Chapter VII: A New Sabbath Class

"NELLIE is too big to sit on people's laps," her mother said; "but she can get up, if she wants to, and can keep from squirming about like a wild animal, instead of acting like a well-behaved little girl."

"Too big" though she was considered, Nellie, poor baby, gladly availed herself of the permission, and curled in a happy little heap in her new sister's arms; when commenced a low-toned conversation. Lewis watched her and struggled with his brain, striving to think of some way of helping.

"Have you got acquainted with Mr. Butler, father?"

Now Mr. Butler was the new minister; and Louise, who had heard his name mentioned, was interested in the answer. Farmer Morgan laid down his newspaper, crossed one leg over the other, tilted his chair back a trifle, and was ready to talk.

"Acquainted with him? No, I can't say that I am; he knows my name, and I know his; and he says, 'How do you do?' to me when he meets me on the street, if he isn't in too brown a study to notice me at all. I reckon that as about as near as I shall get to an acquaintance. I ain't used to any great attention from ministers, you know."

"I thought possibly he had called during my absence."

"No, he hasn't. When it comes to making a friendly call, we live a good way out, and the road is bad, and the weather is bad, and it is tremendously inconvenient."

"We always live a good way out of town, except when there is to be a fair or festival, or doings of some kind, when they want cream, and butter, and eggs, and chickens; then we are as handy to get at as anybody in the congregation." This from his mother.

Lewis could not avoid a slight laugh; the social qualities of the little church in the village, or at least its degree of social intercourse with its country neighbours, was so clearly stated by that last sentence.

"Oh, well," he said, "it is a good way out for those who have no horses to depend on, and many of the church people are in that condition. As for Mr. Butler, he has been here but a short time; of course he hasn't gotten around the parish yet."

"No," said his father significantly. "It takes a dreadful long time to get around a small field, especially when there's no special motive for going. But we don't care; a body would think, to hear us talk, that we were dreadful anxious for a call. I don't know what he would call for; 'pears to me it would be a waste of time."

"You like his preaching, don't you, father?"

The farmer tore little strips from the edge of his paper, and rolled them thoughtfully between his thumb and finger for a little before he answered.

"Why, his preaching is all well enough, I suppose; I never heard any preaching that wouldn't do pretty well, considering; it's the practising that I find fault with. I can't find anybody that seems to be doing what the preachers advise. What is the use in preaching all the time, if nobody goes and does it?"

This was Farmer Morgan's favourite topic, as indeed it seems to be a favourite with a great many people—the inconsistencies of the Christian world. A fruitful topic, certainly; and it is bitterly to be regretted that there is cause for such unending sarcasm on that subject. Lewis had heard the same sentiment often before, and being met—as, unfortunately, so many of us are—by an instant realization of his own inconsistencies, his mouth had been stopped at once. To-day he rallied his waning courage, and resolved upon a point-blank question.

"Well, father, why don't you, who understand so well how a Christian ought to live, set us an example, and perhaps we will succeed better when we try to copy you?"

This question astounded Farmer Morgan. Coming from a minister, he would have considered it pretty sharp; have laughed at it good-naturedly, and turned it aside. But from his own son, and spoken in such a tone of gravity and earnestness as left no room for trifling, it startled him. Lewis had never spoken to him in that direct fashion before. In truth, Lewis had been, during all his Christian life at home, comforting his heart and excusing his conscience with the belief that, in order not to prejudice his father against religion, he would do well to make no personal appeals of any sort. To-day, in the light of the brief conversation which he had held with his wife, and, more than that, in the light of the brief prayer in which they had asked the guidance of the Holy Spirit, he began to conclude that he had been a coward.

"Well," his father said, after a moment of astonished silence, "that is a fair question, maybe; but then, after all, it is easily answered. There's folks enough trying at it, and making failures, without me to swell their number. Till I see somebody who is succeeding a little better than any one I know, I haven't got the courage to begin."

"Leaving us an example, that ye should fellow His steps," quoted Lewis Morgan solemnly. "After all, father, the true pattern is certainly perfect; why not follow that? Who ever asks the school-boy to imitate the scrawl of some fellow-pupil, so long as the perfect copy is just before his eyes, at the top of the page?"

His father regarded him meditatively. Was he touched at last—impressed by the thought of the wonderful life waiting for him to follow? Lewis Morgan's breath came quickly, and he waited in trembling eagerness for the reply. It was the first time that he had attempted anything like a personal conversation on this subject with his father.

Slowly, and with apparent great seriousness, the answer came at last:—

"It is almost a pity that your health didn't hold out; I ain't sure, after all, but you would have made as good a minister as the rest of them. Sometimes I'm a trifle afraid that you have got a little too much learning to make a downright good farmer."

The quick bounds of hope that the son's blood was making receded in dull, heavy throbs, and he counted his first attempt a failure. He looked over to Louise. Was not she ready to give up this hopeless attempt at spiritualizing the tone of the conversation downstairs? He thought he would give almost anything to hide his sore heart just then in the quiet of their own room, with the sympathy of her presence to soothe him.

But Louise was telling Nellie a story; and as he listened and watched her, it became evident to him that both Dorothy and John were listening. Dorothy had ceased her restless fidgetings, and settled into absolute quiet, her arm resting on the broad, low window-seat, and her eyes fixed on Louise. John had drawn his hat lower, so that his eyes were hidden entirely; but something in the setting of his lips told Lewis that he heard. Very quietly Louise's voice told the story; very simply chosen were the words.

"Yes, there He was in the wilderness, for forty days, without anything to eat, and nowhere to rest, and all the time Satan tempting him to do what was wrong. 'Come,' he said to him; 'if you are the Son of God, why do you stay here hungry? What good will that do anybody? Why don't you make bread out of these stones? You can do it—you could make a stone into a loaf of bread in an instant; why don't you?"

"And could he?" Nellie asked, her eyes large and wondering.

"Oh yes indeed. Why not? Do you suppose it would be any harder to turn a stone into bread than it would be to make a strawberry, or a potato, or an apple?"

"Strawberries and apples and potatoes grow," said this advanced little sceptic.

"Yes; but what makes them grow? And why does a strawberry plant always give us strawberries, and never plums or grapes? It never makes a mistake. Somebody very wise is taking care of the little plant. It is this same person whom Satan was trying to coax to make bread out of stones."

"Well, why didn't he do it? I don't think it would have been naughty."

"I'll tell you. It is very hard to be hungry; it was a great temptation; but Jesus had promised his Father that he would come here and bear everything that any man could have to—that he would just be a man. Now a man couldn't make bread out of stones, you know, so Jesus wouldn't be keeping his promise if he did it; and then, another thing, if he had used his great power and gotten himself out of this trouble, all the poor hungry boys and girls, who are tempted to steal, would have said: 'Oh yes, Jesus don't know anything about how it feels to be hungry; he could turn stones into bread. If we could do that we wouldn't steal either.' Don't you see?"

"Yes," said Nellie, "I see. Go on, please; he didn't make any bread, did he?"

"Not at that time; he told Satan it was more important that he should show his trust in God than to show his power by making stones into bread. Then Satan coaxed him to throw himself down from a great high steeple, so that the people below would see him, and see that he wasn't hurt at all. He reminded him of a promise that God made about the angels taking care of him."

"I wish he had done that!" Nellie said, with shining eyes. "Then the people would all have believed that he was God."

"No, they wouldn't; for afterward he did just as wonderful things as that. He cured deaf people and blind people, and raised dead people to life, and they didn't believe in him; instead, some of them were angry with him about these very things. He told Satan that to put himself in danger, when there was nothing to be gained by it, was just tempting God. Dear me! How many boys and girls do that. Then Satan told him that he would give up the whole world to him if he would just fall down and worship him. I suppose Jesus thought then all about the weary way that he would have to travel—all the things he would have to bear."

"Did the world belong to Satan?" Nellie asked; at which question John was betrayed into a laugh.

"Well, yes, in a sense it did. Don't you see how much power Satan has over people in this world? They seem to like to work for him. Some of them are doing all they can to please him, and he is always at work coaxing them to give themselves entirely to him, promising them such great things if they only will. I suppose if he had kept that promise to Jesus, and given up leading the world in the wrong road, it would have been much easier for Jesus."

"But Jesus didn't do it."

"No, indeed. Jesus never would do anything wrong to save himself from trouble or sorrow. He said, 'Get thee hence.' What a pity that little boys and girls don't refuse, in that way, to listen to Satan, when he coaxes them and offers them rewards! Think of believing Satan! Why, the first we ever hear of him he was telling a lie to Eve in that garden, you know; and he has gone on cheating people ever since."

"He never cheated me," said Nellie positively.

"Didn't he? Are you sure? Did he never make you think that it would be so nice to do something that you knew mother wouldn't like? Hasn't he made you believe that you could have a really happy time if you could only do as you wanted to? And have you never tried it, and found out what an untrue thing it was?"

"Yes," said Nellie, drooping her head. "One time I ran away from school and went to the woods—I thought it would be splendid—and I got my feet wet, and was sick, and it wasn't nice a single bit."

"Of course not; and that is just the way Satan keeps treating people. Shouldn't you think, after he had deceived them a great many times, as they grew older they would decide that he was only trying to ruin them, and would have nothing more to do with him?"

"Yes," said Nellie, nodding her wise little head, "I should. But, then, maybe they can't get away from him."

"Oh yes, they can; don't you see how Jesus got away from him? And what do you think he suffered those temptations for, and then had the story written down for us? Just that we might see that he knew all about temptations and about Satan, and was stronger than he, and was able to help all tempted people. He says he will not let people be tempted more than they can bear, but will show them how to escape."

"Then why doesn't he?"

"He does, dear, every single time; he has never failed anybody yet, and it is hundreds and hundreds of years since he made that promise."

"But then I should think that everybody would be good, and never do wrong."

"Ah, but you see, little Nellie, the trouble is, people won't let him help them. I mean he takes care of all who trust in him to do so. But if you think you are strong enough to take care of yourself, and won't stay by him, nor obey his directions, nor ask his help, how can you expect to be kept out of trouble? When I was a little bit of a girlie I went to walk with my papa. He said: 'Now, Louise, if you will keep right in this path I will see that nothing hurts you.' We were going through the woods. For a little while I kept beside him, taking hold of his hand. Then I said: 'O papa, I'm not afraid; nothing will hurt me.' And away I ran into the thickest trees, and I got lost, and was in the woods nearly all night! Do you think that was my papa's fault?"

"No," said Nellie gravely. "But—I wish there wasn't any Satan. Does he ever bother you?"

Louise's head dropped lower; the talk was becoming very personal.

"Not often now," she said, speaking low. "He comes to me and whispers thoughts that I don't like, and I say—"

"Oh!" said Nellie, loud-voiced and eager, "I know—you say, 'Get thee behind me, Satan.'"

"No," said Louise firmly, "not that. I heard a lady say once that she was as much afraid of having Satan behind her as she was of having him anywhere else. So am I. Instead, I ask Jesus to send him away. I just say, 'Jesus keep me;' and at the name of Jesus, Satan goes away. He knows he cannot coax Jesus to do any wrong. But, oh dear! How hard he fights for those people who will not have Jesus to help them. He keeps whispering plans in their ears, and coaxing them, they thinking all the time that the plans are their own, and they follow them, expecting to have good times, and never having them; and all the while Satan laughs over their folly. Isn't it strange they will not take the help that Jesus offers?"

"Yes," said Nellie, slowly and gravely, with intense earnestness in voice and manner. "I mean to."

Louise drew her closer, rested her head against the golden one, and began to sing in low, sweet notes:—

"Take the name of Jesus ever
As a shield for every snare;
When temptations round you gather,
Breathe that holy name in prayer."

All conversation, or attempts at conversation, had ceased in the room long before the singing. Some spell about the old, simply-told story of temptation and struggle and victory had seemed to hold all the group as listeners. John's face, as much of it as could be seen under his hat and shading hand, worked strangely. Was the blessed Holy Spirit, whose presence and aid had been invoked, using the story told the child to flash before this young man a revelation of the name of the leader he had been so faithfully following, so steadily serving, all the years of his young life? Did he begin to have a dim realization of the fact that his unsatisfying plans, his shattered hopes, were but the mockery of his false-hearted guide? Whatever he thought he kept it to himself, and rose abruptly in the midst of the singing and went out.

"Come," said Farmer Morgan, breaking the hush following the last line, "it is milking time, and time for a bit of supper, too, I guess. The afternoon has been uncommon short."

He tried to speak as usual, but his voice was a trifle husky. He could argue, but the story told his child had somehow subdued him. Who shall say that the Spirit did not knock loudly, that Sabbath afternoon, at the door of each heart in that room? Who shall say that he did not use Louise Morgan's simple efforts to honour the day in stirring the rust that had gathered about the hinges of those long-bolted doors?