When Mr. Laurence returned from New York, he brought with him, not only the prints and cards sent by Milly, but a good Sunday School library of about two hundred volumes, fifty small Prayer-Books, an equal number of Testaments, and a large, plainly bound, but well-printed Bible and Prayer-Book for the desk. The school-house began to be crowded both morning and afternoon, and a Wednesday evening lecture was also well attended.
Almost every one was pleased with Mr. Laurence's plain practical discourses, as well as with his winning manners; and it was a pleasing sight to see the children crowding round him, after the Sunday School was dismissed—each anxious for a word, a look, or a shake of the hand, and no one going away ungratified. Every one, from Mr. and Mrs. Stuart, who were decidedly the aristocrats of the little place, down to poor Joe Fisher, who was drunk five days out of seven—every one felt the influence of the young minister's kindly and polished manners, which were the same to all. His bow of recognition was as kind and as elegant to Mrs. Stuart's servant as to Mrs. Stuart herself, and not an old woman or little child in the village, but found him ready to enter with an unfeigned interest into all their troubles, spiritual, temporal, and domestic.
He even conciliated Mrs. Downing, who considered the Episcopal Church as identical with the Church of Rome, and held with Fanny Fern's Deacon that a man who cannot take the curl out of his hair has no business in the ministry. Mrs. Champlin liked him when she was in a mood to like anybody, and sometimes when she was not. Susan held out for some time, but was at last vanquished by his genuine interest in and sympathy for poor Eddy, who would put out his little wasted arms to him whenever he appeared, and had been seen to laugh and crow like other children at being held up to pat his gentle horse. As for the boys, they were enlisted to a man on the side of the new minister, and woe to the unlucky wight who ventured to assert that Mr. Laurence was any thing but perfection.
At home things went on very much as usual. Edah rose early, and thus gained an hour or two before breakfast for her own purposes. This time was usually consecrated to study, and she was surprised to see how much progress she made. The family breakfasted rather late on Mrs. Champlin's account, and Edah was usually obliged to hurry from the table directly to school, from whence, if the weather was bad, she did not return till five o'clock, taking her luncheon with her, and staying an hour after school to hear some extra classes by which she added something to her salary.
Meantime, Susan waited upon her mother, sewed, and took care of Eddy, who was now eight months old. Mrs. Champlin had happily taken to reading, which was a great relief to her daughters as well as to herself. Mr. Laurence took care to keep her well supplied with books of one sort and another, and as she generally took several naps in the course of a page, one volume lasted her a long time. Thus Susan was left to pursue her own reading and studies as she pleased.
After tea, Sam commonly read aloud, while the girls occupied themselves with their sewing or knitting. Sometimes Edah drew a little in the evening, but not often, as she found that it tried her eyes. A chapter in the Bible usually concluded the reading, and the family retired early. On the whole, Edah found herself decidedly more comfortable than when her father was at home. For one thing, Susan's temper was much less irritable than formerly, though she now and then had a fit of her old perversity, when she delighted in teasing all about her, particularly Edah, whose naturally warm and hasty temper was not so subdued by all her efforts as to be proof against these attacks, especially when they were directed through Pauline. She was often provoked to hasty retorts and angry remonstrances, for which she afterwards suffered severely, and at such times she could not help wishing that she had accepted Milly's invitation, and left the family to their fate. These untoward events did not, however, occur very often, and they became more and more infrequent.
Pauline was to Edah a source of almost unmixed pleasure. There was no denying her improvement both of mind and body since she had been under her sister's care. She had formerly been indulged by her father in eating every thing to which she took a fancy, whether hurtful or not; thus she was in the habit of drinking strong tea and coffee twice and sometimes three times a day, and of eating an unlimited amount of spices, pickles, and sweet things. Her mother well knew that these things injured her, but she had not sufficient fortitude to cross her inclinations, even if Mr. Champlin would have permitted her to do so. It was the same with going out and going to bed—Pauline did as she pleased, except when her father now and then took a fit to govern her, which he did always harshly, and almost always unjustly, and thus the poor child's life was passed in a condition of continual contradiction and discomfort.
Of course the habits formed by such a state of things were not to be overcome in a day. Pauline was often fretful, sometimes selfish and sometimes shy; but her affection for Edah was unbounded, and her own good sense showed her that she was much more comfortable when she was guided by her sister than when she was left to her own devices. By degrees Edah coaxed her to leave off the tea and coffee, substituting warm milk and water, well sweetened, and served in a beautiful china mug procured expressly for her, and consecrated to her sole use. Proper precautions enabled her to take out of door exercise without getting cold: regular employment and suitable hours of repose did the rest, and Pauline was in a fair way of becoming as well and hardy as other children. Reading opened to her a source of inexhaustible delight. Her active mind exercised itself upon all it received, and her sisters were often amused and sometimes puzzled by the sagacity of her questions—questions which it was impossible to answer satisfactorily to the mind of a child, or indeed to answer at all.
"I don't know, my dear," or "You must wait till you are older," were answers which she often received, and which always annoyed her excessively.
"I wish I knew every thing under the sun," she exclaimed one day, rather petulantly, after receiving one of these unsatisfactory answers to some grave metaphysical query—"I wish I knew every thing there is to know."
"Then you would have nothing to learn," said Susan, "and you would take no more pleasure in reading. What would you do then?"
"I would write books," returned the little lady, without a moment's hesitation, "and explain things to other people, and I would never tell anybody that they were too young to understand."
Sam had improved almost as much as Pauline in the same time. He was now a tall, manly boy, looking upon himself as the head and protector of the family, and consequently despising all childish things. Mr. Stuart had taken him into his store, where he received a tolerable salary, and soon made himself a favorite, not only with his employer, but with all who dealt with him. He took a certain pride in dressing and behaving like a gentleman, and Susan never complained now of his teasing her, though it must be allowed that she sometimes put his good temper and forbearance to pretty severe trials. He was very much attached to Mr. Laurence, and a great favorite with that gentleman, who exercised great influence over all the boys in the village.
Bob Raymond was also growing up tall and manly, and he and Jack Downing, who still lived at Mr. Bell's, constituted themselves a sort of body-guard for Edah. They did her errands, made her fires, carried her to and from school on stormy days, and were never weary of devising ways and means to give her pleasure.
Mr. Downing could not avoid expressing his wonder that Mr. Bell had so little trouble with Jack, at the same time that he governed him so little. He did not believe the boy had ever had a whipping since he left home.
Eddy alone of all the little family did not seem to partake of the general improvement. He did not thrive at all, with all Susan's care and nursing, but continued the same puny, sickly little creature, seldom laughing and playing like other children, not often crying, but lying still and silent in the arms of whoever would hold him, with his large gray eyes wide open, apparently musing on his unhappy condition. He was afraid of almost all strangers, and cried if he were left alone, but otherwise he was very good, and very little trouble, though a constant source of anxiety. Of late, he had begun to be troubled with a cough, and some difficulty of respiration. The doctor did not think it worth while to disturb him with medicine; but upon being pressed for his opinion, said frankly that nothing would do him any good. He might linger for a few months longer, or even a year or two, but he would never be well, and his death might take place at any time.
The evening of the day on which he gave his opinion, Edah and Susan were sitting together by fire-light—Edah knitting and looking at the fire, and Susan holding her poor little pet who was asleep in her arms, both sisters seemingly absorbed in their own meditations. Suddenly Susan said—
"Edah, don't you think Eddy ought to be baptized?"
"I was just thinking of that very thing," returned Edah, rousing herself from her reverie. "I think so certainly, and I have always been anxious to have it done, but I did not know how you would feel."
"I suppose I should have laughed at any one who had proposed such a thing six months ago," said Susan, musingly; "but I feel very differently now. I should like to have the dear little fellow—" She paused, and then went on abruptly: "I suppose you don't see any change in me, do you, Edah?"
"Yes, I do," replied Edah; "you are hardly like the same person that you were when I came here. I think you are very much improved."
"But you think there is room for improvement still?"
"There is room for improvement in everybody," said Edah, smiling. "I suppose you don't pretend to be an exception to the general rule."
"But when I tease you about your church, and about Mr. Laurence, and Pauline, don't you wish I was in the Red Sea?"
"No," said Edah. "I wish you would not do it, certainly, because it makes me uncomfortable, and very often makes me do wrong, and I don't think you are any happier for it yourself. But, Susan, you are not half as fond of teasing people as you used to be. Don't you remember how you and Sam used to quarrel when I first came here?"
Susan smiled.
"Sam is growing a fine fellow, isn't he? I only hope he will not be led into bad company, or any thing of that sort."
"I do not think there is much danger," replied Susan; "he has seen enough of that to last him all his life. But about the baby—what do you suppose mother will say?"
"I hardly think she will object," said Edah; "and if she does, Mr. Laurence has so much influence with her that he will soon bring her over. I think we might have Polly baptized at the same time. Oh, Sue, if you would only join them!"
Susan shook her head.
"Not now. I may perhaps come to it in time, but not at present. My head is too full of other things; and besides, I am not prepared. I should have to be very different from what I am now."
"How different?" asked her sister.
"I don't know that I can tell you—different entirely. I must learn to put more constraint upon myself. I must be better, in short. But, as I said, I cannot think enough about it just now to make up my mind. When will you speak to Mr. Laurence about Eddy?" she added, rather hastily, as if to change the subject.
"To-morrow," answered Edah. "He told me he was coming here, and I will ask him to mention it to mother."
"Don't say any thing to him about me," said Susan, quickly. "Now promise, Edah, that you won't."
Edah could not avoid giving the promise, though she did it with regret, for she was anxious that Mr. Laurence should converse with Susan. She could only hope that he would have sufficient penetration to perceive the state of her mind, and himself introduce the subject of personal religion.
Mr. Laurence called the next day, and being informed of the affair, undertook to persuade Mrs. Champlin to consent, in which he succeeded with but little trouble, for, as Edah had said, his influence with her was almost unbounded. That day week was the one fixed upon for the service, as Edah wished for some little time to instruct Pauline, and prepare her mind to appreciate its solemnity and importance. In this she succeeded beyond her hopes. Polly was much interested and very serious: she asked a great many questions, both of Mr. Laurence and her sister. Several times Edah found her at prayer by herself, and she could not help hoping that the child of her love was indeed meetly prepared, by the Holy Spirit's gracious influences, to become in Holy Baptism, "a member of Christ, the child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven."
"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN."
FROM the day when Eddy's baptism was decided on, he seemed to decline rapidly. He grew weaker and thinner, lost what little appetite he had, and though he suffered apparently less than usual, it was evident to all who saw him that his end was fast approaching. Susan now never left him, day or night; and though her health suffered from the fatigue and anxiety, she would allow no one to take her place, or do any thing for him. Edah was desirous to dismiss her school, and remain at home all day, but Susan would not hear of it, and as there was indeed no absolute necessity for her presence, she was content to submit to her sister's judgment, though she scarcely expected, each morning when she left home, to find the child alive when she returned. Mrs. Champlin did not realize Eddy's situation, and seemed not to consider him in any danger; in fact, she troubled herself very little about the matter, though she thought it very disagreeable to have the house kept so still, and to see so many serious faces about her.
When the day fixed upon for the service arrived, Eddy seemed a little better: he noticed things around him, took a little food, and even smiled, and made an effort to put out his little hands when Mr. Laurence appeared. Two or three of the neighbors came in, among whom were Mr. and Mrs. Bell, with Bob and Jack, and Miss Gilmore. The service was very solemn and touching indeed, as Mr. Laurence performed it, and did not distress or even disturb the sick child, though he was usually very sensitive to the presence of strangers. Pauline behaved perfectly well, and seemed to comprehend the nature and importance of the service in which she was engaged, repeating the Lord's Prayer distinctly, and saying the answers to the questions after Edah in a low whisper.
The scene was a very affecting one. Mrs. Bell and Miss Gilmore wept without restraint; Mr. Bell was scarcely less moved, and Mr. Laurence himself was obliged to pause several times in order to control his voice. Susan was apparently the least agitated of the party: only her pale face and compressed lips, and the intensity of her attention to her darling, showed how much she felt.
A few minutes after the conclusion of the ceremony, the doctor came in, as he usually did twice or thrice a week, to inquire how the sick child was.
"He seems rather better, I think," said Susan, in answer to his inquiries. "He has eaten a little to-day, and seems to take more notice of things. I hope he is better."
The doctor examined his pulse and skin, and as he rose from doing so, he exchanged a glance with Mrs. Bell, which told her the truth. The child was dying. He called Mr. Laurence out of the room, and said in a low voice—
"You must prepare them for a change. He will not last more than a few hours longer."
"Will you not inform them yourself?" asked Mr. Laurence.
"No," replied the doctor, gruffly, and clearing his throat: "it is not my business, but yours."
"Do you think," asked Mr. Laurence, "that the service in which we have just been engaged, can have shortened his life?"
"No; oh no! He was marked for death three days ago, and I am only surprised that he has lasted so long. Make it as easy as you can, for that girl Susan's sake. I will look in again in half an hour."
The doctor departed, and Mr. Laurence returned to the parlor, pondering in what way best to discharge the painful duty assigned to him. But the moment he opened the door, he saw that it was no longer necessary.
Susan had either guessed the truth, or she had been informed of it by Mrs. Bell. As pale as death itself, and almost as still, she was sitting immovable, with her eyes riveted upon the face of the dying child, utterly heedless of any other object, even of her mother, who was rolling and struggling in one of her frightful hysterical attacks. Pauline was kneeling by Susan's side, with her face buried in her dress, now and then casting a look at her little brother, and evidently making a strong effort to control her grief, lest it should add to her sister's.
Sam and Edah were endeavoring, in vain, to prevail on their mother to retire to her room. Mr. Laurence saw at once that he could be useful here, and going up to Mrs. Champlin, he requested her, in a kind but peremptory tone, to take his arm and retire, at the same time assisting her to rise. She obeyed him as submissively as possible, and, with Sam's assistance, she was conveyed to her own bedroom, where they left her in charge of Mrs. Bell, and returned to the parlor.
The doctor was there, but nothing could be done. Eddy lay apparently in a stupor, his eyes closed, his breathing gentle and soft, but evidently growing shorter: he did not seem to suffer at all, and his face was calm and composed. For several hours he lay in this state, with but very little change; but about sunset he moved restlessly, and opened his eyes, which wandered around the apartment, apparently searching for something, till they fixed themselves on Susan's face. An ineffably sweet smile lighted up his wan countenance, and, with a gentle sigh, the spirit took wing. The sacred sign of baptism was hardly dry upon his forehead, when his soul entered the presence of Him who said,—
"Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven."
With many tears and sobs, the children gathered around the body of their little angel brother, but Susan sat quiet and tearless: she seemed perfectly stunned. Only when Miss Gilmore would have taken her darling from her arms, she roused herself, and said, with a kind of fretful impatience—
"Don't move him, Miss Gilmore, you will hurt him." Then, as if recollecting herself, she continued gently, "I will do all that is necessary myself, if you please: I would much rather."
Miss Gilmore hesitated, but the doctor, in a whisper, advised that she should be humored in her wish, and she desisted.
Susan washed the little body, dressed it in its prettiest white frock and cap, and, after arranging the little crib in which Eddy usually slept, she laid him carefully down as if he had been alive. She then suffered Edah to lead her to her room, and was persuaded to lie down.
The intelligence that all was over was communicated to Mrs. Champlin with all due precaution, but she received it very quietly, merely observing that she had expected such a result, as the poor, dear child had been sickly from his birth. She seemed somewhat affected at the sight of Pauline's tears, and even took some pains to comfort her, assuring her that her little brother was now an angel in heaven, and that she would see him again if she were a good girl.
The next day but one was fixed upon for the funeral, which was from the house. Mr. Laurence had brought his father's coach for the use of the family, and Mr. Willson drove over in his open carriage, while a number of the neighbors came in wagons and on horseback.
Mr. Laurence and Mr. Willson read the burial service, and at the solemn words, "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord," Susan's tears flowed for the first time. Edah was rejoiced to see her weeping, for her perfect calmness had alarmed her friends who almost feared for her reason. She wept abundantly as the service proceeded, and especially at the grave, where her emotion seemed almost overpowering. It was, indeed, a sad change from her gentle care and watchfulness, to the cold ground covered with ice and snow; from the soft cradle and warm covering, to the narrow coffin and the rattling earth.
She returned from the graveyard tolerably serene and composed, but her tears burst forth again on entering the sitting-room, from which Eddy's crib had been removed, for the first time, in many months. Edah had gone directly up to her mother, and Susan was alone with Pauline. The little girl stood by her sister's side, afraid to speak, yet anxious to administer some consolation. At last she put her arms round her neck, and said, very softly—
"Susy!"
"What, dear?"
"Isn't Eddy an angel in heaven now? Mother says so."
"Yes, Polly, I hope he is."
"Then when you go to heaven, you will have a little angel of your own, won't you?"
Susan seemed struck by these words. She took the little girl on her lap, kissed her, and asked—
"How came you to think of that, Polly?"
"I don't know. I was thinking about it last night, and wondering how it seemed to Eddy up there. Perhaps he will come to meet you the first thing when you get there!"
"Perhaps I shall not go there," said Susan, diverted from her own thoughts for a moment.
Pauline seemed struck by this supposition, and hesitated a moment with a puzzled look. "Oh! But I think you will, for the Bible says, 'Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.' You know you always called Eddy your treasure!"
From that hour might be dated the beginning of a thorough understanding between Susan and Pauline, and the change was a happy one for both of them. Pauline was no longer exposed to be unjustly found fault with and opposed by her sister, as had formerly been too often the case, and Edah found her plans for Polly's benefit no longer thwarted by unreasonable interference on Susan's part. Susan was indeed much altered every respect, and if her old perversity now and then appeared, it was only in flashes, and seldom continued long. She was very sad for a long time, and there were days when she scarcely spoke from morning till night; but these gloomy intervals grew less and less frequent, and she returned gradually to her former busy habits.
There was nothing now to keep anybody at home on Sundays, except when Mrs. Champlin was more than usually unwell; and Susan was finally prevailed upon, after a good deal of urging from Edah and coaxing from Pauline, to join the Bible Class, which had increased till it numbered nearly thirty members, all grown-up people; but a beginning once made, she became very much interested, and never failed to attend when it was possible.
It had now become a matter of course to have service twice a week in the school-house, and many of those who at first ridiculed the idea of a congregation being collected in Brooksville, would have been much at a loss what to do with their Sunday mornings if Mr. Laurence had ceased to ride over from Spring Bank. The school-house was becoming overfilled, and there was talk of holding the services elsewhere, if a suitable place could be found—a matter about which there seemed to be some difficulty. Mr. Laurence was unwilling to make a change unless it were decidedly for the better, at the same time that he foresaw that some of his most cherished plans must be given up, unless some other place than the school-house could be procured.
In the midst of the considerations upon the matter, it happened that quite a number of those interested were one evening collected at Mrs. Champlin's. Bob Raymond and Jack Downing—now as inseparable as Damon and Pythias—had come in, as they often did, to hear the evening reading. Mr. and Mrs. Bell followed, ostensibly to see what had become of the boys. Mr. Bostwick happened to be passing, and seeing Mr. Bell enter, he remembered something that he wished to say to him, and came too. Sam was about to lay aside his book, but the gentlemen begged him to go on, and he continued accordingly.
In the very middle of a paragraph, Bob, who was industriously working away at a fishnet at a corner of the fire, suddenly dropped his needle, and exclaimed, as if by a sudden inspiration,—
"I know what we can do!"
Sam stopped reading, and Mr. Bell, who had for some time appeared in imminent danger of going to sleep, opened his eyes wide, and gazed at his nephew in some astonishment.
"Do about what?" asked Sam, laughing.
"About the church," returned Bob, no ways abashed. "I know a plan that will suit exactly if we can only get a little money to fix it up."
"If ifs and ands were pots and pans," said Mr. Bell—"But go ahead, Bob. What plan do you mean?"
"Well, you know Mr. Champlin's old office—not the last one he had, but the old land company's office, don't you? It isn't used at all now, and some of the windows are broken, but in the main it is as good as ever. Now, 'if' the partitions were taken out, and the walls mended, and 'if' there was a pulpit and fixings, what's the reason it would not make a nice little church?"
Mr. Bell and Mr. Bostwick looked at each other.
"Considering who brought you up, you are a pretty smart boy, Bob. I shouldn't wonder of it was the best idea started yet. What do you say, Brother Bostwick?"
"Well, I don't know," said Mr. Bostwick; "it depends on circumstances—on how much rent we should have to pay, for one thing. I suppose Stuart would let it go pretty cheap for such a purpose."
"I reckon he would," replied Mr. Bell, "particularly as he hasn't got a cent out of it these five years. The walls and roof are good, as Bob says, the glass is mostly broke out, and I think likely a good deal of the plaster is off; but, amongst us, I reckon we could get up enough to put it in pretty decent order. We should have to make a calculation, and find out how much it would take, and then see how much we could get towards it. 'Twould be a first-rate situation, that's a fact, and I reckon it would hold about twice or three times as many as the old school-house."
The reading was now laid aside, and the subject discussed in all its bearings, and the more it was talked about, the more feasible it appeared.
Mr. Bostwick thought he could furnish the mason work which would be needed, and he was sure his brother-in-law would be willing to do, at least, part of the painting. It was thought probable that Hildreth would give part of the lumber necessary, and let them have the rest cheap. They might depend upon the old doctor for something, though he would grumble at being asked, and perhaps refuse at first. Strong would do nothing to help them, and would hinder them if he could; but his power was on the wane, and he was as afraid of the old Captain as he was of—Well! On the whole, it was considered, as Mr. Bell said, to be the best thing started yet.
"And what shall we do for it—we boys, I mean?" asked Jack, who had hitherto been a silent listener to the conversation.
"As much as you like," said Mr. Bell. "I'll give you your time from now till April—all the time you are out of school, I mean, of course, and you can give your work. You are pretty smart at the tools, both of you, and if Mr. Laurence is willing, you shall try your hands at pulpit and reading-desk."
"Capital!" exclaimed Bob. "When shall we begin, uncle?"
"Not before to-morrow," said Mr. Bell; "and now as we have pretty much disgusted the subject, as Mr. Warner says, I move we go home, for it is getting time for honest folks to be abed. Good-night, young ladies, and remember, if we get this scheme of Bob's agoing, we shall expect you to turn to and do your share."
"ARISE AND BUILD."
THE next day after the conversation related in the last chapter, Bob's scheme was again talked over, and after a consultation with Mr. Laurence, who cordially approved, an informal meeting of the principal church-goers was called, and the plan laid before them. There were various opinions about the matter. Mr. Stuart thought it would be an odd thing to turn an old office into a church. He had never heard of such a thing being done, but he saw no special objection, and if they wanted the building, they could have it rent free.
"So far, so good," said Mr. Bell; "but it will need some fixing up, besides pulpit, seats, and so on."
"Oh, you must do that yourselves. I cannot give you the house gratis, and repair it into the bargain."
"Of course not," returned Mr. Bell; "nobody calculated you would. That's got to be done among the rest of us; Bostwick and I have been down to look at it, and made a rough calculation about what will be wanted, and we make out that a hundred and twenty dollars would fix it first-rate. Now, then, how is it going to be done?"
"That's the rub, I guess you'll find," said Mr. Crampton, the painter. "Money ain't very plenty around here just now."
"Them that can't give money can give work," replied Mr. Bell, "and them that can't give work, can give good-will. Here's Brother Bostwick, now, says he'll do all the mason work that's wanted, and that's something. I will give the carpenter's work, and what of that sort needs to be done, and I reckon you, Crampton, can do the painting and set the glass without breaking yourself, can't you?"
"WELL, I can, and more than that, if I've a mind."
"Let's have that first, any way. Carpenter's work, mason work, and painting—we are getting on well. We shall want about fourteen or fifteen hundred feet of good lumber—perhaps more."
"I'll give you a thousand feet, and let my team draw it," said Hildreth, who was one of the wealthiest men in the place, "and after that, if you want more, I'll see about it. I'm no great things of a church-goer myself, but my wife is, and I'd do as much, if it was only to oblige Miss Champlin, who I take to be the principal getter-up of the business, and who is one of the finest young women I know. She has had a hard row to hoe since she came home, I expect."
"You might say so, if you knew," replied Mr. Bell; "but they get along wonderful well, considering. Well, I don't see but we've got all we want, except a little ready money, and that we must come at some way or other. I think, friends, we should be justified in making a beginning as it is, and them that thinks so, please signify it."
The vote was unanimous, and they were just going to disperse, when Mr. Crampton said—
"Here's Downing coming; let's see what he'll say."
Mr. Downing entered accordingly, and after going lightly over the proposed plan, Mr. Crampton asked him what he would contribute.
"Not a red cent!" replied Mr. Downing, with emphasis, and with a frown which made his gloomy countenance still more repulsive. "I'll never give the first penny as long as young Laurence stays here. He isn't the kind of minister for my money. I'd as soon have Charley Strong himself."
"Charley Strong! Pray what has he to do with Mr. Laurence?" asked Mr. Bell.
"Just this," answered Mr. Downing. "No longer ago than last Wednesday, I saw Mr. Laurence and Charley Strong walking arm-in-arm all the way from Stuart's store up to the school-house, talking as fast as you please. More than that, I know well enough that the last time Laurence was over here, Charley Strong rode home with him, and he has stayed there, or about there ever since, to my certain knowledge. Now you can do as you please; but a minister who don't know how to choose his company any better than that, is not the man for my money, no matter whose son he is."
"Hem!" said Mr. Bostwick. "Did you ever happen to hear in all your life of a certain person who went to dine with a man not over and above respectable, and who kept company not over and above respectable, and what some folks said about it?"
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Bostwick," returned Mr. Downing; "but if the man pretended to be a minister, and the company was no better than the one we were speaking of, I think folks had a right to talk."
"Of course they had, and I'll tell you what they said. They said, 'He received publicans and sinners, and eateth with them.' Mayhap you can remember now what kind of an answer they got."
Two or three of the men laughed, and Mr. Downing looked rather taken aback, while Mr. Bostwick continued: "Now some folks think that men who wear the kind of coat Richard Laurence does, should be as much like their Master as they can. Charley Strong is a hard case, and no wonder, considering how he has been brought up; but he has got a soul to be saved as well as the best of us, and the Lord that bought him paid as much for him as He did for you and me, Mr. Downing—just as much. And if He was to walk through the towns of this county, as He did through them towns of old, He'd be as likely to talk to such poor fellows as Charley, or even Joe Fisher, as He would to you and me. I'm not an educated man myself, but I was brought up by pious parents, and thank the Lord I've known Him this many a year, and my experience of Him is that He is just as ready to save the worst sinner as He is the smartest feeling Pharisee."
"Amen!" said Mr. Bell, emphatically.
"That's well said, Bostwick," said Mr. Stuart, "and I think you have the right of it. Who knows what might be done for such kind of people, if Christians would only take them up and befriend them, and try to help them along. I have not seen Charley so steady since he was ten years old as he has been for the last two weeks, and if he was anywhere but at home, he might do well enough yet; but what can you expect when his father gets his living by selling the very poison that is destroying his only son?"
"If my memory serves me, you once sold liquor yourself, Mr. Stuart," said Mr. Downing, with a sneer.
"God forgive me, I did," replied Stuart earnestness; "and I would cut off my right hand to be able to repair the mischief I have done. But that's neither here nor there. Come, Downing, I know when you come to reflect, you won't think the worse of Laurence for trying to do something for poor Charley."
"Why perhaps not, if that's the view you take of it, though I can't say I think it looks very well. But after all, Laurence is a regular dandy in his dress and ways. Just look at his fine black coat and white cravat, and his hair curls like a girl's. To be sure it always did curl when he was a little boy."
"That is indeed a misfortune," said Mr. Stuart, gravely; "but then isn't a curly-haired minister better than none at all?"
Downing smiled in spite of himself.
"Come, I see you are going to help the matter along after all. How much are you going to give us?"
"There's a dollar for you," replied Mr. Downing, "and that's all you get from me, I can tell you."
"That will do for a beginning; and now, as we seem to have finished our business, I move that this committee do adjourn. When do you calculate to begin, Mr. Bell?"
"Right off," answered Mr. Bell. "I am going to set my boys to pulling down the partitions, and mending the fences to-day. I've given them their time to work for the church, and they are so pleased, you'd think they were going to preach in it themselves."
"It has been a first-rate thing for the children, that's a fact," remarked Mr. Hildreth; and with these words the meeting adjourned.
There was great rejoicing among the "women folks," when it was understood how matters had gone, and it was agreed that they would do their share towards fitting up the church decently. The very children were anxious to help, and more than one little boy and girl vowed secretly to devote the hoarded contents of his or her savings bank to the same purpose.
The work was commenced at once, as Mr. Bell had said. The green about the door was nicely fenced, and cleared of all encumbrances, dusty partitions were torn down and carried away, piles of new boards and stacks of bricks made their appearance, and Mr. Laurence never passed that way without rejoicing over his work, and praying for an increased blessing upon the flock, over which he trusted the Holy Ghost had made him overseer.
Mr. Bostwick gave it as his opinion that the house might be ready for occupation in about three weeks; that is, about the commencement of Lent, which fell very late this year. Mr. Laurence was very desirous that this should be the case, as his heart was set upon a series of Lenten services, which could not well be holden in the school-house.
Charley Strong, the young man whose companionship had been so strongly objected to by Mr. Downing, was the only son of the tavern-keeper with whom my readers have become acquainted in the early part of this story. He was a tan, handsome young man, very well educated, and, when sober, very well bred. He had grown up, as Mr. Stuart said, under the very worst influences possible. His father had begun by indulging him in every thing, right or wrong, to which he took a fancy, and laughing at those who warned him of the danger of this course. His mother—a good and pious woman—died when he was about five years old—of a broken heart it was said. Charley was brought up in the barroom, and saw, smelt, and tasted liquor from morning till night. What wonder if he acquired a taste for it? What wonder if the taste became a raging passion, which deprived him of reason, and threatened to destroy him, body and soul? At seventeen, Charley was sent to college, from which he returned in disgrace, and before he had been at home a week, he ruined a valuable horse belonging to his father, by over-driving him in a fit of intoxication. From that time, their quarrels were constant: the father seemed to lose all affection for his son, and though he allowed him to take his meals and sleep at home, he showed him no other kindness, and never spoke to him without abusing him for an idle, drunken, ungrateful vagabond.
Now and then, when unable to beg or borrow the means of satisfying his raging appetite, Charley would do a little work, and several times he had been known to keep sober and industrious for a week at a time; but with the temptation ever before him, how could he be expected to withstand it? These fits of abstinence were sure to be followed by fits of drunkenness long and violent, and every one worse than the other. He had lately had one or two attacks of delirium tremens; he grew pale and thin, and was troubled with a distressing cough, and every one said that he would not last much longer. And is it not a fearful thing to say in such a case? Is it not fearful to think of a young man, of fine talents and good disposition, capable of almost any amount of good, going down to a drunkard's death bed—a drunkard's grave—a drunkard's eternity?
Richard Laurence had known Charley well at one time. They had been boys at school together, though Richard was several years the oldest, and there had been a degree of intimacy between them, until the time that Richard finally decided to consecrate his talents to the service of the Church, and went to the city of New York to pursue his studies for the ministry. Even when the most degraded, Charley had retained some sense of shame at his abasement. He kept himself as much as possible out of the sight of his former friend, and, unless he was too much intoxicated to recognize any one, he would go two miles out of his way to avoid meeting him. Richard had tried in vain to bring about an encounter—Charley kept determinedly out of his way.
It chanced one Wednesday evening that he was passing near the school-house, now lighted up for evening service, just as his former friend was alighting from his horse at the door. In his haste to escape, he stumbled over a stick of wood, which had been left in the way, and fell; and before he could recover himself entirely, Richard had seized his hand, and was expressing his delight at the meeting, in a voice, the cordiality and sincerity of which did not admit of a doubt.
"Come, Charley," said Richard, after a few minutes conversation, "you have never yet heard me preach. Come in and listen, if it is only for the sake of old times at school."
Charley laughed and hesitated, and was finally persuaded to enter. There was no little nudging and whispering among those already assembled as he took his seat; and some persons looked a little uneasy, but it was soon perceived that he was entirely sober.
The lecture was upon the parable of the prodigal son, and was almost as direct and simple in its character as a lecture could be. Every one in the room felt that he or she was directly addressed by the preacher, and a very evident solemnity and seriousness was diffused throughout the congregation. Charley felt himself so much embarrassed by his new situation that he could think of nothing else for a while, but his attention was gradually directed from himself and fastened on the preacher.
"How well he writes!" he thought. "If he had been preaching before the most fashionable and literary congregation in New York, he could not have taken more pains with his discourse."
But his attention was soon directed from the manner to the matter of the lecture. He had never been able in all his degradation to destroy either his conscience or his affections; and now that he was perfectly sober, every word of the beautiful parable of the prodigal son came home to his heart. He felt himself to be the very prodigal of the story. Had he not wasted his substance, destroyed his health, lost his reputation, and was he not now feeding on husks, lower than the swine, hopeless in this world, and hopeless in the next? He knew all this before, and why should he come here to be told of it? He almost made up his mind to rise and leave the house, when the preacher went on to another branch of his subject.
"And he arose and came to his father, and while he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion on him, and ran and fell on his neck, and kissed him."
These words fell with strange force on the ear of the besotted drunkard; they seemed to bring with them, I know not what, of light and consolation. He began to feel almost as if his case were not hopeless; as if "he" might at some time arise and go to his Father, and be met with words of love and forgiveness.
But when the preacher went on to enlarge on the love of God towards penitent sinners, and His yearning over them even when a great way off; when he spoke of the price paid for all; of the wonderful sacrifice for sin; of the fountain opened for all uncleanness; of the grace ready and waiting for the chief of sinners, Charley no longer cared or thought where he was, or who saw him. He bowed his head on his trembling hands, and tears—genuine tears of repentance—streamed from his eyes: he wept almost aloud.
He was not the only one who did so; more than one hard hand dashed away the gathering drops; and more than one prayer went up, and was heard in heaven, for the prodigal son. Richard saw and rejoiced with trembling over the impression he had made, and, when he sat down at the end of the discourse, he too bowed his head, and prayed with heart and soul for the friend of his childhood.
The congregation rose from their knees, and began to go out, but Charley did not rise; and when all had departed but Mr. Bell, who lingered about the door to take the key, Richard took a seat beside him. He was rather at a loss how to begin the conversation that he desired, but Charley saved him the trouble.
"Richard Laurence," he said, raising his head, and looking his friend full in the face, "do you really in your heart believe that there is any salvation—any hope for such a miserable lost wretch as I am? As you love your own soul, tell me nothing but the truth."
"As truly as I believe there is a God, Charley," answered the young minister with equal solemnity, "so truly do I believe that He is ready and waiting to receive and pardon you the moment you make up your mind to arise and go to Him. His love knows no difference, and He is just as ready to accept you now as if you had never strayed from Him. He is speaking to you by His Spirit, and calling you to come. It may be the turning-point of your life, Charley; will you refuse His love?"
"I am as ignorant as a heathen, Richard. What must I do?"
"'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved;' you have nothing else to do. Put your trust in Him who died to save you, and say with the man of old, 'Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.'"
"But such a wretch as I am! I was drunk yesterday, and I shall be drunk to-morrow. No, there is no hope."
"Do you wish to be drunk to-morrow, Charley?"
"No, God knows I don't! I would never touch a drop again, if I could help it; but how can I? The moment I go home, there it is before me. I cannot go to my bed without seeing and smelling the accursed poison, and though I would rather die than drink again, I know I shall not be able to help it."
"Then don't go home," said Richard. "Go over to Spring Bank with me, and stay a while, and you will be out of the way of temptation. There is no one at home but the housekeeper—your old friend, Mrs. Millar, you know. There you will be safe, and we can talk further together. Come, if it is only for the sake of our old friendship."
"I will go, Richard. God bless you for your kindness. Oh! If I should be saved after all—saved, body and soul! I tell you, Dick, there have been times within this year that I have seen the pit of hell opening under me, and felt that one step would take me into it, and yet I couldn't help myself. But it seems lighter now. I feel as if all were not lost yet."
As they went out of the door, Mr. Bell came forward and shook the young man cordially by the hand.
"God bless you, Charley," said he; "we shall see you a man yet, by the grace of God. I've got a brother that was once further down the hill than you are, and he is now as fair a standing man as any in the State of Michigan, and with as fine a family about him as you'd wish to see. We shall all think of you, my boy, and pray for you. My wife always said you'd come round sooner or later, if a mother's prayers were of any account. Drop in and see us, and you'll find her ready to welcome you for your ma's sake."
Charley was not seen in Brooksville again before Sunday, when he rode over to church with Mr. Laurence. He was very pale, and several persons noticed how his hands trembled, but he was perfectly sober, and though very serious, there was an expression of happiness about his face which had not been seen there for many a day.
"T wouldn't go over to the tavern, Charley," said Mr. Stuart to him when church was out. "Come home and get your dinner with us."
"By your leave, Mr. Stuart," interrupted Mr. Bell, "he don't do any such thing. My woman has set her heart upon his coming to our house to-day, and I shan't dare to go home without him. I'm dreadful afraid of my wife, you know."
Mr. Stuart smiled and yielded, only saying, "If there is any way I can serve you, Charley, let me know."
Mr. Laurence took his friend home with him again in the evening, and he was not seen again in Brooksville for some time. No one knew what he was about unless it were Mr. Bell; and if he was questioned, he only said he guessed Charley was able to take care of himself, and if he wasn't, he had friends to help him. His father seemed perfectly indifferent about the matter, and indeed said openly that he considered it a good riddance, wherever he was. He thought Laurence would find his match with him, if Charley got into his tantrums, as he always did if he was sober for a few days. It wouldn't be strange if Charley should cut his throat for him.
But Charley was in safe hands. He knew, better than any one else, his own weakness and danger. Once escaped from the horrible pit, he was resolved to make any sacrifice rather than return to it; and it was at his own desire that two or three days after his last appearance at Brooksville, Richard Laurence accompanied him to an Insane Asylum, where he was placed as a boarder, and where he was rooted to stay till all danger was over, employing himself when he was able to work at all, with the study of medicine, which he had once before commenced. Here, then, he remained, and the good people of Brooksville, after having wondered for a while what had become of him, finally forgot him, and talked of something else.
Meanwhile the work went rapidly on at the church, as it now began to be called. The windows were all mended, the walls whitened, and a new floor laid. The chancel was inclosed with a neat but plain railing, and furnished with a pulpit, reading-desk, and communion table; and the rest of the space was being filled up with comfortable benches and hassocks, or haddocks, as Mr. Hildreth preferred to call them, which, like all the rest of the woodwork, were painted white. A learned ecclesiologist would have found much to object to in the form and arrangement of all these things, but the good people of Brooksville were perfectly content with them, and took great satisfaction in the neatness and convenience of their little sanctuary.
Mr. Laurence made his contribution in the shape of half a dozen very pretty lamps to light up the church for evening service. Mr. Willson gave two large Prayer-Books and a Psalm-Book for the desk, and a Bible for the pulpit. Some ladies of Raeburn presented a pretty carpet for the chancel (rag carpet was considered good enough for the aisles), and to crown all, the old doctor, who had met the first application of the committee with nothing but inarticulate growls, put into Mr. Laurence's hands one day a large basket, containing a plain but handsome silver Communion Service, saying as he did so, that he hoped to see it used before many weeks were over.
The women on their part were not idle. Already they had purchased and made up a decent gown and surplice, and they were now employed upon the cushions for the altar and the pulpit. Susan Champlin was persuaded to collect the subscriptions. She had nothing in particular to keep her at home now, and day after day she might be seen round the village, or mounted on Mrs. Stuart's pony (for she was an excellent horse-woman), riding off to sound the hearts and purses of all the farmers' wives in the neighborhood. She was a very successful collector, and the fresh air and diversion were of great service to her: her sadness abated; the color returned to her pale cheek, and the light to her eyes; she was once more heard singing about the house and over her work, and the anxiety of her friends for her gradually passed away.
All things were now in readiness, and on the Sunday before Lent, Mr. Laurence announced that there would be service in the new church on Ash Wednesday morning and evening, and that on Thursday morning, at nine o'clock, a meeting would be held in the same place, for the purpose of regularly organizing a Parish.
LENTEN SERVICES—BAD NEWS.
ON Ash Wednesday morning the new church was well-filled, and in the evening it was quite crowded,—a number of persons coming over from Raeburn, so that it became necessary to provide extra seats.
Mr. Laurence began his course of Lent Lectures by explaining the origin of Lent, and its uses as a season of especial humiliation and prayer. He trusted, he said, that the services would be sustained and fully attended, and that his own labors would be accompanied by the efforts and prayers of his people, and he hoped and believed that in such a case they might expect the most blessed results, not only to themselves, but also to those who were unhappily still out of the Ark of Safety, and without a good hope of salvation through Christ. He intended to give lectures on Wednesday evening and on Friday afternoon, and on Thursday afternoon he would be happy to meet any who were desirous of personal religious instruction, and especially any persons desirous of receiving Baptism. The Holy Communion would be administered at Easter, and there would be an opportunity for adult Baptism at the same time.
As the family were going home in the evening, Ruby-Anne, who was walking with Edah, apparently absorbed in thought, suddenly said—
"Miss Edah, I didn't know before that Episcopalians believed in change of heart!"
"What do you mean by a change of heart, Ruby-Anne?" asked Edah.
"Why—what Mr. Laurence said to-night—conversion. I thought they did not believe in any such thing; only that a person must be baptized and confirmed, and all that, and that it made no difference what they were, or how they felt. Now Mr. Laurence seems to preach as if that was the main thing, and no one could be saved without it. I don't know—I never was in the habit of thinking much about such things before I came to live with you—I've thought a sight more since then, and I'd give the world to feel as he says we ought to. I would like to be a Christian, if I only knew how."
"The way is very plain, Ruby," said Edah; "if you wish to be a Christian, you must ask God, for Jesus Christ's sake, to forgive you your sins, and to make you love Him; to give you a new heart, as you say. Christ says, 'Ye must be born again;' but He also says, 'He that believeth on the Son, hath everlasting life, and shall never come into condemnation.' He gives the command, and He also gives the power to fulfill it."
Ruby-Anne sighed.
"I know it's so," she said, "and yet I can't feel so. I can't make it seem as if it really was true, that He died for me. I've wanted to get religion this great while, but somehow I don't seem any nearer to it than I did at first."
"Have you prayed to God to give you a heart to love and fear Him?" asked Edah.
"Why no; I thought I must get religion first, before I prayed; I didn't know as I could hardly."
"And how did you think you were going to get it without asking for it? Jesus says,—
"'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.' 'If ye shall
ask any thing in My name, I will do it.'
"But He says nothing about giving His Holy Spirit to them that are afar off, and do not seek to draw near. '"Ask," and ye shall receive; "seek," and ye shall find; "knock," and it shall be opened unto you.' There is not a word of promise to those that do not ask, and seek, and knock, you see."
"But there was St. Paul—I was reading about his conversion only last night, and it was when he was going down to Damascus, breathing out threatenings and slaughter, that the Lord met him."
"Very true, and thus He meets many a one in the midst of their sins; but after the Lord met him, what were the first words he said?
"'Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?'
"His next act was one of unquestioning and immediate obedience; and when Ananias was commissioned to go to him, that he might receive his sight, and be filled with the Holy Ghost, it was said of him,—
"'Behold he prayeth!'
"You say that you wish to be a Christian, and that you have been thinking about it this great while. God has thus met you in the way, and now you must do as St. Paul did—pray that He will open your eyes, forgive you your sins, justify you by Jesus Christ, and sanctify you by His Holy Spirit; and depend upon it, if you do this, you will receive an answer. I wish you would go to the church Thursday afternoon, and talk to Mr. Laurence."
"I kind of hate to," said Ruby-Anne, hanging her head. "I'd rather talk to you than to him, and I'm afraid folks will think strange. If my cousin should see me going there, and tell Uncle Jacob, he'd make no end of fun of me next time I go home."
"And yet you want to be a Christian, you say! I am afraid you will never be one, if you are ashamed to have it known that you are seeking the right way. No, no, that will never do, Ruby; you cannot expect Christ to bless you while you are ashamed of Him."
"I suppose that's so. I don't know, either, why I should mind their laughing. If it isn't that, it will be something else."
This was not the only conversation of the kind that Edah held during the week. Several of the scholars in her day-school came to her for instruction, for encouragement, for sympathy. Some thought that they were truly penitent and believing, and desired sympathy in their overflowing joy; and what joy of earth is like his who feels assured that his sins are forgiven—that his prayers are heard and answered in Heaven? Others there were who, convinced of their sins and their danger, could as yet find no way of escape, and no comfort anywhere—who needed to be drawn away from the vain attempt to save themselves by their own efforts, and to be led to that precious corner-stone, the sure foundation on which whosoever buildeth shall not be ashamed. Edah did her best to counsel, to warn, to teach, but she felt how weak and ignorant she was, and she shrank from the responsibility imposed upon her by her position, and by the confidence and affection of her young friends.
"I feel," said she, in relating some of these incidents to Mr. Laurence, "as if I were very much out of my place in this matter, but indeed I cannot help it. I try to persuade them to go at once to you, but many of them are diffident and unwilling to do so. I cannot refuse to give them all the aid in my power, though I often fear that I am overstepping my proper bounds, and taking upon myself duties which belong entirely to you."
"By no means, Miss Champlin. You are taking a course which I should be only too glad to see followed by every Christian member of my flock. I believe that one great reason why so few, comparatively, are brought to a knowledge of the truth is that Christians do not do their duty in this respect, but leave all to their pastor. From the nature of things, they have many opportunities which he has not. An inquiring sinner will often open his heart to a near friend, when he would be ashamed or unwilling to do so to a minister, and if that friend is faithful, he will encourage him to do so, and will strive to direct him to the true source of health and help. What is more natural than that those who have themselves tasted the good word of God, and have known the truth, should wish to impart unto others of the good things which they have themselves received? Such was the spirit of the Apostolic Church, when every Christian, whether man or woman, was in some sort a missionary. Could this state of things be brought about again, we should no longer see crowds retiring from the Communion Table, and only a handful remaining, but the altar rails would be filled till there should be no place."
"I always try to send them to you," remarked Edah, "but they are not always willing to go at first, especially the younger ones."
"Nothing is more natural than that they should feel more confidence in you than in a comparative stranger," said Mr. Laurence. "I shall hope after a time to gain their confidence. Meantime, let me beg of you never to omit an opportunity of doing good in that way. Several persons have applied to me who, I am convinced, never would have done so but for you: among the rest, Mr. Bell's boys and your brother. I suppose you know that they are all three desirous of being baptized?"
"Sam told me it was the case with himself, but I did not know certainly about the others. I am not much surprised at hearing of it, for they have seemed very thoughtful for a long time. I trust they will not be the only ones who will avail themselves of the opportunity."
"Edah," said Sam, one beautiful spring day towards the end of March, "I am going over to the Saw-Mills this afternoon to do some business for Mr. Stuart, and I wish you would ride with me. I want a chance to talk to you, and I will call for you at the school-house."
Edah, of course, made no objection, and at five o'clock the brother and sister were driving through the woods, on the shaded and romantic road which led over hill and dale to the great lumbering mills of Stuart & Company. The birds had begun to make their appearance, and the air was filled with robin and bluebird music, while now and then a blue-jay added his by no means melodious notes to the concert. The sky was deeply blue, and the great mountains of white cloud made it appear deeper still; while the air was filled with the indescribable fragrance which always pervades a wood in the spring, especially where there is a large proportion of evergreen trees.
Edah was tired of talking in school, and she was very willing to be quiet, and her brother's attention seemed wholly occupied with his horses. At last, however, he broke the silence by saying—
"Edah, do you know how old I am?"
"Sixteen, are you not?"
"Nearer seventeen," said Sam. "I shall be seventeen my next birthday, and that is next Monday."
"And I shall be nineteen. I thought there was more difference between us, but you have always been so small till lately. Now you are taller than I am."
"So I see; but that isn't the thing. I am old enough to think what I am going to do with myself."
"You are doing very well with yourself now, I think," said Edah. "Mr. Stuart says you are more and more useful every day, and that he never had a clerk that he liked so much. He told me he should not be afraid to leave you the whole charge of his business, if he were obliged to be away for any length of time."
"He is very kind," said Sam, coloring with pleasure. "There is not a man in the world I would rather live with than Alim Stuart. He has been like—what a father ought to be, ever since I went to him. But after all, Edah, it is not what I want to be doing. My heart isn't in it."
"It becomes tiresome now and then, I suppose," said Edah, "but any business is wearisome sometimes. I am sure it is the case with teaching. But when you are so well situated, it seems a pity to change, unless there is some good reason, though, indeed, I never thought you were as well suited to the business as to some other things—to studying a profession especially."
"What kind of a minister do you think I should make, Edah?" asked Sam, in a low voice, after a pause of some minutes, during which he had employed himself in switching off the tops of the dry weeds by the roadside.
Edah's heart bounded with joy. How often she had prayed—how fondly she had hoped, that her darling brother's heart might be turned in this direction!
"I think you would make an excellent one, Sam, so far as I can judge of you. I know of nothing that would give me more pleasure than to see you looking forward to the ministry."
"It is what I should prefer above all other things," said Sam, with animation. "I used to think I would rather be a lawyer than any thing else, and I built a great many castles in the air about it, thinking how I should enjoy working my way on, and making myself respected, till I came to be as celebrated as Mr. Webster or Judge Story; but it is all changed now. I would rather be a minister like Mr. Laurence, and preach the Gospel in some such little place as Raeburn or Brooksville, than be the greatest lawyer or statesman that ever lived. There is only one trouble about it," he continued, and the joy in his face faded away as he spoke—"I have turned it over and over in my mind, and I do not see how it is to be done."
"Why not?" asked Edah.
"The why not is easily told," replied Sam. "If I had no one to do for or care for but myself, it would be very easy—that is, in comparison to what it is now. I could teach school, and live cheaply, and work myself on almost anyhow. But even supposing that I succeeded in preparing myself to take orders, preaching is not commonly a money-making profession, you know very well; and there are mother and the girls—how are they to be supported? For I don't suppose anybody is so foolish as to expect any help from father."
"That is true," said Edah, echoing his sigh as he paused, "and yet I cannot bear to give up the idea. Oh! If I were only two years older—only my own mistress!"
"What then?" asked Sam. "What difference would that make?"
"Then I could live at home, and take care of mother and Polly with what means I have. Susan and I would make it enough, and you would have, as you say, nothing to do but to take care of yourself."
"Do you think I would let you do that?" said Sam, a little indignantly. "Why, it would just amount to my educating myself at your expense."
"And suppose it were, how could I spend my fortune to better purpose, than in sending laborers into Christ's vineyard? And who should I send, if not my own brother?"
"Well," resumed Sam, "you are not your own mistress, and in one sense you never will be—not as much perhaps as you are now. When Mr. Liston returns, he will of course want you to come and live with him, and I know he will be very unwilling to have you spend your money on us. He will think, and with some reason too, that I ought to support my sisters, instead of letting them support me."
"Nevertheless, if I were of age, I could do as I pleased."
"You could, undoubtedly; but ought you? Mr. Liston has brought you up, and done every thing he could for you; and now that you are grown-up, and able to appreciate his kindness, he will naturally expect a return, and he has a right to expect it."
"You are right, Sam, and I am wrong. But we won't despair yet. I am sure some way will be raised up for us. The Lord will provide, if it is His will that you should follow out this plan; and I cannot but believe that it is."
"I hope so, I am sure," replied Sam, "for I do not feel as if I could be happy in any other way. Of course I don't mean to be so self-willed as to be determinedly miserable, because I cannot have my own way; but the more I think about entering the ministry, the more desirous I am to do it; and so I have told Mr. Laurence."
"What did he say?"
"Just what you do. He bade me not be discouraged, since if the call was from God, He would certainly provide the means for its fulfilment. He advised me to employ all my spare time in study, and gain as much information as possible; and he has offered to teach me Greek himself."
"I will study it with you," said Edah. "It is always easier for two to go on together, than for one to work alone. I will lay aside my Spanish for the present, and if you have a mind to rise as early as I do, we can have a good hour before breakfast. It is surprising how much one can accomplish in an hour, by making the most of it. I often think that I do more in that little time, than I used to in all day at school."
"Time is like money in more ways than one," remarked Sam. "One does not appreciate the worth of it, as long as one has as much as one wants. And, by the by, is it not more than time for you to hear from Mr. Liston?"
"It is indeed, and I am very uneasy about him. If he went by the overland route, as he said he should do in the letter I had from London, I ought to have heard three or four times before this. I am very much afraid that something has happened to him, for he is so methodical in all his habits, that I am sure he has not forgotten it."
"Then about this matter of studying," resumed Sam, after a few moments' silence, "you are quite clear that I ought not to give up the idea?"
"Indeed I am, Sam! I am sure some path will be provided for you, if you are patient, and meanwhile you will not be losing any thing. You will be gaining information and experience that will be as useful to you as any thing you can learn out of books. I feel quite sure that you will see your way clear after a while."
Edah had indeed become very anxious and uneasy at not hearing from her guardian. She had expected to hear both from Malta and Alexandria, but sufficient time had now elapsed for a letter to have come from Calcutta, and yet she received no intelligence. Mr. Liston, as she said, was a man who never forgot an engagement, or neglected a duty. She was sure he would have written if he had been well, and it was very unlikely that all his letters should have been lost. For some time before the conversation recorded above, she had been in a state of feverish impatience for some intelligence, and she felt that almost any news would be a relief to her mind in its uncertainty.
The news came at last. Edah received a letter from Mr. Amory, inclosing one from the American consul at Alexandria, which contained the mournful news of her kind guardian's death at that place. The consul stated that Mr. Liston had called upon him immediately after his arrival in that port, and that he seemed very unwell, so much so that he invited and urged him not to return to his hotel, but to remain at the consular residence, which Mr. Liston at last consented to do, though he made light of his illness, attributing it entirely to fatigue. In the morning, however, he was so much worse as to be unable to rise, and he continued to grow worse for about three weeks, when he died. He had had the best of medical attendance, the consul said, and a clergyman of the Church of England, who had come to Alexandria at the same time, was almost constantly with him. He had retained full possession of his senses till the last moment, and had frequently talked of his friends at home, particularly of his dear child, as he called her. The day before his death, he had received the Sacrament, and he had especially desired that this fact might be communicated to Miss Champlin.
The writer of the letter stated that Mr. Liston had made many friends in Alexandria during the short time that he remained there, and that every respect had been paid to his memory that his friends could desire. Mr. Amory's letter was full of the kindest sympathy, and contained a pressing invitation to her to come to New York, and make her home with him.
The sorrow and desolation which Edah experienced on receiving this intelligence can only be appreciated by those who have suffered similar bereavements. She felt herself entirely alone in the world, without home and without friends, and it almost seemed to her as if God himself had dealt unkindly with her in taking away her beloved guardian. For a while she felt that she could never be happy again. But Edah's mind and heart were too healthy for such a mood to be lasting with her, and these feelings soon passed away. She was enabled to find relief—where alone it is to be successfully sought—in earnest, humble prayer, and to appreciate all the blessed comfort contained in the account of her friend's last moments. She felt deeply thankful that even so late in life his attention had been turned to preparation for eternity, and that she was enabled to cherish a good hope of meeting him again in that world where partings are no more.