh, no!" answered everyone. And several very flushed and rosy faces peeped cautiously through the trap-door.
"That's all right," said Nellie. "Now here is a stock of bread and butter, and plenty of milk; and it is of no use your wanting more, for you won't get it!"
With these words, she handed the jug to Arthur, who had descended a few steps to reach it, and then the bread and butter, and a mug, and nodding at them, she turned away, telling them to remember their rule.
Lunch was very acceptable, and the children found that they were both hungry and thirsty. They all sat down on various comfortable trusses of the sweet hay, and began to find out that they were also tired as well as hungry and thirsty.
"I shan't play any more," said Ada, when lunch was finished; "it's too hot; but we have had a jolly game."
"Lovely; but what can we do?" said Arthur.
"I'll read to you?" said Ada.
"No; tell us a story."
"Oh, Ada, do!" exclaimed the little ones.
"All right; then you must all lie down and be very still, and I'll shut my eyes and begin."
They soon settled themselves;
even Arthur was not sorry to hear a story.
They soon settled themselves; even Arthur was not sorry to hear a story, because, as he said, "he had read all their books through and through; but this was sure to be something quite fresh."
Ada's Story
"I saw in my dream a lovely valley. The mountains on either side were grand and picturesque. The rocks, ferns, and trees filled the eye with beauty and freshness. I heard the sound of splashing water, and turning round to see where it came from, I perceived a waterfall, and by the side of it a boy, stooping to drink of the clear stream.
"'This is an exquisite spot,' I said to him; and he raised his eyes and looked at me surprised.
"'Do you not like it?' I asked.
"'I do not care about it,' he said, sighing; and turning rather abruptly, he walked on.
"I noticed in my dream that he appeared not to be as straight and beautiful as I had first thought; for his back seemed misshapen, and I wondered if that was why he looked so sad.
"Just at this moment a little girl came in sight leading a baby-child. She was pulling it along roughly, and every now and then she gave it a little shake. 'What a plague you are,' she said angrily; 'I wish I could do anything else but lead you.'
"The child sobbed and moaned, and then began pushing away the hand that so rudely hurt it. 'I am tired,' it said wearily, 'and I can't get along. Why do you pull me so, sister?'
"The girl moved vexedly, and as she moved, I saw that she too seemed to have something on her shoulders under her dress.
"'What can it be?' I thought.
"A young woman now appeared, and besides the baby on her bosom, I saw she too had a burden to carry.
"A burden! Ah, that must be it! Poor things! Poor things!
"I was not near enough to ask them about it, so I still went on thinking. By-and-by two boys came up. They, were very disfigured by their burdens, and yet they seemed not to be troubled about it themselves, but were chatting gaily.
"'We will have a bath in this stream,' they said. So they cast aside their clothes; but, to my horror, I saw that each one carried his burden into the water with him—they could not take them off.
"My heart bled for them; so I drew nearer, and when they came out of the stream I said—
"'Have you no means of laying down those burdens, even for an instant?'
"They laughed carelessly. 'Burdens? Nonsense; we were born as we are, what need to change? We don't care; let us be happy while we can.' They hastened away, and I fell to musing deeply.
"Presently a lovely lady and a girl came in sight, and I noticed at once that the lady appeared to have no burden at all, while the child's was large and heavy.
"'Do not walk on the stones, my dear,' I heard the lovely lady say in a gentle voice, 'you will hurt your feet.'
"'I do not think I shall,' answered the girl, not altering her course.
"'I am sure you will, my dear,' answered her mother—for I took them to be mother and child.
"In a few moments the girl stumbled and fell; and her mother, full of tenderest pity, raised her, comforted her, and did what she could for her. But I noticed that somehow the burden always seemed in the way, and when the lady would have drawn the girl to rest on her bosom, the burden got between them, and the girl hastily pushed herself away. Then the mother went to the stream and fetched some clear water, and bathed her child's bruised foot, and by-and-by was so successful that the girl fell asleep with her head resting on a grassy mound. Then I ventured to speak.
"'You have no burden,' I said softly; 'how is it that all I see here have them?'
"She sighed deeply, and glanced at her child. 'They need not,' she said.
"'Is there a way to get rid of them, then?' I asked.
"'Certainly; did you not know?'
"'I am a stranger here.'
"'Yes, they can get rid of them,' she resumed, 'there is one way to do it.'
"'How is that?' I asked; 'and why do not all?'
"'It is very strange they do not. There is a stream not far from here; they have only to plunge in it, and the burden falls off, melts away. Only the way to it is narrow, and does not look inviting; but, oh, it is very different when you get to it!'
"'Really? And did you plunge in it?'
"'Yes, indeed. The King of this country has made it so. These burdens were fastened on at birth by His enemy, and as we grow they grow; and each year we carry them they get heavier and heavier, so that sometimes a very large burden has to be carried by a very weak person. No water that was in this land could cause these burdens to melt away; for it must be dyed with blood.'
"'With blood?' I asked.
"'Yes, with the blood of His own Son. But the King had pity; it was so sad to see the poor people living all their lives with these great burdens; and as the Son was willing to shed His life-blood, the King gave Him up.
"'So the stream I speak of is dyed with blood. Many shrink back for this very reason, and will have nothing to do with it; but when one thinks it is the only way to get rid of the burden, and that bathing in it gives an entrance to the King's palace at the end of the journey here, and that it is given to us at such a price—'
"'Of course, there is every reason to accept it; gratitude alone would be enough.'
"At this moment the girl woke. 'My foot hurts me,' she exclaimed, fretfully, 'and I cannot lie comfortably because of my burden. How I hate it!'
"'My dear,' said her mother soothingly, 'let us go to the stream; you could lose it there, if you would, in a moment.'
"The girl shook her head. 'I don't see how,' she said, 'and the stream looks so cold and dark. Let us go on our journey, mother.'
"So I saw that the mother could not put her in without her own consent; she could only lead her to it.
"When I next saw the travellers, it was in a different part of the King's country. Before me was a turning, narrow and steep, that led down to a dark water. 'This must be the blood-dyed river,' I thought.
"A voice said to me, 'You can follow them, and look.'
"This narrow way was very short, oh, very short indeed so near that no one could think the journey too hard, that the most weary feet could have no excuse. It was only one step, but still it was narrow.
"First the boy, who had drunk at the stream, got to the place, and he read, engraved on the rock at the entrance, 'Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest;' signed with the King's name. He looked at the words earnestly, then he shifted his burden upon his shoulders, and was just turning away, when he thought he would read them once more. He did so; they were very sweet, and he stepped into the narrow path and stood at the edge of the water. When there, he could not help hearing some words which a King's messenger kept on repeating over and over, 'He was wounded for our transgressions, and with His stripes we are healed.' So he plunged in, and, lo! The water which had looked so dark before seemed to be a silver stream, giving life, and health, and peace.
"Then he felt on his shoulders for the burden, and found it had melted all away.
"'I could stay here for ever!' he exclaimed joyfully.
"'Go and tell others,' said the messenger.
"The boy hastened to obey, and when he reached the valley, he soon met the girl and the child.
"'Go and bathe there,' he said, pointing; 'you will not be tired any more.'
"'Yes I shall, I expect,' said the girl; 'but come along faster, child, and let us see.'
"And she read the words; then she remembered the radiant look of the boy, and knew there must be something in it, and she turned down to the stream.
"'I want not to be tired,' said the weary little child; 'may I dip too?'
"'I suppose so,' said the girl; and with her aching heart, and her cross temper, and her heavy burden, she dipped, and came back relieved of all.
"The little child too stepped in—for it is never too deep, and never too shallow.
"'Who made the stream?' it asked.
"'The King,' answered the girl.
"'He is kind,' said the baby-child, plunging under the refreshing wave; 'I love Him!'
"My dream seemed to change here, and I could not see. When I opened my eyes again, I saw the young mother walking on, still with her babe and her burden: she had not been to the stream, alas!
"Soon the two boys came up. 'Who ever heard of such a thing?' they jeered. 'We do very well as we are!' And they passed on, and I saw them no more.
"At last I noticed the lady who had no burden come close to where I stood looking. Her daughter's was such a heavy one, she could hardly get along. She limped with her sore foot, and her burden had grown quite twice the size since I saw her last. She was pettish and cross; but she excused herself because her burden was so heavy, and made her more miserable than ever. She came near too, and read the words.
"'I am heavy laden,' she said; 'and now I have come again so close to the stream, I really must plunge in and lose my burden, for it is heavier than I can bear.'
"So she stepped into the narrow way. Her loving mother was close to her—so patient, so good! Her burden pressed hard; she heard the words of the messenger, and believed they were true; so she too plunged in. When she lifted her head from that wave of blood, her burden had slipped off for ever."
* * * * * *
Ada paused. The children were gazing on her face, for they saw her eyes were full of tears.
"Children," she said softly, "that girl was Ada Arundel. Her burden was Sin, and the blood of Jesus has taken it all away! Will you not plunge in the stream too?"
"I will!" said Netta, looking up earnestly.
"And so should I like to," said Isabel. "Can we, Ada?"
"Everyone can who has got a burden. Ah, do, dears; I wish I had sooner!"
Arthur got up from the hay, and walking straight over to Ada's side, laid his hand on her shoulder with unusual solemnity. "Ada," he said, "we will set out on the journey together. I did so hope and pray that you might as well as I, and now you have."
CHAPTER XXI.
THE LAST WALK.
WHEN Walter closed his little service on the last morning, he looked round on the circle of young faces, and told them he should have to bid them "good-bye."
"This is the last time, dear children, I shall see you all in this world. But we may meet, every one of us, before our Father's throne, if we like.
"We shall be sorry to part; but now I want all of you to go away and work for Jesus, your King. The first work of all is to believe on Him; and having done that, the next work is to keep His commandments, and to be loving to all around you. Then you must pray that He will teach you what else He would like you to do for Him. And He will, children. Every prayer sent straight from your heart to God's ear, and presented in the name of Jesus, is heard, and is answered. So wait patiently for the answer. Now good-bye, my dears; may God bless you all."
He shook hands with them, and many were the loving eyes raised to his face, and many the warm pressures of loving little hands, as the grateful children separated.
"We shall miss you much," said a mother, coming up to Walter. "My children have been so interested since you came, and there has been a different spirit among them."
Walter looked very glad, and he answered pleasantly, "Then you must go on encouraging them. There is nothing like teaching them diligently from the Bible every day."
"I will," answered the mother; "thank you for your kind effort for them."
Several friends gathered round them for a few parting words; and the morning slipped away so fast, that they were quite surprised to find it time to fold up their beach-chairs and start homewards for dinner.
"We must go and see the sunset to-night from our cliff," said Walter. "Mamma, will you go?"
"I should very much like it; but I know I shall be too tired with packing."
"You will go with us, I hope?" said Walter, turning to Christina.
"Oh, certainly! I should be very sorry to miss it; and we shall have a beautiful sunset, I believe, by the look of the day."
"Then we will all come," said Nellie; "and mamma will allow Netta and Isabel for once."
"Very well," said mamma, "if they are not sleepy."
The afternoon was spent by all in busy packing—a very different affair from the coming packing; for this time there was only, as Arthur said, "to stuff in all their possessions." Everything must go home. The rooms looked very empty and forlorn by tea-time; and the young people professed to be very tired, "but not too tired to go out; oh, dear, no!"
When they arrived at the piece of breezy cliff which jutted out into the sea, and looked round, it appeared to them all that on this last evening the ocean seemed more blue, more lovely than usual. Arthur was looking at it a little discontentedly; Ada was thinking how much had happened since she had come there, and with what a changed and thankful heart she would go home; Nellie felt her sorrow revived as she gazed on the boundless expanse; and Christina was thinking deeply and lovingly of her plans. And Walter? Where were his thoughts?
"Shall we sing?" he said presently.
They all assented heartily, and sang over some of the hymns which had become so very familiar during the last month. Then the conversation fell naturally into the discussion of some of Christina's projects, and she told them of a talk she had had with Mrs. Ross about Alfy, and how she had obtained a willing consent to let him go to her, promising that he should come down to see his grandparents every now and then.
"They are really well enough to do to put him to school," said Walter; "your home is not meant for children of that class exactly, is it?"
"No," said Christina; "but I have a feeling, that whatsoever my hand finds to do, I must do it; that is, wherever there is a child in need of care and training who comes under my notice, I must not refuse."
"You are right, I believe," said Walter; "all these little ones have souls, and it is not the will of our Father that one of them should perish."
Meanwhile the time slipped by, while the sun, waiting for no one, slowly and majestically dipped into the sea.
"I am so fond of these words," Walter said, addressing Christina; "there is infinite comfort in them. 'Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon withdraw itself: for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.'"
"Yes, they are beautiful," she answered softly; while her eyes watched the last streak of light go down, all too quickly.
"It is gone!" said Arthur.
"Yes," answered Walter, starting up; "let us have one walk along the shore."
"Come, Ada," said Arthur, catching her hand, and then Nellie's, "come, let us have a race down the cutting for the last time; 'little ones,' you catch us."
Nellie would have preferred to stay with the others, but some intuition made her run down to the beach after the young ones.
"Forsaken!" said Walter with a smile. "We must follow, but we will not go so fast."
Christina got up, and they stood still for a moment looking at the sunset sky.
"You have laid out very different plans for yourself from those I had been laying out for you, Christina," said Walter rather huskily, turning towards the descent.
"You had made for me?" she said, looking up; then seeing something unexpected in his face, she exclaimed hastily, "Oh, please—please don't!"
"Yes, dear Christina, I must. You will be so very kind as to hear me patiently."
"But it is of no use; and, oh, if you would not say it! I never dreamed of hurting you, Walter."
He paused an instant. "The worst pain is past, Christina. At first I thought I could get over it; but that is of no use; I have given you the love of all my life."
"I cannot return it," she answered in a stifled voice.
"Not now, I know that; but by-and-by, when I come back from India."
"Oh, Walter!" she exclaimed sorrowfully, "I would do anything for you but that."
"And anything but that will not do," he said gently and gravely.
They stood now at the edge of the waves, the spray almost touching their feet, and they were both silent. Walter knew it would be of little use to hurry or distress her, and yet he wanted her to understand that this hope was very near to his heart. At last he told her so, and Christina stood listening, not knowing what to answer.
"Say you will think of it, dear Christina," were his final words.
"I have undertaken my children," she said, hesitating.
"I know; but three years is a long time, and we can provide for them then, if—"
"If I could ever think of such a thing; but I do not think I ever can."
"No need to say now," he said earnestly; "we can pray about it, dear Christina; and you know I speak truthfully when I say that I would not wish to do it, if it were not His will."
"Oh, yes!" said Christina.
They turned homewards now without further speech.
Walter's feelings were very mingled, and he did not seem to have gained as much as he wanted.
"I do not know what I shall do with only this slight hope for three years," he exclaimed at length, as if forced to say the words.
And Christina burst into tears.
"Dear!" he said, "I was wrong to want to hurry you; forgive me."
"Do not talk any more about it, Walter," she said in a broken voice; "I will promise to think of it at any rate."
"I must be satisfied with that," he answered; "but think kindly and tenderly, dear."
"I will, I will," she said, weeping afresh.
So Walter said his say, and went home to the farm that night more dejected than he had been once since his return from London; and not all Nellie could do to cheer him was of any avail.
"She will decide against me," he said.
He went early to his room, and locked the door on himself and his grief. Well was it for him that he could not exclude that ever-present Comforter, who is with us in spite of bars and bolts, and who is acquainted with the most secret chambers of our inmost hearts.
"And if in lonely places, a fearful child, I shrink,
He prays the prayers within me I cannot ask or think;
The deep unspoken language, known only to that love
Who fathoms the heart's mystery from the throne of light above.
His Spirit to my spirit sweet words of comfort saith,
How God the weak one strengthens who leans on Him in faith;
How He hath built a city of love, and light, and song,
Where the eye at last beholdeth what the heart had loved so
long."
Before Walter slept that night, he had received help and comfort.
"'He knoweth the way that I take: when He hath tried me, I shall
come forth as gold.'"
He read out of his precious Bible; and, like a little child, he placed his hand in that of his Father, and was at peace.