Chapter I: Sunset

IT was the close of a lovely day in October, in the year of our Lord—but no matter what year. The morning king had been heralded by a rich display of fireworks: and now his departure caused a gorgeous illumination of the whole western sky. Purple and orange and amber and scarlet, rose bank upon bank, each color vying with the others in its endeavor to do honor to the departing monarch.

The place was Canterbury, a thriving village in the suburbs of the large city of —.

In a room with a pretty bay window looking towards the West, and which was obviously used as a study or library, a man of grave, earnest countenance, sat gazing upon the gorgeous scene.

"Wondrous beauty!" he murmured. "The work of thy fingers, O God. Thou hast prepared the light and the sun."

"Shall I tell you, Henry?" inquired a soft voice at his side. "Of what I was thinking as I looked upon that display of splendor? These precious words flashed into my mind:

"'For the Lord God is a sun and shield.'

"Surely a Being who can paint the heavens like that before us, with the sun as a centre from which all those gorgeous hues radiate,—who likens himself to a sun, has power to throw light upon the darkest paths. Believe me, Henry, according to his promise, He will be a shield to us in the coming storm."

A profound sigh was for a moment the only answer. Then the man, trying to infuse a tone of hopefulness into his voice, said:

"Thank you, Mary, and I thank God continually, that in the midst of my trials, I have a hopeful wife. But," he added, sighing again, "I am heavily burdened. I feel strangely desponding to-night. The adversary of souls has been busy with me. I am ready to sink. If it were not for you and our children, I would like to flee and hide myself from the face of man."

"Oh, Henry! Oh, my husband! You have indeed been tempted. That would look like guilt, and you are as innocent of this crime as a new born babe."

"In intention, I certainly am."

"Well, isn't that enough to make us thankful all our lives? Suppose now, that you had violated your trust, you might then talk of hiding yourself from man: and I should want to take the children and fly with you. But we could not hide from God: and only think of the horror of feeling His anger,—of not daring to ask Him to be our friend and protector and sun and shield, and refuge from all danger. Oh, Henry, think of that; nothing certainly, now that you are innocent, can make us wretched, like knowing that our heavenly Father is angry with us."

"You are right, Mary, and I am wrong,—wanting in faith in Him who afflicteth his children for their profit. Like Job I will try to say,—

"'Shall we receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not
receive evil?'"

"Look, Henry, the sun has sunk out of sight, but we know, because we have the promise, that it shall rise again to-morrow to gladden our hearts. Why can't we feel the same confidence in his promise to work all things for good to those who love him. You remember the precious words you took for a text, just before your voice failed.

"'The Lord upholdeth all that fall, and raiseth up all those that be
bowed down.'"

"Yes, Mary, those are indeed precious words. I have pleaded them in prayer, and felt their power of late as I never did before,—and the following verses,—

"'The Lord is nigh to all them that call upon Him, to all that call upon Him in truth. He will fulfil the desire of them that fear Him: He also will hear their cry, and will save them. The Lord preserveth all them that love Him: but all the wicked will he destroy.'"

"Oh, Henry, it does seem as if those words were written expressly for us. I have never felt so hopeful since—since our trouble came. I see now why we've had temptations from Satan. We've been trying to carry our burden ourselves, instead of asking help from above. We won't do so any more, will we?"

She passed her arm within his, as she spoke, and he turned his face towards hers, with a glance fraught with love, anxiety and tenderness. This expression was quickly followed by one of anguish, which in the deepening twilight she did not see. And it was happy for her that she did not.

The bell at this moment summoned them to supper, a summons they at once obeyed, and presently entered an adjoining apartment, sitting and dining room combined, where Marion, Ruth and Josey stood ready to receive the praises they felt to be their due for having prepared so tempting a repast.

A double pile of smoking hot waffles, buttered and sugared to the taste, was flanked on one side by a dish of stewed pears, and on the other by a plate of fresh gingerbread. Tea for the elders, and milk for the children, finished the bill of fare for the meal.

The Rector took his station behind his chair, and with his right hand slightly raised, as was his custom, proceeded to invoke God's blessing on the food his providence had provided, after which all took their seats.

While the younger ones, at least, enjoyed their meal unmindful of cares or anxieties, we will go back a few years in the history of the family, and explain the nature of the burden which had fallen on the parents.