before the glass, which was a trifle | fools"-began Miss Martha, when too low for him, and grasped his the deacon touched up Jerry in a venerable nose in his thumb and way that brought his sister's teeth finger, which gave a peculiar tone together with a sudden snap and to his voice, and made Miss Martha literally shut her mouth for the time. look up at him, as she said,"Don't forget to look in on Judy," "He's got the Word of the Lord. he called out, looking back at Alick, He has no right to question that." with a funny twinkle in his kind "Yes," ejaculated the deacon, old eyes. "She dotes on Sunday between the cautious sweeps of his reading, and Cato's gone razor, "he's got the Word of the preachin'." Lord, and he's got the Lord of the Word, and so hev I; and I can risk Him to take care of Alick." to Alick could only nod his head; but he sat on the grass under the maples until the carriage jolted round a turn in the road. He faced about and waved his instrument of torture 66 at Miss Martha triumphantly; but she only replied, 'Aunt Martha 'll be pretty thoroughly settled and grounded by the time she gets to church, if "It is written, "Thou shalt not father drives in that fashion. tempt the Lord thy God.' Blessed old soul, there's no humbug about him." And Alick's face grew grave again. The busy little ants ran in and out, building their shapely walls for a passing foot to crush; bright midges danced up and down in the With which parting shot she retired to put on her Sunday gear. The church bells rang pleasantly, just far enough away to blend the three tones into one musical rhythm. Alick brought the staid old horse to the door, carefully sunshine, alive for a summer day; rubbed a fleck of mud from the harness with a maple leaf, and stood there patting Jerry's neck, until his father came down the steps, in his creaking boots, followed briskly by Miss Martha, her hymnbook folded in her white handkerchief. She looked disapprovingly at Alick, as she said, a spider swung down her dainty stairway, and a bird swooped from the branches and struck it out of existence. The miracles of life and growth, the mystery of death too, were all around him. The whole universe was full of questions for which there seemed no answer. Could he believe that anywhere there was an infinite Intelligence, in whose plan every one of those shining atoms had a place? Was he too in the same grasp, held to his ordained place, shut up in proscribed limits, compelled to fulfil his part? Was he no more than the spider, that his toiling and planning should be swept away? Did his loving, his longing, his human ambitions matter nothing to this awful Omnipotence? The very thought was bitterness. Whatever ruled, God or fate, Alick felt only the power that was too great for him, the strength that was more than his; and with all the force of his nature he rebelled against it. Meantime the deacon and Miss man needs to be well settled and grounded, and learn to crucify his carnal affections, before he's fit for such a responsible office." Martha bounced along over the stony road in silence, the deacon groaning inwardly over his dear boy, his blundering old conscience burdening him with the blame of everything that had happened. "I 'spose it's a judgment on me for the sins of my youth. I used to be a dretful unbeliever," thought the old man, who couldn't quite see how the Lord was going to forgive him out and out, without taking some kind of revenge. It did seem like a judgment that Alick, the pride of his eyes, should be suddenly stricken down in the midst of his university studies and sent home an invalid; and, worst of all, so unsettled, so bitter, so full of doubts, that the elder had thought it necessary to point a sermon at him, with the best of intentions but the very worst results. "Silas is a good man," said the deacon; "a better man than I be. Though, as to bein' puffed up, I'm sure it's made me feel humble to think of bein' chosen to minister before the Lord." The deacon landed Miss Martha at the steps, fastened his horse in the shade, and walked up the aisle, as he had done for twenty years, just at the last stroke of the bell. When the bells were silent Alick's musing came suddenly to an end, and he rose from the grass and sauntered down the green lane towards Judy's whitewashed cabin. The little house was buried to the eaves in tall clumps of lilac and syringa, and just within the door Judy was sitting, her Bible on her knees, and her great silver-bowed spectacles carefully set upon her clean Sunday turban. Snap lay at her feet, dreaming uneasily, and keeping one eye in range of the little walk, with its border of grass pinks, as if expecting a visitor. He lifted his head suddenly as Alick came down the lane. "If his mother could only have been spared," thought the deacon, and straightway dropped into a fit of abstraction, as he reviewed the past and lived over again the years when he struck out from the dead level of his life, on a New England farm, for one of strange adventure in the wilds of Texas. He remembered the home-coming, when he "Lie still there," said Judy, brought back to his old homestead sharply. "You've no call to be his fair young wife, and the two faith- friskin' about on a Sunday." Then, ful servants, Judy and Cato, who as Alick came nearer, she added, in followed the fortunes of their dear a different tone: "Jes wonder of mistress to the dreary north, and a Miss Marthy's been aggravatin' few years later wept bitter tears that blessed boy agin. She'd ought above her grave. Then Miss t'be shut up in a mill-stun an' Martha's reign began, and the throwed into the sea, like them old deacon smiled grimly, remember- Jews." ing the horror with which she saw little Alick kiss and fondle his old black nurse. But Alick's face was so serene that Judy's brightened in sympathy. "How is ye this blessed mornin', honey? "All right, auntie. me but laziness." Nothing ails "Don't tell me," said Judy. "Yer jes' growin', honey-growin' in yer bones. Ye'll fotch roun' all right dreckly. I'se gwine to bile ye some bitters nex' week." Alick smiled faintly, as he said, "So you've learned to read, have you, Judy?" "Bless ye, honey, ye know ole Judy can't read no more'n Snap. 'Pears like it's a heap of comfort, dough, to jes' look at the open Book an' 'sider about it. I knows a sight o' things outen the Word, an' I jes' sets an' ponders 'em roun' in my soul." "I'll read to you," said Alick, glad to escape from himself; and, opening the book at random, he read chapter after chapter, while Judy listened, with occasional ejaculations of delight and triumph. 'Judy," said Alick, at last, "did you know some people say the Bible isn't true? 66 some day, an' then ye'll know all 'bout Him.' "I hope He will," said Alick, honestly, with an unutterable longing for something tangible to lay hold upon, something real enough to leave no place for speculation. Leaning back in the low doorway, he pulled idly at the long sweetbriar sprays that swung about his head, and seemed lost in thought, while Judy watched him with a troubled face, her lips moving as if in prayer. "What's that, chile?" she said, suddenly, as Alick drew a handkerchief from his pocket, on which her quick eye detected stains of blood. "It's nothing," said Alick, impatiently, "only I coughed worse than common last night, and I want you to wash this and keep it out of aunt Martha's way. She's always making a row over me and worrying father." "Ye pore lamb," burst out Judy, dropping on her knees and drawing Alick's head to her bosom. "'Pears like I couldn't give ye up, no "Dear sakes!" said Judy. "You how." don't believe that, honey? "Dear sakes!" And the old woman rocked herself to and fro in utter perplexity, her troubled eyes all the time fixed on Alick. " What a pity 'twould be if it wa'n't true, now! Such blessed words-'Come unto me all ye that labour,' and all the rest of it." "You needn't," said Alick. doctor says I shall be all Perhaps," said Alick; "I don't" The see how any one is to know." right. You see I strained my chest at the boat-race, but the hurt will heal in time. What I care for is being stopped in my studies, no one knows how long, and disappointed of everything I wanted to do. It is hard; but aunt Martha says it's good for me, and I ought to be thankful for it. Do you believe such nonsense, Judy?" and Alick shook her off, impatiently. Then, with a sudden light in her face, she raised herself erect. "Tell ye what, honey," she said, triumphantly, "the folks didn't believe Mary when she telled 'em the Lord was risen. But Mary, she knew it was so, 'cause she'd seen Him. I doesn't know nuffin' 'bout their argefyin', honey; but I know it's all true what the Bible says about Jesus, cause I's seed the Lord myse'f. He's 'peared to pore old Judy; and He'll 'pear to you "Chile," said Judy, soothingly, "I believes dis yere, it's in the Bible: "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that love him.'" "And hateth them that don't love Him, I suppose-visits the iniquities of the fathers upon the children, to the third and fourth generations. Oh, I know it. I'm well instructed in the Bible, Judy." And Alick laughed in a bitter fashion. "Pore lamb," said Judy, with all a mother's tenderness in her voice, "let me tell ye, ye dun know who yer fightin'. Don't ye mind, honey, when ye was down with fever and clean outen yer senses, how ye raved and screeched at marster, and begged us to take him away, and him jes' holdin' yer pore hands to keep ye from hurting yerself, an' crying like a baby over ye? Well, ye come to, bym-by, and looked up in marster's face kind o' s'prised like, and ye says, 'Father,' and dropped off smilin' to sleep. Tell ye, honey, the good Lord's a holdin' yer hands out o' love and pity; an' bym-by yer'll come to yerself, and see ye was fightin' yer heavenly Father all the time." Judy wiped her wet face, and rose, saying: "'Scuse me, honey, I mus' set out a bite for my ole man. He's comin' yander, an' he'll be clare beat out, trampin' so far." Alick watched the old man-tall, gaunt, and stooping a little-as he slowly toiled up the hill and turned down the green lane. Seventy long years of servitude-of patiently doing the will of another-that was what life had been to Cato, and Alick sighed as he thought of it. The old man acknowledged Alick's presence by a respectful greeting, and a smile that lighted up the weary old face; and then sank stiffly into a chair, with both hands clasping his cane. "Why didn't you ride, Cato?" said Alick, kindly. "There was plenty of room in the carriage." "Bless yer heart, chile, the Marster don't 'spise to walk with a pore, ign'rant old sinner, like Cato. I had a deal to tell Him about, and he was uncommon comfortin' to me -was so. Alick said no more. Here was a man who actually walked and talked with God. It did not in any way touch his heart to believe that Jesus talked with His disciples eighteen hundred years ago; but it was something to look in the face of that blessed old man, and hear that Jesus had walked with him that summer day, across those very hills, had listened to his troubles, and been "uncommon comforting." Comforting! Alick could well believe it, and he sat with closed eyes, hearing the droning of the bees all above him, and dimly conscious of some half-remembered words" As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you." If there were any heart to which he might take his troubles, as he felt he could to his mother's bosom, and pour them all out and be comforted! Just at that moment he had a glimpse of One waiting, and then the old doubts had it all their own way again. "What was the sermon about ? " he asked, suddenly. "Crees of the Lord," said Cato, opening his eyes with a start. "The blessed words is all good, but some of 'em's more nourishin' 'n others. I was so took up meditatin' on what the Marster give me, goin' 'long to meetin', I didn't mind the tex' so much, and 'peared like He put the las' hymns into their minds jes' a "Well, you see, chile, I'se easy puppose for me. Jes' you listen to put out in mind," said Cato, slowly, this here, honey, And this is the an' the best of company's 'stract- confidence that we have in him, ing sometimes; so I thought, as I that if we ask anything according don't often get to hear the Word, to his will he heareth us. And if I'd jes' walk 'long with the Marster we know that he hears us, whatsoand make sure of a blessin'." ever we ask, we know that we have Alick started in real wonder, the petitions we desired of him." thinking only of his father; but the Cato closed his book with an air of added, ferventlysublime triumph. 66 old man "Thar, chile, that's what the Marster tole me this blessed morning." 66 That does sound strong," said Alick, musingly. "Confidence is a better word than faith, and means a great deal more to me. But there's the will again. How do you know anything is according to His will?" "Some things we can't tell 'cause we hasn't got much sense to know what's bes' fer us: but some things we know. It's allus His will to give the sperit to them that asks, and it's allus His will to wash away our sins, an' make us His chillen', an' take us home to the kingdom. So we's allus shore in prayin' for them things, an' all the rest we can jes' leave fer the Lord to settle His own way. His way's the bes' for shore." "It's a very hard way, seems to me. vine. believe the Lord loves ye, an' died. to save ye, an' ye'll never keer to ask no questions 'bout what He's gwine to do with you. It's jes' yer Father kerryin' ye; an' ef it's dark part of the way, why He can see, an' He ain't gwine to let you fall." The great bell summoned Alick to the house, and as he went up the lane, two humble hearts followed him with such prayers as go straight to the Father's ear, "We had a very edifying discourse," said Miss Martha, at the dinner-table. "I think the decrees of God were never set before me in a clearer light." "Well, well, I don't know," said the deacon. "Somehow I didn't seem to follow the elder exactly this morning." "Abram Danforth! You was asleep half the time." And Miss Martha peppered her cold beef vigorously. "What was it, father?" asked Alick. "Jes' you look a here, chile," "Well, well, mebby I did just said Cato, his old face kindling, as drop off," admitted the deacon, he drew one of the long green humbly. "Bein' I was broke of branches of the grape-vine through my rest so much latterly, nussin' his fingers. "Look at this yer that sick critter. I kind o' kep' the It's been a growin' all sum-run of the discourse long at fust mer, pushin' out shoots an' gettin' though, and I enjoyed the last grand an' toppin'. 'Pears like a hymn uncommonly." pity to cut 'em off; but don't ye see thar's too much wood, an' nex' year whar'll be the fruit? That's the way the good Lord sarves us. We's green an' flourishin' an' all full of sap, and we think we's doin' fustrate. Then the Lord lops us off, an' cuts us down, an' 'pears if we was clean gone': but that's the time we b'ar fruit-thirty, forty, hundred fold." "Then you don't believe that the Lord's will requires us to perform impossibilities," said Alick, smiling faintly, but going back to his real trouble. "Some things is onpossible to man that's mighty possible to the Lord; but don't ye go troubling yourself 'bout no hard questions, honey, jes' you set yer heart to How firm a foundation, ye saints of Is laid for your faith in His excellent It's a good old-fashioned hymn, "Cato walked home, I believe." "Yes. I was sorry, too, for I wanted to see what he'd say about the sermon. Cato's sound, if he is simple, and he goes right at the root of things," |