Chapter VIII: Pleasant Projects

ON Ethel's fifth birthday she claimed the promise of her mother,— that she should sit up to family prayers. Except on Sunday night, when supper was served at an earlier hour than on other days, it was her habit to eat her simple meal of bread and milk and be in bed before the ringing of the supper-bell.

Sitting up for prayers was quite an era in her young life. No sooner was the meal concluded than she brought her low chair and placed it close to Mr. Angus. It was the custom to sing a hymn before reading the Scriptures, and the pastor held the book so that Ethel could look on the page with him. As he named the hymn he merely remarked, "It is pleasant to have all join in this social worship."

The child, considering herself included in this invitation, as indeed she was, began in a low timid tone to sing her own little hymn, but presently, becoming used to the sound of her voice, sang so loud as almost to drown the tones of the piano, upon which Annie was playing. Over and over again she repeated the words, "Jesus, come and make me good, good, Jesus come and make me good."

The tune as well as the words were improvised for the occasion, and did not in the least chord with the notes they were singing. Most of those present smiled, Gardner tittered behind his book and about Mr. Angus's mouth a suspicious twitching was noticed, but no one interfered with the child's evident enjoyment of the occasion.

"I'm quite sure," remarked Mr. Angus afterward, as he seated Ethel on his knee, "that Jesus will hear and answer your prayer. Would you like to learn a hymn to sing with us? Ask your sister to teach you one, and you can learn the tune also. You have a very good voice."

"A powerful one, certainly," added her father, laughing.

Mr. Angus early formed the acquaintance of Mary Falkner, the crippled girl. As Marion had told him, she was truly happy, though at times a great sufferer. In every event of her life she recognized a Father's loving, protecting hand, and was so truly thankful for every favor received that it was a privilege to bestow kindness.

On one occasion, when the pastor was sitting by her bedside, realizing, as afterward he insisted, that he was receiving rather than giving consolation, the door softly opened and Marion, unannounced, walked in. Perceiving the visitor, she was retiring when Mr. Angus rose to leave.

"Don't go, please," Mary said to Marion, "I was just intending to ask the pastor to pray."

Mr. Angus gave the sick girl his hand when his prayer was concluded saying, as he bent over-her, "Remember your promise to pray for me; pray that, whether led through a stony or a flowery path, I may have my Father's guidance as you have."

Marion drew near the bedside as the pastor left the room, and was not surprised at the enthusiasm manifested for him by the cripple.

"He is such a kind friend, so humble, so devout. His prayers raise me to heaven; and he is mindful of my earthly wants too. Look here," taking from an envelope a piece of silver, "he always leaves a token behind him, laying it on my pillow without a word,—sometimes a dollar, never less than half a dollar."

"I was sure," answered Marion, in a hearty voice, "that he would be a comfort to you. You like him so much, I have a great mind to ask you a question. Have you ever noticed any peculiarity in his prayers or in his manner?"

Tears gushed to Mary's eyes which no physical suffering could have forced from them, and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "Oh, how I wish I could comfort him! And he says I have. He has a deep, abiding sorrow. It is living sorrow, too. It cannot be grief for the dead. Once he quite forgot that I was present, and he prayed; but it is too sacred to repeat. Oh, how my heart ached for him!"

Mary covered her face and wept.

"I wish he would unburden his heart to you, Mary. I'm sure you could comfort him. He is a puzzle to me. There is a weight on his spirits. I have seen an expression of agony come over his face when he thought himself unobserved. Well, we can pray God to appear for him. I have never spoken of him in this way before."

"Grief is too sacred to meddle with, at least such grief as his, Marion. I have told my Saviour about it."

When the young lady left the humble roof she repaired to the station near by to get her satchel, and found Mr. Angus just sending a telegram to the city. He advanced eagerly to meet her, holding out his hand.

"You are the very one to advise me," he said, his whole face beaming. "I am a poor physician, but I know something of medicine. I have learned about Mary's case, and I do not feel hopeless of her recovery. You live in the city of New York, and have probably heard of the Home for the Sick."

"Certainly I have. I often go there to visit my sick friends."

"Then you will agree with me that, if I can procure a place for her in that Christian home, she will have a fair chance for recovery."

"Strange I never thought of it before," murmured Marion, as though speaking to herself.

"Not at all strange. It did not occur to me till this morning, and I have just written a message to Dr. B-, the superintendent, asking to have a surgeon sent to examine the case. I have myself been an inmate of the Home, and have the most entire confidence in the care and skill she would receive."

"Will they send so far, Mr. Angus? I mean, will there not be great expense? Excuse me, but I would advise another plan. Mary is a great favorite of mine; indeed, I am under obligations to her. There is an eminent surgeon in the next town, whom I will take to see her this very day. If he gives us hope, I will go to the hospital at once on my return to the city. I only wish I had thought of it years ago."

A curious expression on Mr. Angus's face startled Marion, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, which was strangely familiar to her. It was as though he had said,—"You are taking the matter out of my hands with a vengeance."

Marion laughed aloud. "Don't think me officious in meddling with your plan," she urged. "I'm a teacher, you know, and accustomed to give orders."

"I shall at least claim the pleasure, Miss Howard, of bearing the expense necessary for placing her in the Home."

"I'll see about that." Marion gave one of those arch glances which brought her dimples into full play. When she smiled, it was like a child's face, pure and fresh, and sweet and loving. For one moment, as he gazed, Mr. Angus forgot his burden. There might yet be something bright for him in life. With a deep sigh he shouldered his burden again, and this time it seemed weightier than ever before.

They walked in silence for a time, the young lady puzzling herself to account for the strange associations connected with that peculiar expression on Mr. Angus's face which had so startled her. Somehow it was connected with the Home for the Sick. Rousing herself, and forgetting that his thoughts had not followed hers, she asked,—

"Is it long since you were an inmate?"

"Do you mean of the hospital?"

"Yes."

"It is five years this very month. It was there I was healed not only in the body, but the soul. Never did any poor mortal need a divine physician more than I did. Words cannot express my gratitude that a merciful Father directed me to that spot. The faithful chaplain found me weighed to the ground, and persuaded me to allow an Almighty Arm to be placed beneath me. Pardon me," he added, suddenly interrupting himself, "I did not remember that to a stranger this must be a wearisome story. I am not used to forget myself in this way."

He turned toward her a face drawn with pain, to meet eyes full of sympathy, and when she murmured softly the words, "I am not a stranger, I am a friend," his feelings almost overcame him.

"Thank you," he said, extending his hand, but instantly withdrawing it; then, controlling himself by a visible effort, went on, "I found my Saviour within those blessed walls, and was encouraged both by the pastor and chaplain to hope that, by consecrating my life to the service of my divine Master, I might be useful to some poor soul as burdened as myself."

"Has not that hope been fulfilled, Mr. Angus? Has not Jesus Christ kept his gracious promise to you and given you rest? Pardon me, I am a missionary too. I have thought much of you, and prayed for you, as I do for all my friends. I have feared that—that you have not cast all your burden upon Him. You are trying to bear part of it alone. Sorrow or sin He has atoned for and has promised to take. Oh, do give it all up to Him! For your own sake, for the sake of those in your charge, I entreat you, try His love in all its fulness. It cannot, will not, fail you."

Her voice trembled in her eagerness. Suddenly catching a glimpse of his pallid countenance, she stopped short in her walk.

"You will forgive, you will understand me," she pleaded. "I for a moment forgot that I am too young to advise you."

"Miss Howard, even you will turn from me in despair when I ask, can these hands, which have shed the blood of a brother, ever be clean? Even you have seen the mark of Cain on my brow."

Startled as she was, Marion realized that in order to give comfort to this burdened soul, she must control herself. With a face blanched, and shaking voice, she repeated the gracious promise,—

"'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' Such a promise holds good, even to the shedder of blood."

"Do not understand," he exclaimed, in great excitement, "that it was prompted by malice. It was an accident. I—But the scene is too ghastly to recall. To no mortal have I ever breathed the words before. Into the ears of a merciful God I pour my complaint day and night."

Into Marion's eyes came a strange light. The color surged back into her face. Memories of the past, forgotten for years, came rushing over her. She was wholly unaware that she had stopped again, that her eyes were fixed on his, that she was trying to read his very thoughts. It required a great effort to come back to present realities. "I must say something," was her reflection. "Oh, that I was sure! God grant I may be!"

"Mr. Angus," she began, her face beaming with a strange expression of hope and tenderness, "forgive me for saying it, you have grown morbid, brooding over your past. With all my heart I thank you for your confidence, which I consider as sacred as the grave. Let me say that I look forward confidently to the hour when the sorrow which has weighed you down to the dust will be driven away like the morning cloud. Pray for that time as though you believed God has power to help you. Have entire faith in His promise."

Before he could answer she had turned into side path and was presently lost to view.