{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_10728/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_10728","id":"gutenberg_10728","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10728","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian life -- Juvenile fiction","Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction"],"text":"CHRISTIE, THE KING'S SERVANT\n\nA Sequel to 'Christie's Old Organ'\n\nBy MRS. O.F. WALTON\n\nAUTHOR OF 'CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN'\n'A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES'\n'THE KING'S CUPBEARER'\n'SHADOWS' ETC ETC\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n\nCHAPTER\n\n\n     I RUNSWICK BAY\n    II LITTLE JOHN\n   III STRANGE MUSIC\n    IV WHAT ARE YOU?\n     V THE RUNSWICK SPORTS\n    VI THE TUG OF WAR\n   VII OVER THE LINE\n  VIII A NIGHT OF STORM\n    IX ASK WHAT YE WILL\n     X WE KNOW\n    XI LITTLE JACK AND BIG JACK\n   XII WHERE ARE YOU GOING?\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter I\n\nRUNSWICK BAY\n\n\nIt was the yellow ragwort that did it! I have discovered the clue at\nlast. All night long I have been dreaming of Runswick Bay. I have been\nclimbing the rocks, talking to the fishermen, picking my way over the\nmasses of slippery seaweed, and breathing the fresh briny air. And all\nthe morning I have been saying to myself, 'What can have made me dream\nof Runswick Bay? What can have brought the events of my short stay in\nthat quaint little place so vividly before me?' Yes, I am convinced of\nit; it was that bunch of yellow ragwort on the mantelpiece in my\nbedroom. My little Ella gathered it in the lane behind the house\nyesterday morning, and brought it in triumphantly, and seized the best\nchina vase in the drawing-room, and filled it with water at the tap, and\nthrust the great yellow bunch into it.\n\n'Oh, Ella,' said Florence, her elder sister, 'what ugly common flowers!\nHow could you put them in mother's best vase, that Aunt Alice gave her\non her birthday! What a silly child you are!'\n\n'I'm not a silly child,' aid Ella stoutly, 'and mother is sure to like\nthem; I know she will. _She_ won't call them common flowers. She\nloves all yellow flowers. She said so when I brought her the daffodils;\nand these are yellower, ever so much yellower.'\n\nHer mother came in at this moment, and, taking our little girl on her\nknee, she told her that she was quite right; they were very beautiful in\nher eyes, and she would put them at once in her own room, where she\ncould have them all to herself.\n\nAnd that is how it came about, that, as I lay in bed, the last thing my\neyes fell upon was Ella's bunch of yellow ragwort; and what could be\nmore natural than that I should go to sleep and dream of Runswick Bay?\n\nIt seems only yesterday that I was there, so clearly can I recall it,\nand yet it must be twenty years ago. I think I must write an account of\nmy visit to Runswick Bay and give it to Ella, as it was her yellow\nflowers which took me back to the picturesque little place. If she\ncannot understand all I tell her now, she will learn to do so as she\ngrows older.\n\nI was a young man then, just beginning to make my way as an artist. It\nis slow work at first; until you have made a name, every one looks\ncritically at your work; when once you have been pronounced a rising\nartist, every daub from your brush has a good market value. I had had\nmuch uphill work, but I loved my profession for its own sake, and I\nworked on patiently, and, at the time my story begins, several of my\npictures had sold for fair prices, and I was not without hope that I\nmight soon find a place in the Academy.\n\nIt was an unusually hot summer, and London was emptying fast. Every one\nwho could afford it was going either to the moors or to the sea, and I\nfelt very much inclined to follow their example. My father and mother\nhad died when I was quite a child, and the maiden aunt who had brought\nme up had just passed away, and I had mourned her death very deeply, for\nshe had been both father and mother to me. I felt that I needed change\nof scene, for I had been up for many nights with her during her last\nillness, and I had had my rest broken for so long, that I found it very\ndifficult to sleep, and in many ways I was far from well. My aunt had\nleft all her little property to me, so that the means to leave London\nand to take a suitable holiday were not wanting. The question was, where\nshould I go? I was anxious to combine, if possible, pleasure and\nbusiness--that is to say, I wished to choose some quiet place where I\ncould get bracing air and thorough change of scene, and where I could\nalso find studies for my new picture, which was (at least, so I fondly\ndreamed) to find a place in the Academy the following spring.\n\nIt was whilst I was looking for a suitable spot that Tom Bernard, my\ngreat friend and confidant, found one for me.\n\n'Jack, old fellow,' he said, thrusting a torn newspaper into my hand,\n'read that, old man.'\n\nThe newspaper was doubled down tightly, and a great red cross of Tom's\nmaking showed me the part he wished me to read.\n\n  RUNSWICK BAY.\n\n  This charming seaside resort is not half so well known\n  as it deserves to be. For the lover of the beautiful,\n  for the man with an artistic eye, it possesses a charm\n  which words would fail to describe. The little bay is a\n  favourite resort for artists; they, at least, know how\n  to appreciate its beauties. It would be well for any who\n  may desire to visit this wonderfully picturesque and\n  enchanting spot to secure hotel or lodging-house\n  accommodation as early as possible, for the demand for\n  rooms is, in August and September, far greater than the\n  supply.\n\n\n'Well, what do you think of it?' said Tom.\n\n'It sounds just the thing,' I said; 'fresh air and plenty to paint.'\n\n'Shall you go?'\n\n'Yes, to-morrow,' I replied; 'the sooner the better.'\n\nMy bag was soon packed, my easel and painting materials were collected,\nand the very next morning I was on my way into Yorkshire.\n\nIt was evening when I reached the end of my long, tiring railway\njourney; and when, hot and dusty, I alighted at a village which lay\nabout two miles from my destination. I saw no sign of beauty as I walked\nfrom the station; the country was slightly undulating in parts, but as a\nrule nothing met my gaze but a long flat stretch of field after field,\ncovered, as the case might be, with grass or corn. Harebells and pink\ncampion grew on the banks, and the meadows were full of ox-eye daisies;\nbut I saw nothing besides that was in the least attractive, and\ncertainly nothing of which I could make a picture.\n\nA family from York had come by the same train, and I had learnt from\ntheir conversation that they had engaged lodgings for a month at\nRunswick Bay. The children, two boys of ten and twelve, and a little\nfair-haired girl a year or two younger, were full of excitement on their\narrival.\n\n'Father, where is the sea?' they cried. 'Oh, we do want to see the sea!'\n\n'Run on,' said their father, 'and you will soon see it.'\n\nSo we ran together, for I felt myself a child again as I watched them,\nand if ever I lagged behind, one or other of them would turn round and\ncry, 'Come on, come on; we shall soon see it.'\n\nThen, suddenly, we came to the edge of the high cliff, and the sea in\nall its beauty and loveliness burst upon us. The small bay was shut in\nby rocks on either side, and on the descent of the steep cliff was built\nthe little fishing village. I think I have never seen a prettier place.\n\nThe children were already running down the steep, rocky path--I cannot\ncall it a road--which led down to the sea, and I followed more slowly\nbehind them. It was the most curiously built place. The fishermen's\ncottages were perched on the rock, wherever a ledge or standing place\ncould be found. Steep, narrow paths, or small flights of rock-hewn\nsteps, led from one to another. There was no street in the whole place;\nthere could be none, for there were hardly two houses which stood on the\nsame level. To take a walk through this quaint village was to go up and\ndown stairs the whole time.\n\nAt last, after a long, downward scramble, I found myself on the shore,\nand then I looked back at the cliff and at the irregular little town. I\ndid not wonder that artists were to be found there. I had counted four\nas I came down the hill, perched on different platforms on the rock, and\nall hard at work at their easels.\n\nYes, it was certainly a picturesque place, and I was glad that I had\ncome. The colouring was charming: there was red rock in the background,\nhere and there covered with grass, and ablaze with flowers. Wild roses\nand poppies, pink-thrift and white daisies, all contributed to make the\nold rock gay. But the yellow ragwort was all over; great patches of it\ngrew even on the margin of the sand, and its bright flowers gave the\nwhole place a golden colouring. There seemed to be yellow everywhere,\nand the red-tiled cottages, and the fishermen in their blue jerseys, and\nthe countless flights of steps, all appeared to be framed in the\nbrightest gilt.\n\nYes, I felt sure I should find something to paint in Runswick Bay. I was\nnot disappointed in Tom's choice for me.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter II\n\nLITTLE JOHN\n\n\nAfter admiring the beauties of my new surroundings for some little time,\nI felt that I must begin to look for quarters. I was anxious, if\npossible, to find a lodging in one of the cottages, and then, after a\ngood night's rest, I would carefully select a good subject for my\npicture. I called at several houses, where I noticed a card in the\nwindow announcing _Apartments to Let_, but I met the same answer\neverywhere, 'Full, sir, quite full.' In one place I was offered a bed in\nthe kitchen, but the whole place smelt so strongly of fried herrings and\nof fish oil, that I felt it would be far more pleasant to sleep on the\nbeach than to attempt to do so in that close and unwholesome atmosphere.\n\nAfter wandering up and down for some time, I passed a house close to the\nvillage green, and saw the children with whom I had travelled sitting at\ntea close to the open window. They, too, were eating herrings, and the\nsmell made me hungry. I began to feel that it was time I had something\nto eat, and I thought my best plan would be to retrace my steps to the\nhotel which I had passed on my way, and which stood at the very top of\nthe high cliff. I turned a little lazy when I thought of the climb, for\nI was tired with my journey, and, as I said before, I was not very\nstrong, and to drag my bag and easel up the rugged ascent would require\na mighty effort at the best of times. I noticed that wooden benches had\nbeen placed here and there on the different platforms of the rock, for\nthe convenience of the fishermen, and I determined to rest for a quarter\nof an hour on one of them before retracing my steps up the steep hill to\nthe hotel. The fishermen were filling most of the seats, sitting side by\nside, row after row of them, talking together, and looking down at the\nbeach below. As I gazed up at them, they looked to me like so many blue\nbirds perched on the steep rock.\n\nThere was one seat in a quiet corner which I noticed was empty. I went\nto it, and laying my knapsack and other belongings beside me, I sat down\nto rest.\n\nBut I was not long to remain alone. A minute afterwards a young\nfisherman, dressed like his mates in blue jersey and oilskin cap,\nplanted himself on the other end of the seat which I had selected.\n\n'Good-day, sir,' he said. 'What do you think of our bay?'\n\n'It's a pretty place, very pretty,' I said. 'I like it well enough now,\nbut I daresay I shall like it better still to-morrow.'\n\n'Better still to-morrow,' he repeated; 'well, it _is_ the better\nfor knowing, in my opinion, sir, and I _ought_ to know, if any one\nshould, for I've lived my lifetime here.'\n\nI turned to look at him as he spoke, and I felt at once that I had come\nacross one of Nature's gentlemen. He was a fine specimen of an honest\nEnglish fisherman, with dark eyes and hair, and with a sunny smile on\nhis weather-beaten, sunburnt face. You had only to look at the man to\nfeel sure that you could trust him, and that, like Nathanael, there was\nno guile in him.\n\n'I wonder if you could help me,' I said; 'I want to find a room here if\nI can, but every place seems so full.'\n\n'Yes, it is full, sir, in August; that's the main time here. Let me see,\nthere's Brown's, they're full, and Robinson's, and Wilson's, and\nThomson's, all full up. There's Giles', they have a room, I believe, but\nthey're not over clean; maybe you're particular, sir.'\n\n'Well,' I said, 'I do like things clean; I don't mind how rough they are\nif they're only clean.'\n\n'Ah,' he said, with a twinkle in his eye; 'you wouldn't care for one pan\nto do all the work of the house--to boil the dirty clothes, and the\nfish, and your bit of pudding for dinner, and not overmuch cleaning of\nit in between.'\n\n'No,' I said, laughing; 'I should not like that, certainly.'\n\n'Might give the pudding a flavour of stockings, and a sauce of fish\noil,' he answered. 'Well, you're right, sir; I shouldn't like it myself.\nCleanliness is next to godliness, that's my idea. Well, then, that being\nas it is, I wouldn't go to Giles', not if them is your sentiments with\nregard to pans, sir.'\n\n'Then I suppose there's nothing for it but to trudge up to the hotel at\nthe top of the hill,' I said, with something of a groan.\n\n'Well, sir,' he said, hesitating a little; 'me and my missus, we have a\nroom as we lets sometimes, but it's a poor place, sir, homely like, as\nye may say. Maybe you wouldn't put up with it.'\n\n'Would you let me see it?' I asked.\n\n'With pleasure, sir; it's rough, but it's clean. We could promise you a\nclean pan, sir. My missus she's a good one for cleaning; she's not one\nof them slatternly, good-for-nothing lasses. There's heaps of them here,\nsir, idling away their time. She's a good girl is my Polly. Why, if that\nisn't little John a-clambering up the steps to his daddy!'\n\nHe jumped up as he said this, and ran quickly down the steep flight of\nsteps which led down from the height on which the seat was placed, and\nsoon returned with a little lad about two years old in his arms.\n\nThe child was as fair as his father was dark. He was a pretty boy with\nlight hair and blue eyes, and was tidily dressed in a bright red cap and\nclean white-pinafore.\n\n'Tea's ready, daddy,' said the boy; 'come home with little John.'\n\n'Maybe you wouldn't object to a cup o' tea, sir,' said the father,\nturning to me; 'it'll hearten you up a bit after your journey, and\nthere's sure to be herrings. We almost lives on herrings here, sir, and\nthen, if you're so minded, you can look at the room after. Ye'll excuse\nme if I make too bold, sir,' he added, as he gently patted little John's\ntiny hand, which rested on his arm.\n\n'I shall be only too glad to come,' I said; 'for I am very hungry, and\nif Polly's room is as nice as I think it will be, it will be just the\nplace for me.'\n\nHe walked in front of me, up and down several flights of steps, until,\nat some little distance lower down the hill, he stopped before a small\ncottage. Sure enough there were herrings, frying and spluttering on the\nfire, and there too was Polly herself, arrayed in a clean white apron,\nand turning the herrings with a fork. The kitchen was very low, and the\nrafters seemed resting on my head as I entered; but the window and door\nwere both wide open, and the whole place struck me as being wonderfully\nsweet and clean. A low wooden settle stood by the fire, one or two plain\ndeal chairs by the wall, and little John's three-legged stool was placed\nclose to his father's arm-chair. A small shelf above the fireplace held\nthe family library. I noticed a Bible, a hymn-book, a _Pilgrim's\nProgress_, and several other books, all of which had seen their best\ndays and were doubtless in constant use. On the walls were prints in\nwooden frames and much discoloured by the turf smoke of the fire. Upon a\ncarved old oak cupboard, which held the clothes of the family, were\narranged various rare shells and stones, curious sea-urchins and other\ntreasures of the sea, and in the centre, the chief ornament of the house\nand the pride of Polly's heart, a ship, carved and rigged by Duncan\nhimself, and preserved carefully under a glass shade.\n\nPolly gave me a hearty Yorkshire welcome, and we soon gathered about the\nsmall round table. Duncan, with little John on his knee, asked a\nblessing, and Polly poured out the tea, and we all did justice to the\nmeal.\n\nThe more I saw of these honest people, the more I liked them and felt\ninclined to trust them. When tea was over, Polly took me to see the\nguest-chamber in which her husband had offered me a bed. It was a low\nroom in the roof, containing a plain wooden bedstead, one chair, a small\nwash-hand stand, and a square of looking-glass hanging on the wall.\nThere was no other furniture, and, indeed, there was room for no other,\nand the room was unadorned except by three or four funeral cards in\ndismal black frames, which were hanging at different heights on the wall\nopposite the bed. But the square casement window was thrown wide open,\nand the pure sea air filled the little room, and the coarse white\ncoverings of the bed were spotless, and, indeed, the whole place looked\nand felt both fresh and clean.\n\n'You'll pardon me, sir,' said Duncan, 'for asking you to look at such a\npoor place.'\n\n'But I like it, Duncan,' I answered, 'and I like you, and I like your\nwife, and if you will have me as a lodger, I am willing and glad to\nstay.'\n\nThe terms were soon agreed upon to the satisfaction of both parties, and\nthen all things being settled, Polly went to put little John to bed\nwhilst I went with Duncan to see his boat.\n\nIt was an old boat, and it had been his father's before him, and it had\nweathered many a storm; but it was the dream of Duncan's life to buy a\nnew one, and he and Polly had nearly saved up money enough for it.\n\n'That's why me and the missus is glad to get a lodger now and again,' he\nsaid; 'it all goes to the boat, every penny of it. We mean to call her\nThe Little John. He's going in her the very first voyage she takes; he\nis indeed, sir, for he'll be her captain one day, please God, little\nJohn will.'\n\nIt was a calm, beautiful evening; the sea was like a sheet of glass.\nHardly a ripple was breaking on the shore. The sun was setting behind\nthe cliff, and the fishing village would soon be in darkness. The\nfishermen were leaving their cottages and were making for the shore.\nAlready some of the boats were launched, and the men were throwing in\ntheir nets and fishing-tackle, and were pulling out to sea. I enjoyed\nwatching my new friend making his preparations. His three mates brought\nout the nets, and he gave his orders with a tone of command. He was the\nowner and the captain of the Mary Ann, and the rest were accustomed to\ndo his bidding.\n\nWhen all were on board, Duncan himself jumped in and gave the word to\npush from shore. He nodded to me and bid me good-night, and when he was\na little way from shore, I saw him stand up in the boat and wave his\noil-skin cap to some one above me on the cliff.\n\nI looked up, and saw Polly standing on the rock overhanging the shore\nwith little John in his white nightgown in her arms. He was waving his\nred cap to his father, and continued to do so till the boat was out of\nsight.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III\n\nSTRANGE MUSIC\n\n\nI slept well in my strange little bedroom, although I was awakened early\nby the sunlight streaming in at the window. I jumped up and looked out.\nThe sun was rising over the sea, and a flood of golden light was\nstreaming across it.\n\nI dressed quickly and went out. Very few people were about, for the\nfishermen had not yet returned from their night's fishing. The cliff\nlooked even more beautiful than the night before, for every bit of\ncolouring stood out clear and distinct in the sunshine. 'I shall get my\nbest effects in the morning,' I said to myself, 'and I had better choose\nmy subject at once, so that after breakfast I may be able to begin\nwithout delay.'\n\nHow many steps I went up, and how many I went down, before I came to a\ndecision, it would be impossible to tell; but at last I found a place\nwhich seemed to me to be the very gem of the whole village. An old\ndisused boat stood in the foreground, and over this a large fishing net,\ncovered with floats, was spread to dry. Behind rose the rocks, covered\nwith tufts of grass, patches of gorse, tall yellow mustard plants and\ngolden ragwort, and at the top of a steep flight of rock-hewn steps\nstood a white cottage with red-tiled roof, the little garden in front of\nit gay with hollyhocks and dahlias. A group of barefooted children were\nstanding by the gate feeding some chickens and ducks, a large dog was\nlying asleep at the top of the steps, and a black cat was basking in the\nmorning sunshine on the low garden wall. It was, to my mind, an\nextremely pretty scene, and it made me long to be busy with my brush.\n\nI hurried back to my lodging, and found Polly preparing my breakfast,\nwhilst little John looked on. He was sitting in his nightgown, curled up\nin his father's armchair. 'I'm daddy,' he called out to me as I came in.\n\nThere was a little round table laid ready for me, and covered with a\nspotlessly clean cloth, and on it was a small black teapot, and a white\nand gold cup and saucer, upon which I saw the golden announcement, 'A\npresent from Whitby,' whilst my plate was adorned with a remarkable\npicture of Whitby Abbey in a thunderstorm.\n\nThere were herrings, of course, and Polly had made some hot cakes, the\nlike of which are never seen outside Yorkshire. These were ready\nbuttered, and were lying wrapped in a clean cloth in front of the fire.\nPolly made the tea as soon as I entered, and then retired with little\nJohn in her arms into the bedroom, whilst I sat down with a good\nappetite to my breakfast.\n\nI had not quite finished my meal when I heard a great shout from the\nshore. Women and children, lads and lasses, ran past the open door,\ncrying, 'The boats! the boats!' Polly came flying into the kitchen,\ncaught up little John's red cap, thrust it on his head, and ran down the\nsteps. I left my breakfast unfinished, and followed them.\n\nIt was a pretty sight. The fishing-boats were just nearing shore, and\nalmost every one in the place had turned out to meet them.\n\nWives, children, and visitors were gathered on the small landing place;\nmost had dishes or plates in their hands, for the herrings could be\nbought straight from the boats. The family from York were there, and\nthey greeted me as an old friend.\n\nWhen the little village had been abundantly supplied with fish, the rest\nof the herrings were packed up and sent off by train to be sold\nelsewhere. It was a pretty animated scene, and I wished I had brought my\nsketchbook with me. I thought the arrival of the fishing boats would\nmake a splendid subject for a picture.\n\nDuncan was too busy even to see me till the fish were all landed,\ncounted, and disposed of, but he had time for a word with little John,\nand as I was finishing my breakfast he came in with the child perched on\nhis shoulder.\n\n'Good morning, sir,' he said; 'and how do you like our bay this\nmorning?'\n\nMy answer fully satisfied him, and whilst he sat down to his morning\nmeal I went out to begin my work. It was a lovely day, and I thoroughly\nenjoyed the prospect before me. I found a shady place just under the\nwall of a house, where my picture would be in sunlight and I and my\neasel in shadow. I liked the spot I had chosen even better than I had\ndone before breakfast, and I was soon hard at work.\n\nI had sketched in my picture, and was beginning to paint, when I became\nconscious of the sound of voices just over my head, and I soon became\nequally conscious that they were talking about me.\n\n'It's just like it,' said one voice. 'Look--do look. There's Betty\nGreen's cottage, and Minnie the cat, and the seat, and the old boat.'\n\n[Illustration]\n\n'Let me see, Marjorie,' said another voice; 'is it the old one with\nwhite hair and a long, long beard?'\n\n'No, it's quite a young one; his hair's black, and he hasn't got a beard\nat all.'\n\n'Let me look. Yes, I can see him. I like him much better than the old\none; hasn't he got nice red cheeks?'\n\n'Hush! he'll hear,' said the other voice. 'You naughty boy! I believe he\ndid hear; I saw him laugh.'\n\nI jumped up at this, and looked up, but I could see nothing but a garden\nwall and a thick bushy tree, which was growing just inside it.\n\n'Hullo, who's there?' I shouted.\n\nBut there was dead silence; and as no one appeared, and nothing more\nhappened, I sat down and went on with my picture.\n\nMany people passed by as I was painting, and tried to look at what I was\ndoing. Some glanced out of the corners of their eyes as they walked on;\nothers paused behind me and silently watched me; a few made remarks to\none another about my picture; one or two offered suggestions, thought I\nshould have had a better view lower down the hill, or hoped that I would\nmake the colouring vivid enough. The children with whom I had travelled\nseemed to feel a kind of partnership in my picture.\n\n'Let's go and look at _our_ artist,' Bob would say to Harry; 'his\npicture is going to be the best of the lot.'\n\nThey were so fond of watching me, and so much excited over what I was\ndoing, that, as time went on, I was often obliged to ask them to move\nfurther away, so eager were they to watch every movement of my brush.\n\nI thoroughly enjoyed my morning's work, and went back very hungry, and\nquite ready for the comfortable little dinner which Polly had prepared\nfor me. In the afternoon the light would be all wrong for my picture;\nbut I determined to sketch in the foreground, and prepare for my next\nmorning's work.\n\nI was very busy upon this, when suddenly I became conscious of music, if\nmusic it could be called. It was the most peculiar sound, and at first I\ncould not find out from whence it came. It was evidently not caused by a\nwind instrument; I felt sure it was not a concertina or an accordion.\nThis sound would go on for a minute or two, and then stop suddenly, only\nto begin again more loudly a few seconds later. At times I distinguished\na few bars of a tune, then only disjointed notes followed. Could it be a\nchild strumming idly on a harmonium? but no, it was not at all like an\ninstrument of that kind. It was an annoying, worrying sound, and it went\non for so long that I began to be vexed with it, and stamped my foot\nimpatiently when, after a short interval, I heard it begin again. The\nsound seemed to come from behind the wall of the house near which I was\nsitting, and it was repeated from time to time during the whole of the\nafternoon.\n\nAt length, as the afternoon went on, I began to distinguish what tunes\nwere being attempted. I made out a bar or two of the old French\nRepublican air, 'The Marseillaise,' and then I was almost startled by\nwhat came next, for it was a tune I had known well since I was a very\nlittle child. It was 'Home, Sweet Home,' and that was my mother's\nfavourite tune; in fact, I never heard it without thinking of her. Many\nand many a time had she sung me to sleep with that tune. I had scarlet\nfever when I was five years old, and my mother had nursed me through it,\nand when I was weary and fretful she would sing to me--my pretty\nfair-haired mother. Even as I sat before my easel I could see her, as\nshe sat at the foot of my bed, with the sunshine streaming upon her\nthrough the half-darkened window, and making her look, to my boyish\nimagination, like a beautiful angel. And I could hear her voice still;\nand the sweet tones in which she sang that very song to me, 'Home, sweet\nhome, there's no place like home.'\n\nI remembered one night especially, in which she knelt by my bed and\nprayed that she might meet her boy in the bright city, the sweet home\nabove the sky which was the best and brightest home of all. I wonder\nwhat she would think of me now, I said to myself, and whether she ever\nwill see me there. I very much doubt it; it seems to me that I am a long\nway off from Home, Sweet Home now.\n\nMy mother had died soon after that illness of mine, and I knew that she\nhad gone to live in that beautiful home of which she had so often spoken\nto me. And I had been left behind, and my aunt, who had brought me up,\nhad cared for none of these things, and I had learnt to look at the\nworld and at life from her worldly standpoint, and had forgotten to seek\nfirst the Kingdom of God. Oh! if my mother only knew, my pretty,\nbeautiful mother, I said to myself that day. And then there came the\nthought, perhaps she _does_ know, and the thought made me very\nuncomfortable. I wished, more than ever, that that cracked old\ninstrument, whatever it was, would stop.\n\nBut, in spite of all my wishes, the strange sound went on, and again and\nagain I had to listen to 'Home, Sweet Home,' and each time that it came\nit set my memory going, and brought back to me the words and the looks\nwhich I thought I had forgotten. And it set something else going\ntoo--the still, small voice within, accusing me of forgetfulness, not so\nmuch of my mother as of my mother's God.\n\nI began to wish most heartily that I had chosen some other spot for my\npicture. But it was working out so well that I felt it would be a great\nmistake to change, and I hoped that the individual, man, woman, or\nchild, who had been making that horrible noise might find some other\nemployment to-morrow, and might leave me in peace.\n\nThe next day my wishes were fulfilled, for I was not disturbed, and very\nlittle happened except that my picture made progress. Then came two wet\ndays, on which I had to paint in my little chamber, and did not get back\nto my seat under the wall.\n\nI saw a good deal of Duncan during those wet days. He would come and sit\nbeside me as I painted, and would tell me stories of storms and\nshipwrecks, and of the different times when the lifeboat had been sent\nout, and of the many lives she had saved.\n\n'Have ye seen her, sir? You must go and have a look at our boat; she\nlies in a house down by the shore, as trim and tight a little boat as\nyou could wish to see anywhere!'\n\n'I suppose you've been in many a storm yourself,\nDuncan,' I said.\n\n'Storms, sir! I've very near lived in them ever since I was born. Many\nand many's the time I've never expected to see land again. I didn't care\nso much when I was a young chap. You see, my father and mother were\ndead, and if I went to the bottom there was nobody, as you might say, to\nfeel it; but it's different now, sir, you see.'\n\n'Yes,' I said, 'there's Polly and little John.'\n\n'That's just where it is, sir, Polly and little John, bless 'em; and all\nthe time the wind's raging, and the waves is coming right over the boat,\nI'm thinking of my poor lass at home, and how every gust of wind will be\nsweeping right over her heart, and how she'll be kneeling by little\nJohn's bed, praying God to bring his daddy safe home again. And I know,\nsir, as well as I know anything, that when God Almighty hears and\nanswers her prayer, and brings me safe to land, Polly and little John\nwill be standing on yon rocks a-straining their eyes for the first sight\nof the boats, and then a-running down almost into the water to welcome\nme home again. Yes, it makes a sight o' difference to a married man,\nsir; doesn't it, now? It isn't the dying, ye understand, it's the\nleaving behind as I think of. I'm not afraid to die,' he added humbly\nand reverently, as he took off his oilskin cap. 'I know whom I have\nbelieved.'\n\n'You're a plucky fellow, Duncan,' I said, 'to talk of not being afraid\nto die. I've just been at a death-bed, and--'\n\n'And you felt you wouldn't like to be there yourself,' Duncan went on,\nas I stopped. 'Well, maybe not, it comes nat'ral to us, sir; we're born\nwith that feeling, I often think, and we can no more help it than we can\nhelp any other thing we're born with. But what I mean to say is, I'm not\nafraid of what comes _after_ death. It may be a dark tunnel, sir,\nbut there's light at the far end!'\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV\n\nWHAT ARE YOU?\n\n\nOn Saturday of that week the sun shone brightly, and I was up betimes,\nhad an early breakfast, and set to work at my picture as soon as\npossible. I had not been painting long before I again heard voices above\nme, the same childish voices that I had heard before.\n\n'_You_ give it to him,' said one voice.\n\n'No, Marjorie, I daren't; you take it.'\n\n'You ought not to be afraid, because you're a boy,' said the first\nspeaker; 'father says boys ought always to be brave.'\n\n'But you're big, Marjorie, and big people ought to be braver than little\npeople!'\n\nThere was a long, whispered conversation after this, and I could not\ndistinguish the words which were spoken. But presently a small piece of\npink paper was thrown over the wall, and fluttered down upon my palette.\nI caught it up quickly, to prevent it from sticking to the paints, and I\nsaw there was something printed on it. It ran thus:--\n\n  _There will be a short service on the shore on Sunday Morning at\n  11 o'clock, when you are earnestly requested to be present_.\n\n  _Subject_: WHAT ARE YOU?\n\n\n'Thank you,' I said aloud. 'Who sent me this?'\n\nThere was no answer at first, then a little voice just above me said,\n'Both of us, sir.'\n\n'Come down and talk to me,' I said; 'I can't talk to children whom I\ncan't see. Come out here and look at my picture.'\n\nThey came out presently hand in hand, a little girl of five in a blue\ntam-o'-shanter cap, a pale pink frock, and a white pinafore, and a boy\nof three, the merriest, most sturdy little fellow I thought I had ever\nseen. His face was as round and rosy as an apple, his eyes were dark\nblue, and had the happiest and most roguish expression that it would be\npossible for eyes to have. When the child laughed (and whenever was he\nnot laughing?), every part of his face laughed together. His eyes began\nit, his lips followed suit, even his nose was pressed into the service.\nIf a sunbeam could be caught and dressed up like a little boy, I think\nit would look something like that child.\n\n'Now,' I said, 'that's right; I like to see children's faces when I talk\nto them; tell me your names to begin with.'\n\n'I'm Marjorie, sir,' said the little girl, 'and he's Jack.'\n\n'Jack!' I said; 'that's _my_ name, and a nice name too, isn't it,\nlittle Jack? Come and look at my picture, little Jack, and see if you\nthink big Jack knows how to paint.'\n\nBy degrees they grew more at their ease, and chatted freely with me.\nMarjorie told me that her father had sent the paper. Father was going to\npreach on Sunday; he preached every Sunday, and numbers of people came,\nand Jack was in the choir.\n\nWhat a dear little chorister, to be sure, a chubby little cherub if ever\nthere was one!\n\n'Shall you come, big Jack?' he said, patting my hand with his strong,\nsturdy little fist.\n\n'I don't know,' I said; 'if it's a fine day, perhaps I shall want to get\non with my picture.'\n\n'On Sunday?' said the child in a shocked voice; 'it's on Sunday father\npreaches, and you couldn't paint on Sunday, could you?'\n\n'Well, I'll see,' I said; 'perhaps I'll come and hear you sing, little\nJack.'\n\n'Thank you, big Jack,' he said, with a merry twinkle in his pretty blue\neyes.\n\n'What is this preaching on the shore, Duncan?' I asked.\n\n'Oh, it's our lay preacher,' he said; 'he's a good man, and has done a\nsight of good in this place. You see, it's too far for folks here to go\nto church, and so he lives amongst us, and has meetings in the hall\nyonder in winter, and in summer, why, we have 'em on the shore, and the\nvisitors comes mostly. There's a few won't come, but we get the best of\nthem, and we have some fine singing--real nice it is! I'm in the choir\nmyself, sir,' he said; 'you wouldn't think it, but I am. I've got a good\nstrong voice, too!'\n\nIt must be a choir worth seeing, I thought, if it contained two such\nstrange contrasts, the big burly fisherman and the tiny child who had\ninvited me to be present.\n\nI had not quite made up my mind to go. I had not been to a service for\nmany months, I might almost say years. I had slipped out of it lately,\nand I thought I should feel myself a fish out of water. However, when\nthe next day came, every one seemed to take it as a matter of course\nthat I should be going. Polly was up early, and had dressed little John\nin his best.\n\n'You'll see him at church, sir,' she said, as she laid my breakfast; 'he\nalways likes to go to church, and he's as good as gold, bless him!'\n\nDuncan was out before I was up, and I had seen him, as I was dressing,\ngoing round to the fishermen sitting as usual on the seats on the cliff,\nwith a bundle of pink papers in his hand, similar to the one which had\nbeen given me, and distributing them to every group of his mates which\nhe came across. Yes, I felt that I was expected to go, and it would be\nhard work to keep away. But if I had still had any doubt about the\nmatter, it would have surely disappeared when at half-past ten exactly a\ntiny couple came toiling hand in hand up the steps leading to Duncan's\ndoor, and announced to Polly that they had come to call for big Mr. Jack\nto go to church.\n\nIt was Marjorie and her little brother, and the small Jack put his\nlittle fat hand into that of big Jack, and led him triumphantly away.\n\nIt was a pretty sight to see that congregation gathering on the village\ngreen. From the fishermen's cottages there came a stream of people down\nto the shore,--mothers with babies in their arms and leading young\nchildren by the hand, groups of boys and girls wearing shoes and\nstockings who had been barefooted all the week, many a weather-beaten\nsailor, many a sunburnt fisher lad, many elderly people too, old men,\nand white-haired women in closely-plaited white caps. There were\nvisitors, too, coming down from the rocks, and these mostly kept in the\nbackground, and had at first an air of watching the movement rather than\njoining in it. My York friends were, however, well to the front, and the\nchildren nodded to me, and smiled at one another as they saw me led like\na lamb to the service by my two small guardians.\n\nIt was a lovely day, and the sandy ground was dry, and the congregation\nsat on the rough coarse grass or perched on the sand hillocks round. As\nfor the old boat, it was occupied by the choir, and little Jack, having\nseen me safely to the spot, climbed into it and stood proudly in the\nstern. He had a hymn-book in his hand, which I knew he could not read,\nfor he was holding it upside down, but he looked at it as long and as\nearnestly as if he could understand every word. Marjorie planted herself\nbeside me, I suppose to watch me, in case I showed signs of running away\nbefore the service was over.\n\nThen just before eleven, and when quite a large company of people had\ngathered on the green, her father arrived. He was a man of about forty,\nand his face gave me the impression that he had known trouble, and yet I\nfancied as I looked further at him that the trouble, whatever it was,\nhad ended. He seemed to me like one who has come out of a sharp storm,\nand has anchored in a quiet haven. For whilst I noticed in his face the\ntraces of heavy sorrow, still at the same time he looked happier and\nmore peaceful than any of those who stood round him; in fact, it was the\nmost restful face I had ever seen. He was not an educated man, nor was\nhe what men call a gentleman, and yet there was a refinement about him\nwhich made one feel at once that he was no common man, and had no common\nhistory. His face was so interesting to me, that I am afraid I was\ngazing at him instead of finding the hymn he had given out, but I was\nrecalled to my duty by his little daughter, who seized the hymn-book she\nhad given me at the beginning of the service, found the page for me, and\npointed with her small finger to the place.\n\nIt was a mission hymn, sung to a wild, irregular tune. I daresay I\nshould have smiled if I had heard it anywhere else, but it was no\nlaughing matter that morning. As I looked at the brown fishermen who had\ntaken off their oilskin caps, as I glanced at the earnest face of the\npreacher, as I noticed how even children, like little Marjorie beside\nme, were singing with all their heart and soul the simple plaintive\nwords, I felt strangely solemnized.\n\nThen came the prayer, and I felt as he prayed that One whom we could not\nsee was standing amongst us. It was a very simple prayer, but it was the\noutpouring of his heart to God, and many a low Amen broke from the lips\nof the fishermen as their hearts went with his.\n\nThe sermon followed. Shall I call it a sermon? It was more an appeal\nthan a sermon, or even an address. There was no attempt at style, there\nwere no long words or stilted sentences; it was exactly what his prayer\nhad been, words spoken out of the abundance of his earnest heart. The\nprayer had contained the outpouring of his soul to his God in heaven;\nthe words, to which we listened afterwards contained the outpouring of\nhis soul to us, his brothers and sisters on earth.\n\nThere was a great hush over the congregation whilst he spoke. The\nmothers quieted their babes, the children sat with their eyes fixed on\nthe speaker; even those visitors who had been on the outskirts of the\ncrowd drew near to listen.\n\n'What are you, dear friends?' he began; 'that is our subject to-day.\nWhat are you? How many different answers I hear you make, as you answer\nmy question in your hearts!'\n\n'What am I?' you say. 'I am a fisherman, a strong active man, accustomed\nto toil and danger.' 'I am a mother, with a large family of little ones,\nworking hard from morning till night.' 'I am a schoolboy, learning the\nlessons which are to fit me to make my way in the world.' 'I am a busy\nmerchant, toiling hard to make money, and obliged to come to this quiet\nplace to recruit my wearied energies.' 'I am an artist, with great\nambition of future success.' 'I am an old man, who has weathered many a\nstorm, but my work is done now; I am too old to fish, too tired to\ntoil.' 'I am a gentleman of no occupation, idling comfortably through a\nbusy world.' 'I'--and here he glanced at his own little Jack in the\nstern of the old boat--'I am a tiny child, with an unknown life all\nbefore me.'\n\n'Dear friends, such are some of your answers to my question. Can I find,\ndo you think, one answer, one description, which will suit you\nall--fishermen, mothers, boys and girls, artists, merchants, gentlemen,\nthe old man and the little child? Yes, I can. If I could hand you each a\npiece of paper and a pencil this day, there is one description of\nyourself which each of you might write, one occupation which would\ninclude you all, the old, the young, the rich and the poor. Each of you,\nwithout exception, might write this--_I am a servant_.\n\n'I, the speaker, am a servant; you who listen, all of you, are\nservants.'\n\n'Well, I don't know how he is going to make that out,' I said to myself.\n'I thought he was going to say we were all sinners, and _that_, I\nsuppose, we are, but _servants_! I do not believe I am anybody's\nservant.'\n\n'All servants,' he went on, 'but not all in the same service. As God and\nthe angels look down upon this green to-day they see gathering together\na great company of servants, but they also see that we are not all\nservants of the same master. They see what we do not see, a dividing\nline between us. On one side of the line God sees, and the angels see,\none company of servants--and in God's book He gives us the name of their\nmaster--_Servants of sin_.\n\n'On the other side of the line, God sees, and the angels see, another\ncompany of servants--_Servants of Christ_.\n\n'Which company do you belong to, dear friend? You fishermen on the bank\nthere, what are you? Little child, what are you?--a servant of sin, or a\nservant of Jesus Christ?\n\nSo I tried to turn it off from myself, and to forget the words which had\nbeen spoken. And whenever the question came back to me, the question\nwhich the speaker had repeated so often, 'What are you?' I answered it\nby saying to myself, 'I am a poor artist, having a holiday in Runswick\nBay, and I am not going to trouble my head with gloomy thoughts.'\n\nPolly had prepared an excellent dinner in honour of the day, and I did\nfull justice to it. Then I determined to walk to Staithes, and to spend\nthe rest of the day in seeing the country. I had always been accustomed,\nto paint on Sunday, but only one of the artists seemed to be at work,\nand Duncan and Polly had been so much shocked by seeing him, that I did\nnot venture to do the same. I enjoyed the walk along the cliffs, and\ncame back in good spirits, having completely shaken off, as I imagined,\nthe remembrance of the speaker's words.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter V\n\nTHE RUNSWICK SPORTS\n\n\n'I've got a big favour to ask of you, sir,' said Duncan the next day.\n'You'll not think I'm taking a liberty, will you?'\n\n'Certainly not, Duncan,' I said. 'What do you want?'\n\n'Well, it's just here, sir--me and my mates, we get up some sports every\nyear on the green. We have 'em in August, sir, just when the visitors\nare here. They all turn out to see them, and there's lots of them is\nvery good in subscribing to the prizes. You see, sir, there is a many\nyoung fellows here, young chaps who must have something to keep them out\nof mischief; when they're not fishing, they're bound to be after the\nbeer, if they haven't something to turn their minds and keep them going\na bit. And these sports, why, they like 'em, sir; and a man must keep\nsober if he's to win a prize--you understand, sir?'\n\n'Yes, Duncan, I understand,' I said; 'it's first-rate for these young\nlads, and for the old lads too, for the matter of that. I suppose you\nwant a subscription for your prizes?' I added, as I handed him half a\nsovereign.\n\n'Thank ye kindly, sir, I won't refuse it, and it's very good of you to\nhelp us so largely; but that isn't what I came to ask of you. I hardly\nlike to bother you, sir,' he said doubtfully.\n\n'Never mind the bother, Duncan; let's hear what you want.'\n\n'Well, it's just here, sir. Could you, do you think, make for us some\nsort of a programme to hang up by the post office there, for visitors to\nsee? You draw them pictures so quick, sir, and--'\n\n'I see, Duncan; you want the programme to be illustrated. I'm your man;\nI'll do it at once.' I was really only too glad to oblige the dear,\nhonest fellow.\n\nHe was wonderfully pleased at my ready consent, and went off at once to\nprocure a board upon which my programme might be fastened. We soon made\nout together a list of attractions, and I had great pleasure in\nbeautifying and illustrating the catalogue of sports.\n\nI headed it thus:--\n\n  OYEZ, OYEZ!\n  RUNSWICK ATHLETIC SPORTS.\n\n\nThen, from the R of Runswick I hung a long fishing net, covered with\nfloats, and falling down over a fish basket, and some lobster-pots,\nwhilst on the ground were lying a number of fish which had been emptied\nout of the basket.\n\nNext followed a list of patrons, such as: The Honourable O'Mackerell,\nLord Crabby Lobster, Sir C. Shrimp, etc., etc.\n\nThen came a list of the various sports, each profusely illustrated--The\ntug of war, the jockey race, the women's egg and spoon race, the sack\nrace, the greasy pole, the long jump, etc.; and lastly, an announcement\nof a grand concert to be held in the evening, as a conclusion of the\nfestivities of the day.\n\nDuncan was more than satisfied--he was delighted, and his gratitude knew\nno bounds. His excitement, as he carried the board away to hang it in a\nconspicuous place, was like the excitement of a child.\n\nThe whole village seemed to be stirred as the eventful day drew near.\n\n'Are you going to see the great tug, big Mr. Jack?' my little friend\ncalled to me over the wall as I was painting. As for the York boys,\nHarry and Bob, they spent a great part of every day in admiring the\nprogramme, and in bringing other visitors to see and admire the work of\n_their_ artist.\n\nHow anxiously Duncan watched the sky the day before the sports, and how\ntriumphantly Polly announced, when I came down to breakfast, 'A fine\nday, sir; couldn't be finer, could it now?'\n\nThose village sports were really a pretty sight. I see it all in my\nmind's eye now. I often wonder I have not made a picture of it. The high\ncliff stretching overhead, and covered with bushes and bracken, amongst\nwhich nestled the red-tiled cottages. Then below the cliff the level\ngreen, covered with strong, hardy fishermen and their sunburnt wives,\nand surrounding the green, on the sand-hills, the visitors old and\nyoung, dressed in bright colours and holiday attire. Is it too late to\npaint it from memory, I wonder? I see it all still so distinctly.\n\nThe sports lasted a long time, and went off well. Polly distinguished\nherself by winning the egg and spoon race, much to the joy of little\nJohn, who watched all the proceedings from his father's arms.\n\nThen came the greatest event of all, the tug of war. A long cable was\nbrought out and stretched across the green, and a pocket-handkerchief\nwas tied in the centre of it. Two stakes were then driven into the\nground, and between these a line was chalked on the grass. The\nhandkerchief was then placed exactly over the line. After this all the\nfishermen who entered the lists were divided into two parties. Then each\nside laid hold of one end of the rope, and at a given signal they began\nto pull. It was a trial of strength; whichever side could draw the\nhandkerchief past the two stakes and over the line, that side would win.\n\nHow tremendously those men pulled! What force they put into it! Yet for\na long time the rope did not move a single inch. All the strength of\nthose powerful fishermen was put out; they were lying on the ground,\nthat their pull might be all the stronger. Every sinew, every nerve,\nevery muscle seemed to be on the strain, but so evenly were the two\nsides matched, that the rope was motionless, and it seemed impossible to\ntell which party would win.\n\nLittle John was eagerly watching his father.\n\n'Pull, daddy, pull!' I heard him cry; and I think I was nearly as\npleased as he and Polly were when Duncan and the mates on his side\nsuddenly made one mighty effort, and the handkerchief was drawn across\nthe line. There was tremendous cheering after this. Polly clapped her\nhands with delight, and little Jack and big Jack nearly shouted\nthemselves hoarse.\n\nIt was an interesting sight, and I had reason to remember it afterwards,\nas you will see. The evening concert went off as well as the sports had\ndone, and Duncan came in at night rather tired, but well satisfied with\nthe day's proceedings.\n\nI enjoyed all the sights at Runswick Bay, but I think I was particularly\ncharmed with what happened on the day after the sports. All the village\nwas early astir, and as I was dressing, it seemed to me that every\nfisherman in the place was hurrying down to the beach. It was not long\nbefore I followed them to see what they were doing. I found that they\nwere about to draw the crab-boats up from the shore, to a place where\nthey would be safe from the winter storms. It was hard work, but every\none was there to give a hand. A long string of men and lads laid hold of\nthe strong cable fastened to the boat. Even the wives and elder children\ncaught hold of it. I myself went to their help, and several of the\nvisitors followed my example. Then, when we were all in position, there\ncame a pause, for Duncan, who was directing the proceedings, charged us\nnot to pull till the signal was given. Then there rose a peculiar cry or\nyodel, all the fishermen uttering it together, and as soon as it ceased\nwe gave our united, mighty pull. Then we paused to take breath, until\nonce more there came a yodel followed by another pull, and as this was\nrepeated again and again, it was grand to see the heavy boat making\nsteady and regular progress. Across the heavy sand she came, up the low\nbank, over the rough grass, slowly, steadily, surely, she moved onward,\nuntil at length she was placed in safety, far out of reach of the\nhighest tide and the strongest sea. Thus, one after another, the boats\nwere drawn up, and we were fairly tired before our work was done.\n\nI think it must have been that very day, that, as I was sitting\npainting, I once more heard the broken notes of the instrument which had\ntroubled me so much before. It was that tune again, my mother's tune,\nand somehow, I do not know how it was, with the sound of my mother's\ntune there came back to my mind the remembrance of the Sunday service.\nAh! my mother was on the right side of the line, I said to myself; she\nwas a servant of Christ. But her son! what is he?\n\nI did not want to follow out this subject, so I jumped up from my\ncamp-stool, and standing under the wall, I called, 'Little Jack, little\nJack.'\n\nThe music stopped at once, and the child came out. Dear, little merry\nfellow, how fond I was of him already!\n\n'Yes, Mr. big Jack,' he said, as he ran out of the gate.\n\n'Come and talk to me, old chappie,' I said, 'whilst I paint. Who plays\nmusic in your house?'\n\n'I do,' said little Jack.\n\n'_You_ do, Jack? Why, you are a funny little fellow to play music!\nWhat do you play on, and who taught you?'\n\n'Nobody teached me, Mr. Jack,' he said; 'I teached my own self.'\n\n'Teached your own self? Why, how did you manage that?' I asked.\n\n'I turned him round and round and round, Mr. Jack, and the music came,\nand I teached my own self,' he repeated.\n\n'What is it, Jack?' I asked. 'Is it an old musical box?'\n\n'No, it's an organ, a barrow-organ, Mr. Jack.'\n\n'Oh, a barrel-organ you mean, little chappie; why, however in the world\ndid you get hold of a barrel-organ? Is it a little toy one?'\n\n'No, it's big, ever so big,' he said, stretching out his hands to show\nme its size.\n\n'Why, whoever gave you it?' I asked.\n\n'It isn't Jack's own organ,' said the child.\n\n'Whose is it, then?'\n\n'It's father's, father's own organ.'\n\nIt seemed to me a most extraordinary thing for the mission preacher of\nRunswick Bay to have in his possession, but I did not like to ask any\nmore questions at that time.\n\nHowever, in the afternoon my little friend called to me over, the wall,\n'Big Mr. Jack, come here.'\n\n'Come where, my little man?'\n\n'Come inside and look at father's organ; I'll play it to you, Mr. Jack.'\n\n'What will father say if I come in?'\n\n'Father's out.'\n\n'What will mother say?'\n\n'Mother's out too.'\n\nI did not much relish the idea of entering a man's house in his absence,\nbut such plaintive entreaties came from the other side of the wall. Over\nand over again he pleaded, 'Do come, Mr. Jack; do come quick, Mr. Jack!'\nthat at last, to please the child, I left my work for a few minutes and\nwent up the steps which led to the gate of their garden.\n\nIt was only a small place, but very prettily laid out. There was a tiny\nlawn, well kept, and covered with short, soft grass, and in the centre\nof this a round bed filled with geraniums, calceolarias, and lobelias.\nRound the lawn, at the edge of the garden, was a border, in which grew\nall manner of gay and sweet-smelling flowers. There were asters and\nmignonette, sweet-peas and convolvolus, heliotrope and fuchsias. Then in\nfront of me was the pretty cottage, with two gables and a red-tiled\nroof, the walls of which were covered from top to bottom with creeping\nplants. Ivy and jessamine, climbing roses, virginia-creeper, and\ncanariensis, all helped to make the little place beautiful.\n\n'What a pretty home you have, little Jack!' I said.\n\nHe kept tight hold of my hand, lest I should escape from him, and led me\non--into a tiny entrance hall, past one or two doors, down a dark\npassage, and into a room at the back.\n\nThis room had a small bow-window overlooking the sea, the walls were\ncovered with bookshelves, a writing-table stood in the window, and in\nthe corner by the fireplace was the extraordinary object I had been\nbrought to see--an extremely ancient and antiquated barrel-organ.\n\nWhat a peculiar thing to come across in a preacher's study! What\npossible use could he have for it? It was a most dilapidated old\ninstrument, almost falling to pieces with old age. The shape was so\nold-fashioned that I do not remember ever having seen one like it; the\nsilk, which had doubtless once been its adornment, was torn into shreds,\nand it was impossible to tell what its original colour had been; the\nwood was worm-eaten and decayed, and the leg upon which it had rested\ncould no longer support its weight.\n\n'Let me hear you play it, Jack,' I said.\n\nHe sat down with great pride to turn the handle, but I noticed that half\nthe notes were broken off the barrel, which accounted for only fragments\nof each tune being heard, whilst many bars of some were wanting\naltogether. However, Jack seemed very proud of his performance, and\ninsisted on my staying till he had gone through the whole of the four\ntunes which the poor old thing was supposed to play. He announced their\nnames, one by one, as each began.\n\n'This is \"My Poor Mary Anne,\" Mr. Jack, _very_ sad.' Then when that\nwas finished, 'This is the Old Hundred, _very_ old.'\n\nAfter this there was a long turning of the handle without any sound\nbeing heard, for the first part of the next tune was gone entirely. 'I\ncan't say the name of this one, Mr. Jack,' he explained; 'Marjorie calls\nits something like \"Ma says.\"'\n\n'Oh! the \"Marseillaise,\"' I said, laughing; 'all right, little man, I\nknow that.'\n\n'Then comes father's tune, father _does_ like it so. Listen, \"Home,\nsweet home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home.\" Do\n_you_ like it, Mr. Jack?'\n\n'Yes, I do like it, Jack,' I said; 'I knew it when I was a little chap\nlike you.'\n\nAs he played, once more it brought before me my mother's voice and my\nmother's words. I had not thought of my mother for years so much as I\nhad done at Runswick Bay. Even the old organ brought her back to me, for\nshe was always kind to organ-grinders. There was an Italian who used to\ncome round with a barrel-organ when I was a little boy. I can see him\nnow. I used to watch for him from my nursery window, and as soon as he\ncame in sight I flew down to my mother for a penny, and then went into\nthe garden and stood beside him whilst he played. My mother gave me a\nmusical-box on my birthday; it was in the shape of a barrel-organ, and\nhad a strap which I could hang round my neck. I used to take this box\nwith me, and standing beside the Italian, I imitated his every movement,\nholding my little organ just as he held his big one, and playing beside\nhim as long as he remained. So delightful did this man's occupation seem\nto me, that I can remember quite well when my father asked me one day\nwhat I would like to be when I was a man, I answered without a moment's\nhesitation, 'An organ-grinder, of course, father.'\n\nThose old boyish days, how long ago they seemed! What was the use of\nrecalling them? It would not bring back the mother I had lost, or the\nfather who had cared for me, and it only made me depressed to think of\nthem. What good, I asked myself, would my holiday do me if I spent it in\nbrooding over bygone sorrow? I must forget all this kind of thing, and\ncheer up, and get back my spirits again.\n\n'Now, little Jack,' I said, 'big Jack must go back to his picture; come\nand climb into the old boat, and I'll see how you would do in the\nforeground of it.' He looked such a merry little rogue, perched amongst\nthe nets and fishing tackle, that I felt I should improve my picture by\nintroducing him into it, and therefore from that day he came for a\ncertain time every morning to be painted. He was such a good little\nfellow, he never moved a limb after I told him I was ready, and never\nspoke unless I spoke to him. A more lovable child I never saw, nor a\nmore obedient one. With all his fun, and in spite of his flow of\nspirits, he was checked in a moment by a single word. No one could be\ndull in his company, and as the week passed on I began to regain my\nusual cheerfulness, and to lose the uncomfortable impression left on my\nmind by the sermon on the shore and the questions the preacher had asked\nus.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI\n\nTHE TUG OF WAR\n\n\nI had quite made up my mind not to attend the service on the following\nSunday, and when a pink paper floated down on my easel on the Saturday\nmorning, I caught it and thrust it into my pocket, without even looking\nto see what the subject was to be.\n\n'Have you got it, Mr. Jack?' said the child's voice above me.\n\n'All right, little man,' I answered; 'it's all safe and sound.'\n\nI made my plans for Sunday with great care. I asked for an early\nbreakfast, so that I might walk over to Kettleness, a place about two\nmiles off along the coast, and which could only be reached at low tide;\nand when I was once there, on the other side of the bay, I determined to\nbe in no hurry to return, but to arrive at Runswick too late for the\nservice on the sands. If Duncan and Polly missed me, they would simply\nconclude that I had found the walk longer than I had expected.\n\nBut, as I was just ready to set out for Kettleness, a tremendous shower\ncame on.\n\n'You'll never set off in this weather, sir?' said Duncan anxiously.\n\n'Oh no, of course not,' I answered lightly.\n\nI fancied that he looked more concerned than the occasion warranted, and\nI feared that he suspected the real reason for my early walk.\n\nThere was now nothing to be done but to wait till the shower was over,\nand by that time I found it would be impossible for me to go to\nKettleness without seeming deliberately to avoid the service.\n\nThe sun came out, and the sky was quite blue before eleven o'clock, and\nthe fishermen spread tarpaulins on the sand for the congregation to sit\non, and I found myself--I must say very much against my will--being led\nto the place by little Jack.\n\n'Well, there is no need for me to listen,' I said to myself; 'I will\nplan out a new picture, and no one will know where my thoughts are.'\n\nBut, in spite of my resolution to the contrary, from the moment that\nJack's father began to speak, my attention was riveted, and I could not\nchoose but listen.\n\n'The Tug of War is our subject to-day, dear friends,' he began, 'and a\nvery suitable subject, I think, after what we have witnessed on this\ngreen during the past week. We have seen, have we not, a long pull, a\nstrong pull, and a pull all together, as yon heavy crab boat was dragged\nup from the beach? How well she came, what progress she made! with each\nyoddel we brought her farther from the sea. We all of us gave a helping\nhand; fishermen, wives, visitors, friends, all laid hold, and all\npulled, and the work, hard as it seemed, was soon accomplished. Why?\nBecause we were all united. It was a long pull, a strong pull, and a\npull all together.\n\n'And now let me bring back to your memory another event during this past\nweek. The place is the same, our village green, the same rope is used,\nand those who pull are the very same men, strong, brawny, powerful\nfishermen. Yes, you pulled your very hardest; if possible you put forth\nmore strength than when the crab boat was drawn up, and yet, strange to\nsay, there was no result, the rope did not move an inch. What were you\npulling? What was the mighty weight that you had to move? What was it\nthat, for such a long time, baffled the strength of the strongest among\nyou? The weight you could not move was not a heavy boat, but a light\nhandkerchief!\n\n'Why was there this difference? Why was the handkerchief harder to move\nthan the boat? The answer to that question was to be found at the other\nend of the green. There were other pullers at the rope that day, pulling\nwith all their might in an exactly opposite direction. It was not a\nunited pull, and therefore for a long time there was no result, and we\nwatched on, until at length one side was proved the strongest, and the\nhandkerchief was drawn by them triumphantly across the line.\n\n'To-day, dear friends, I speak to you of yet another tug of war. The\nplace is the same, Runswick Bay and our village green, but the weight to\nbe drawn is not a boat, not a handkerchief; the weight is _a human\nsoul._ It is your soul, my friend, your immortal soul; _you_ are\nthe one who is being drawn.\n\n'And who are the pullers? Oh, how many they are! I myself have my hands\non the rope. God only knows how hard I am pulling, striving with all my\nmight, if possible to draw you, my friend, to Christ. But there are\nother hands on the rope besides mine. Your conscience pulls, your good\nold mother pulls, your little child pulls, your Christian mate pulls;\neach sermon you hear, each Bible class you attend, each hymn you sing,\neach prayer uttered in your presence, each striving of the Spirit, each\nGod-given yearning after better things, each storm you come through,\neach danger you escape, each sickness in your family, each death in your\nhome, each deliverance granted you, gives you a pull God-ward,\nChrist-ward, heaven-ward.\n\n'Yet, oh, my dear friend, you know, as clearly as you know that you are\nsitting there, that, so far, Christ's pullers are drawing in vain. You\nhave never yet, you know it, crossed the line which divides the saved\nfrom the unsaved. Why is this? Why, oh, why are you so hard to move?\n\n'Oh, my friend, do you ask why? Surely you know the reason! Is it not\nbecause there are other hands on the rope, other pullers drawing in an\nexactly opposite direction? For Satan has many an agent, many a servant,\nand he sends forth a great army of soul-pullers. Each worldly friend,\neach desire of your evil nature, each temptation to sin, each longing\nafter wealth, each sinful suggestion, gives you a pull, and a pull the\nwrong way, away from safety, away from Christ, away from God, away from\nheaven, away from Home. And towards what? Oh, dear friend, towards what?\nWhat are the depths, the fearful depths towards which you are being\ndrawn?'\n\nHe said a good deal more, but I did not hear it. That question seemed\nburnt in with a red-hot iron into my soul. What are the depths, the\nfearful depths into which you are being drawn? I could not shake it off.\nI wished I could get away from the green, but Jack had brought me close\nto the boat where the choir stood, and there was no escape. I should\nhave to sit it out; it would soon be over, I said to myself.\n\nThe service ended with a hymn. Another of their queer, wild, irregular\ntunes, I thought; I was not going to sing it. But when Jack saw that I\ndid not open my book, he leant over the side of the boat, and poked my\nhead with his hymn-book. 'Sing, big Mr. Jack, sing,' he said aloud, and\nthen, for very shame, I had to find my place and begin. I can still\nremember the first verse of that hymn, and I think I can recall the tune\nto which they sang it:--\n\n  'Oh, tender and sweet was the Master's voice,\n    As he lovingly called to me:\n  \"Come over the line! it is only a step--\n    I am waiting, My child, for thee!\"\n      \"Over the line!\" Hear the sweet refrain!\n      Angels are chanting the heavenly strain!\n      \"Over the line!\" Why should I remain\n      With a step between me and Jesus?'\n\n\nI was heartily glad when the service was over, and I went on the shore\nat once, to try to walk the sermon away. But I was not so successful as\nI had been the Sunday before. That question followed me; the very waves\nseemed to be repeating it. What are the depths, the fearful depths, to\nwhich you are being drawn? I had not looked at it in that light before.\nI had been quite willing to own that I was not religious, that I was\nleading a gay, easy-going kind of life, that my Sundays were spent in\nbed, or in novel reading, or in rowing, or in some other amusement. I\nwas well aware that I looked at these things very differently from what\nmy mother had done, and I had even wondered sometimes, whether, if she\nhad been spared to me, I should have been a better fellow than I knew\nmyself to be. But as for feeling any real alarm or anxiety with regard\nto my condition, such a thought had never for one moment crossed my\nmind.\n\nYet if this man was right, there was real danger in my position. I was\nnot remaining stationary, as I had thought, but I was being drawn by\nunseen forces towards something worse, towards the depths, the fearful\ndepths, of which he had spoken.\n\nAt times I wished I had never come to Runswick Bay to be made so\nuncomfortable; at other times I wondered if I had been brought there on\npurpose to hear those words.\n\nI went back to dinner, but I could not enjoy it, much to Polly's\ndistress. The rain fell fast all the afternoon, and as I lay on my bed\nupstairs I heard Polly washing up, and singing as she did so the hymn we\nhad had at the service--\n\n  'Come over the line to Me.'\n\n\nThere seemed no chance of forgetting the words which had made me so\nuneasy.\n\nThat night I had a strange dream. I thought I was once more on the\nvillage green. It was a wild, stormy night, the wind was blowing hard,\nand the rain was falling fast; yet through the darkness I could\ndistinguish crowds of figures gathered on the green. On the side farther\nfrom the sea there was a bright light streaming through the darkness.\nI wondered in my dream what was going on, and I found that it was a tug\nof war, taking place in the darkness of the night. I saw the huge cable,\nand gradually as I watched I caught sight of those who were pulling.\nI walked to the side from which the light streamed, and there I saw a\nnumber of holy and beautiful angels with their hands on the rope, and\namongst them I distinctly caught sight of my mother. She seemed to be\ndragging with all her might, and there was such an earnest, pleading,\nbeseeching expression on her dear face that it went to my very heart to\nlook at her. I noticed that close beside her was the preacher, little\nJack's father, and behind him was Duncan. They were all intent on their\nwork, and took no notice of me, so I walked to the other end of the\ngreen, the one nearest the sea, that I might see who were there. It was\nvery dark at that end of the rope, but I could dimly see evil faces, and\ndark, strange forms, such as I could not describe. Those on this side\nseemed to be having it much their own way, I thought, for the weight,\nwhatever it was, was gradually drawing near to the sea; and, lo and\nbehold, I saw that they were close upon a terrible place, for mighty\ncliffs stood above the shore, and they were within a very short distance\nof a sheer and terrible precipice.\n\n'What are you dragging?' I cried to them.\n\nAnd a thousand voices seemed to answer, 'A soul! a soul!'\n\nThen, as I watched on, I saw that the precipice was nearly reached, and\nthat both those who pulled and the weight they were dragging were on the\npoint of being hurled over, and suddenly it flashed upon me in my dream\nthat it was _my_ soul for which they were struggling, and I heard\nthe cry of the pullers from the other side of the green, and it seemed\nto me that, with one voice, they were calling out that terrible\nquestion, 'What are the depths, the fearful depths, to which you are\nbeing drawn?' And through the streaming light I saw my mother's face,\nand a look of anguish crossed it, as suddenly the rope broke, and those\nwho were drawing it on the opposite side went over with a crash,\ndragging my soul over with them.\n\nI woke in a terror, and cried out so loudly that Duncan came running\ninto my room to see what was the matter.\n\n'Nothing, Duncan,' I said, 'I was only dreaming; I thought I had gone\nover a precipice.'\n\n'No, thank God, you're all safe, sir,' he said. 'Shall I open your\nwindow a bit? Maybe the room's close; is it?'\n\n'Thank you, Duncan,' I answered; 'I shall be all right now. I'm so sorry\nI have waked you.'\n\n'You haven't done that, sir; me and Polly have been up all night with\nthe little lad. He's sort of funny, too, sir, burning hot, and yet he\nshivers like, and he clings to his daddy; so I've been walking a mile or\ntwo with him up and down our chamber floor, and I heard you skriking\nout, and says Polly, \"Run and see what ails him.\" So you haven't\ndisturbed me, sir, not one little bit, you haven't.'\n\nHe left me then, and I tried to sleep, but sleep seemed far from me. I\ncould hear Duncan's footsteps pacing up and down in the next room; I\ncould hear little John's fretful cry; I could hear the rain beating\nagainst the casement; I could hear the soughing and whistling of the\nwind; I could hear Polly's old eight-day clock striking the hours and\nthe half-hours of that long, dismal night; but through it all, and above\nit all, I could hear the preacher's question, 'What are the depths, the\nfearful depths, to which you are being drawn?'\n\nI found it impossible to close my eyes again, so I drew up the blind,\nand, as morning began to dawn, I watched the pitiless rain and longed\nfor day. The footsteps in the next room ceased as the light came on, and\nI concluded that the weary child was at last asleep. I wished that I was\nasleep too. I thought how often my mother, when I was a child, must have\nwalked up and down through long weary nights with me. I wondered\nwhether, as she did so, she spent the slow, tedious hours in praying for\nher boy, and then I wondered how she would have felt, and how she would\nhave borne it, had she known that the child in her arms would grow up to\nmanhood, living for this world and not for the Christ she loved. I\nwondered if she _did_ know this now, in the far-off land where she\ndwelt with God.\n\nI think I must have dozed a little after this, for I was suddenly roused\nby Polly's cheery voice, cheery in spite of her bad night,--\n\n'Have a cup of tea, sir, it'll do you good. You've not slept over well,\nDuncan says. I'll put it down by your door.'\n\nI jumped out of bed and brought it in, feeling very grateful to Polly,\nand I drank it before I dressed. That's just like a Yorkshire woman, I\nthought. My mother came from Yorkshire.\n\n'I think it must have been nightmare I had last night, Polly,' I said as\nI finished my breakfast, and began to put all in order for my morning's\nwork.\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII\n\nOVER THE LINE\n\n\nI was at my painting early the next morning, for the sun was shining\nbrightly, and the air was wonderfully clear. My portrait of little Jack\nsitting in the boat promised to be a great success. As I was hard at\nwork upon it that day, I heard a voice behind me.\n\n'I never thought my little lad would figure in the Royal Academy,' said\nthe voice.\n\nIt was the voice of Jack's father--the voice which had moved me so\ndeeply, the voice which had made me tremble, only the day before. Even\nas he spoke I felt inclined to run away, lest he should ask me again\nthat terrible question which had been ringing in my ears ever since.\nEven as I talked to him about my picture, and even as he answered in\npleasant and friendly tones, through them all and above them all came\nthe words which were burnt in upon my memory: 'What are the depths, the\nfearful depths, to which you are being drawn?'\n\n'I hope my children are not troublesome to you,' he said.\n\n'Oh no,' I answered; 'I love to have them here, and Jack and I are great\nfriends. Do you know,' I went on, 'he took me into your study the other\nday? I am afraid I was taking a great liberty; but the little man would\nhear of no refusal--he wanted me to see the old barrel-organ.'\n\n'What, my dear old organ!' he answered. 'Yes, Jack is nearly as fond of\nit as his father is.'\n\n'His father?' I replied, for it seemed strange to me that a man of his\nyears should care for what appeared to me scarcely better than a broken\ntoy.\n\n'That organ has a history,' he said, as he noticed my surprise; 'if you\nknew the history, you would not wonder that I love it. I owe all I am in\nthis world, all I hope to be in the world to come, to that poor old\norgan. Some day, when you have time to listen, perhaps you may like to\nhear the story of the organ.'\n\n'Thank you,' I said; 'the sooner the better.'\n\n'Then come and have supper with us to-night. Nellie will be very pleased\nto see you, and the bairns will be in bed, and we shall have plenty of\ntime and quiet for story-telling.'\n\nI accepted his invitation gratefully, for September had come, and the\nevenings were growing dark, and my time hung somewhat heavily on my\nhands. Polly, I think, was not sorry when she heard I was going out, for\nDuncan was away in the boat fishing, and little John was so feverish and\nrestless that she could not put him down even for a moment.\n\nThe cottage looked very bright and pretty when I arrived, and they gave\nme a most kind welcome. A small fire was burning in the grate, for the\nevenings were becoming chilly. The bow window was hung with India-muslin\ncurtains, tied up with amber ribbon, the walls were adorned with\nphotographs framed in oak, the supper table was covered with a snowy\ncloth, and a dainty little meal was laid out with the greatest taste and\ncare, whilst in the centre was a china bowl, containing the leaves of\nthe creeper which covered the house, interspersed with yellow bracken\nand other beautiful leaves, in every varied shade of their autumn glory.\nJack's mother was evidently a woman of taste. She had a quiet, gentle\nface, almost sad at times when it was at rest; but she had Jack's eyes\nand Jack's bright smile, which lighted up her face, as a burst of\nbrilliant sunshine will stream suddenly down a dark valley, and make it\na perfect avenue of light.\n\nI enjoyed the company of both husband and wife exceedingly, and as we\nsat round the table and chatted over our supper all feeling of\nconstraint passed away, and I no longer heard the words of that question\nwhich had so troubled me all day long. He did not mention the object for\nwhich I had come whilst the meal was going on. We talked of Runswick Bay\nand its surroundings, of the fishermen and their life of danger; we\nspoke of the children, and of my picture, of my hopes with regard to the\nRoyal Academy, and of many other interesting topics.\n\nThen the cloth was removed, and we drew near the fire. I had just said\nto him, 'Now for your story,' and he was just beginning to tell it,\nwhen, as I sat down in an arm-chair which Nellie had placed for me by\nthe fire, my eye fell upon a photograph which was hanging in a frame\nclose to the fireplace. I started from my seat and looked at it. Surely\nI could not be mistaken! Surely I knew every feature of it, every fold\nof the dress, every tiny detail in the face and figure. It was the\ncounterpart of a picture which hung opposite my bed in my London home.\n\n'However on earth did you get that?' I cried. 'Why, it's my mother's\npicture!'\n\nI think I have never felt more startled than I did at that moment. After\nall the thoughts of yesterday, after my dream of last night, after all\nmy recollection of my mother's words to me, and her prayers for\nme--after all this, to see her dear eyes looking at me from the wall of\nthe house of this unknown man, in this remote, out-of-the-world spot,\nalmost frightened me.\n\nI did not realize at first that my host was almost as much startled as I\nwas.\n\n'Your mother!' he repeated; 'your mother! Surely not! Do you mean to\ntell me,' he said, laying his hand on my arm, 'that your name is\nVilliers?'\n\n'Of course it is,' I said; 'Jack Villiers.'\n\n'Nellie, Nellie,' he cried, for she had gone upstairs to the children,\n'come down at once; who do you think this is, Nellie? You will never\nguess. It is Jack Villiers, the little Jack you and I used to know so\nwell. Why, do you know,' he said, 'our own little Jack was named after\nyou; he was indeed, and we haven't heard of you for years--never since\nyour dear mother died.'\n\nI was too much astonished at first to ask him any questions, and he was\ntoo much delighted to explain where and how he had known me; but after a\ntime, when we had recovered ourselves a little, we drew our chairs round\nthe fire, and he began his story.\n\n'I was a poor little street Arab once,' he said; 'a forlorn boy with no\none to love him or to care for him. But I made friends with an old man\nin the attic of the lodging-house who had a barrel-organ.'\n\n'_That_ barrel-organ?' I asked.\n\n'The very same,' he said, 'and he loved it as if it was a child. When he\nwas too ill to take it out himself, I took it for him, and that was how\nI first saw your mother.'\n\n'Was she married then?' I asked.\n\n'No,' he said with a smile; 'she was quite a little girl, about the age\nof our Marjorie. She used to run to her nursery window as soon as she\nheard me begin to play. I let her turn the organ one day, and she said\nshe liked all the tunes, but she liked \"Home, Sweet Home\" the best of\nall.'\n\n'Did she?' I said. 'Yes, I have often heard her sing it; she sang me to\nsleep with it many a time.'\n\n'As I played it,' he went on, 'she would speak to me of the Home, Sweet\nHome above; child as she was, she knew the way to that home, and she\nsoon found out that I knew nothing about it. \"You can't go to heaven if\nyou don't love Jesus, organ boy,\" she said, and the tears ran down from\nher dear little eyes as she said it.\n\n'I could not forget those words, and I was determined to find out the\nway to the home of which she spoke.\n\n'My old master was dying; he had only another month to live, and for his\nsake I must learn quickly the way to be saved. I attended a mission\nservice, and I learnt first that no sin can enter the gates of the\nHeavenly City. But I learnt more. I learnt that the blood of Jesus\nChrist, God's Son, cleanseth from all sin.\n\n'Your mother taught me a prayer one day when I went to see her. I have\nsaid that prayer, morning and evening, ever since. She gave me a bunch\nof snowdrops, tied up with dark green leaves, and she told me to say as\nI looked at them, \"Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.\"\n\nHe stopped for a minute or two after this, and gazed into the fire; the\nmemory of those old days had stirred him deeply.\n\n'Please go on,' I said, for I longed to hear more.\n\n'She came to our attic after that with her mother; they came to see my\nold master, and she was pleased to see the snowdrops. She told me that\nday, that if I would only say her prayer I should be sure to go to Home,\nSweet Home.\n\n'Very soon after this my old master died, and on the very day that I was\nfollowing him to the grave I saw my poor little friend, your mother,\nJack, in a funeral coach, following her mother to the same place. Then\nafter that she went abroad, but she did not forget the poor organ boy.\nShe told her father about me, and he sent money for my education, and\nhad me trained to be a city missionary in the east of London, to work\namongst the very people amongst whom I had lived. All I am now I owe to\nyour grandfather.\n\n'I did not meet your mother after this for many years, not until she was\nmarried to the clergyman in whose parish I worked.\n\n'Strange to say, we met one day in my old attic, the very attic where my\npoor old master had died. She had gone there to visit a sick woman, and\nas I went in she was reading to her from the very Testament out of which\nher mother had read to my old master, when she had come to see him in\nthat place, fifteen years before.\n\n'Soon after this we were married, Nellie and I, and it was your dear\nmother who made our little home bright and pretty for us, and who was\nthere to welcome us to it. How we loved her then, how we love her still!\n\n'When you were quite a tiny child, she would bring you to see us, and\nNellie used often to say you were the dearest, prettiest child she had\never known!'\n\n'I don't remember it,' I said.\n\n'No, you would be too young to remember it; you were only three years\nold when your father left London for a parish in the country, and soon\nafter came the news of his death, and only a year or so later we heard\nyour mother was gone too. It was a sorrowful day, Jack, when that news\ncame.\n\n'We often wondered about you; we heard that you had gone to live with an\naunt, but we did not even know her name. We tried to find out more, but\nwe knew no one in the place where you lived, and we never heard what had\nbecome of you.'\n\n'How strange that I should have been brought here to meet you!' I said.\n\n'No, not strange,' he said reverently; 'it is the hand of God.'\n\nAnd then--I could not help it--I laid my head on my arm as I stood\nagainst the mantel-piece, and I sobbed like a child.\n\nHe did not speak for some minutes, and then he put his arm round me as\ntenderly as my mother could have done, and said, 'What is it, Jack? Is\nit talking of your mother that has upset you so?'\n\n'No,' I said, 'it isn't that--I love to talk of her; I love to hear of\nher; everything she said is precious to me; it isn't that.'\n\n'What then?' he said; 'what troubles you, Jack?'\n\n'It's the thought that I shall never see her again,' I said; 'I know I\nshall not. _She_ went one way and _I_ am going another.'\n\n'Why not turn round and go her way, Jack?' he said cheerily.\n\n'Oh, I can't,' I said; 'it's no use--I can't turn. There are too many\nhands on the wrong end of the rope. I've been miserable ever since I\nheard you talk of it. I could not sleep last night for thinking of it.\n\"What are the depths, the fearful depths, to which you are being drawn?\"\nthose words have never left me, night or day, since you uttered them. I\nhave tried to shake them off, but I can't.'\n\n'Don't attempt to shake them off,' he said. 'Oh, Jack, don't try to do\nit, for they are the voice of the Spirit of God. But listen to-night to\nthe One who is calling you. \"Come over the line--it is only a step. Come\nover the line to _Me_.\"'\n\n'I wish I could,' I said.\n\n'You can do it, and you _must_ do it, Jack,' he said firmly,\n'before you leave this room.'\n\n'Before I leave this room?'\n\n'Yes, this very instant,' he said.\n\n'But how can I do it? I don't know how to cross,' I said.\n\n'You are no dead, lifeless weight on the rope, like a boat or a\nhandkerchief; you have a will of your own, and it remains with you to\ndecide which way you want to be drawn, God-ward, Christ-ward,\nheaven-ward, or to the fearful depths of which I spoke. God is drawing\nyou very strongly now, but He never forces a man against his will. He\nputs in your hands the power to decide on which side of the line you\nwill be. Which is it to be, Jack?'\n\n'Well,' I said, 'I will think it over.'\n\n'So many have said, and their desire to cross the line has cooled down,\nand they have been lost.'\n\n'I'll come and have a talk with you another day, later on in the week,\nif we can make it convenient.'\n\n'So Felix said, \"When I have a more convenient season I will send for\nthee,\" but Felix never did send; he never crossed the line, but he was\ndrawn over to the fearful depths.'\n\n'Well, suppose we say to-morrow. It's late now, and you're tired, I\nknow, and--'\n\n'God says _to-day_ he said. '\"To-day, if ye will hear His voice,\nharden not your hearts. Behold, now is the accepted time, now is the day\nof salvation.\"'\n\n'Tell me _how_ I can come,' I said.\n\n'\"Come over the line to _Me_.\" There you have it,' he answered.\n'The Lord calls you, and you have not far to go. It is only a step. He\nstands in this room close to you. He holds out His arms to you. He does\nnot compel you. He does not force you forward. He calls, and He waits to\nreceive you. Jack, will you come?'\n\n'Yes, I will,' I said earnestly; 'I will come.'\n\nWe knelt down together, and I cannot remember the words he said, but I\nknow that whenever I read in the Gospels those words in the first\nchapter of St. John, 'He brought him to Jesus,' I think of that night. I\ndo not think that Peter and Andrew felt the Lord Jesus more near them in\nthe booth by the side of the Jordan than we felt Him in that little room\nin Runswick Bay.\n\nI know He was there, and I know something more--I know that I came to\nHim. And I know that that night, before we rose from our knees, I\ncrossed the line, and I was able henceforth to take my place amongst the\nglad, thankful people who can say, humbly and yet confidently, 'We know\nthat we have passed from death unto life.'\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII\n\nA NIGHT OF STORM\n\n\nIt was late when I got back to my lodging, and I walked like one in a\ndream. Polly opened the door, and she seemed troubled about the child.\nLittle John was evidently in pain, for I heard him moaning as I went\nupstairs.\n\n'I should get a doctor, Polly,' I said.\n\n'So Duncan says, sir; we shall have to send for him in the morning if\nhe's no better.'\n\nI slept calmly and peacefully, and I woke up to feel that I was\nbeginning an entirely new life. Henceforth I was not my own. I was\nstanding on the heavenward side of the line, and I had taken my place\namongst the servants of Christ. I had never felt so happy before.\n\nDuncan had set off for the doctor before I was down that morning. Little\nJohn was better, Polly said, but was still very feverish, and would eat\nnothing. She brought him down before I went off to my work, wrapped in a\nshawl, and I thought he looked very ill, but I did not like to say so.\n\nDuncan came in just at that moment, and the child put out his arms to\nhis father, and he took him on his knee by the fire, and when I came\nhome to dinner he was still lying there.\n\n'Has the doctor been?' I asked.\n\n'No, sir; he was out when I called this morning. He had gone to a bad\ncase, they said, ten miles off, but I left a message. I hope he'll come\nbefore I go this evening. I should be more comfortable like if he did.'\n\nHowever, the evening came, and Duncan's mates were whistling for him\nfrom the shore, and the doctor had not appeared. The boy was still in\nhis father's arms, and he was walking up and down the kitchen to soothe\nhim.\n\n'It's hard to leave him, sir,' he said, when he heard the whistle, 'but\nhe seems a bit better, I think, this afternoon; he hasn't cried so much,\nhas he, Polly?'\n\nBut I saw there were tears in his eyes as he gave the boy to his mother.\n\n'I'll walk with you to the shore, Duncan,' I said, for I saw that the\npoor fellow was very downcast.\n\n'Thank you kindly, sir,' he answered.\n\nI stood on the shore whilst the nets and fishing tackle were put on\nboard, then he said in a low voice,--\n\n'It's a comfort to feel you will be near my poor lass to-night, sir. It\ncuts me to the heart to leave her; if anything happens to little John,\nwhatever would me and my missus do! But the Lord knows, sir--He knows,'\nhe repeated, and he wiped away a tear which fell on my hand as he\ngrasped it.\n\nI went back to Duncan's house, to find the doctor there. It was\ninfluenza and pneumonia, he said, and the boy must be kept in one room.\nHe was a very silent man, and whether he thought it was a serious case\nor not I could not discover.\n\nI determined not to go to bed that night, but to sit up in my room, in\ncase I should be of any use. I was really glad of the quiet time for\nthought and prayer.\n\nI am ashamed to confess that I had brought no Bible with me to Runswick\nBay; I had not opened a Bible for years. But when all was quiet in the\nhouse I stole quietly downstairs, and brought up Duncan's Bible, which\nwas lying on the top of the oak cupboard below. What a well-worn,\nwell-read Bible it was! I wondered if my mother's Bible had been read\nlike that. There was his name on the title-page, 'John Duncan, from his\naffectionate father.' It had evidently been given to him when a boy, and\nunderneath the name was written this verse: 'Open Thou mine eyes, that I\nmay behold wondrous things out of Thy law.' I said that little prayer\nbefore I began to read, and I have said it ever since each time that I\nhave opened my Bible.\n\nAbout twelve o'clock that night the weather became very stormy. A sudden\ngale set in, and in a very short time the sea became lashed into a fury.\nI have never heard wind like the wind that night. It literally shrieked\nand moaned as it blew, and every window and door in the house rattled,\nand sometimes I felt as if the cottage itself would be swept away.\n\n'What a time they must be having out at sea!' I said to myself.\n\nI went to the window, and putting out my candle, I tried to see out into\nthe darkness; but I could distinguish nothing whatever, so black was the\nsky and so tremendous was the rain.\n\nIt must have been about one o'clock that I heard a step on the stairs. I\nopened my door and went out. It was Polly.\n\n'How is he, Polly?' I asked.\n\n'Very bad, sir; very bad,' she said. 'He doesn't know me now, and he\nwon't take anything; and oh, sir, do you hear the wind?'\n\nWho could help hearing it? It was raging more furiously every moment,\nand the house seemed to rock with the violence of the storm.\n\n'Let me help you, Polly,' I said; 'let me come and sit with you beside\nlittle John.'\n\n'Well, sir, if you would just stay a few minutes whilst I fetch Betty\nGreen,' she said; 'I feel as if I dursn't be alone any longer, I'm\ngetting that nervous, what with little John talking so queer, sir, and\nthe wind blowing so awful, and his father on the sea!' and Polly burst\ninto tears.\n\n'Polly,' I said, 'God is on the sea as well as on the land. Go and fetch\nBetty, and I will sit by the child.'\n\nShe went down and opened the door, and the wind rushed into the house\nand up the stairs, and I had to shut the bedroom door hastily to keep it\nout. Then I heard Polly pulling and pulling at it, and vainly trying to\nshut it, and I had to go down to help her. She was some minutes away,\nfor she had difficulty in rousing her neighbour, and I sat beside the\nunconscious child. He was talking the whole time, but I could\ndistinguish very little of what he said. It seemed to be chiefly about\ngoing with his daddy in his boat, and every now and then he would call\nout quite loudly, 'Come, daddy, come, daddy, to little John.'\n\nWhen Polly returned with old Betty, I had again to go down to help them\nto close the door.\n\n'What do you think of him, sir?' said Polly.\n\nI did not like to say what I thought, so I answered, 'Well, perhaps it\nwould be as well to get the doctor to have another look at him. I'll go\nfor him if you like.'\n\n'I don't believe you could manage it, sir,' said Betty. 'You can't stand\noutside; me and Polly has been clinging on to the palings all the way,\nand it will be terrible up on the top.'\n\n'Shall I try, Polly?'\n\nShe gave me a grateful look, but did not answer by words. But the two\nwomen gave me so long a description of the way to the doctor's house,\nand interrupted each other so often, and at length both talked together\nin their eagerness to make it clear to me, that at the end I was more\nbewildered and hopelessly puzzled than at the beginning, and I\ndetermined to go to Mr. Christie before I started, in order to obtain\nfrom him full and clear directions.\n\nIt took me quite ten minutes to reach his house, and I felt as if I had\ngone through a battle when I arrived there at length, quite spent and\nbreathless. I saw a light in the lower room, and I found Mr. Christie\nand his wife and children sitting in the room where I had passed through\nso much the night before. Marjorie and little Jack were in their\nnightgowns, wrapped in a blanket, and sitting in the same arm-chair. My\nmother's picture was looking at me from the wall, and I fancied that she\nsmiled at me as I came in.\n\n'What a terrible night!' said Mrs. Christie. 'The children were so\nfrightened by the noise of the wind in their attic that we brought them\ndown here.'\n\nI told them my errand, and Mr. Christie at once offered to go with me\nfor the doctor. I shall never forget that walk as long as I live. We\ncould not speak to each other more than a few necessary words, we were\nsimply fighting with the storm. Then, to our disappointment, when our\nlong walk was ended, we found that the doctor was away, and would\nprobably not return until morning.\n\nThe walk home was, if possible, worse than the walk there, for the wind\nwas dead against us as we came down the cliff. It had changed somewhat\nthe last hour, and was now blowing from the north-east.\n\n'There will be trouble out at sea,' Mr. Christie said, as we stopped to\ntake breath.\n\n'And what about the boats?' I asked.\n\n'Yes,' he said, almost with a groan, 'what about the boats?'\n\nWe could see very little out at sea, though it was beginning to grow\nlight, but we determined to make our way to the shore, to see all that\nit was possible to distinguish. He went home for a moment, and then\nfollowed me to my lodging. Polly and her old friend were still watching\nthe child.\n\n'I think he's a little better, sir,' she said; 'he's quieter. Oh, Mr.\nChristie, I _am_ glad to see you, sir! Will you pray, sir? I think\nI shall hear the wind less if you pray!'\n\nWe knelt down beside the child's bed, but the noise of the storm almost\ndrowned his voice. At the end of the prayer the child began once more to\ncry for his father, so piteously, so beseechingly, that at last I could\nbear it no longer, but ran downstairs, to be out of the sound of that\ntouching little voice. Mr. Christie soon followed me, and we went out\ntogether in the grey light of that terrible morning.\n\n'The child is dying, Jack,' he said.\n\n'Oh, don't say so, Mr. Christie!' I answered; 'dying before his father\ncomes back.'\n\n'God grant he _may_ come back!' he said; 'look at the sea, Jack.'\n\nThe sea was dashing wildly against the rocks, and the noise of the wind\nwas so great we could hardly hear our own voices. In the dim uncertain\nlight we could at length distinguish a group of anxious watchers on the\nshore. Some old fishermen were there trying to hold a telescope steady\nin the gale, that they might look across the water for any sign of a\nboat, and mothers and wives and sweethearts of the absent fishermen were\nthere also, with shawls tied over their heads, and with troubled and\ntear-stained faces, peering out into the dismal light of that sorrowful\nmorning.\n\nMr. Christie and I stood near them, and he spoke from time to time a\nword of encouragement and hope to the anxious women beside him. As the\nlight increased the wind dropped somewhat, and the gale seemed to have\nspent its violence. We were thankful to notice, that although the sea\nwas still very rough, and would be so for hours, the wind was gradually\nsubsiding; instead of howling and shrieking, as it had done the whole\nnight long, it was dying away with gentle moans, like a child weary with\npassion who is crying himself to sleep. But still there was no sign of\nthe boats.\n\nThe women on the shore were wet through, and Mr. Christie tried to\npersuade them to go home. Their men would want good fires and hot tea on\ntheir return, he told them, and they ought to make ready for them. I was\nglad to notice that one by one they followed his advice, and turned to\nclimb the hill towards their cottages. Then we turned also, and went\nback to my lodging. We crept into the room, and found old Betty asleep\nin her chair, and Polly holding the little hand in hers as the child\nslept.\n\n'Have the boats come, sir?' she said as we went in.\n\n'Not yet, Polly; but please God they will come soon.'\n\nWe sat down beside her for a little time, but we presently heard a shout\nfrom the shore.\n\n'Thank God,' said Polly, 'he's come!'\n\nThe child seemed in some strange way to have heard that shout, and to\nhave understood its meaning, for he opened his eyes and said, 'Come,\ndaddy, come to little John.'\n\nWe hurried down to the shore, where a large crowd had already collected.\nThe whole of Runswick Bay seemed to have gathered together in that short\nspace of time. We could distinctly see the boats far out at sea, but\nwind and tide were with them, and they, were coming rapidly nearer. What\na night they must have had, and what a welcome they would receive from\nthe watchers on the shore!\n\n'How many boats went out last night, Bob?' said one man as they drew\nnearer.\n\n'There was eight, Jem,' he said--'the Jane Ann one, Lady Hilda two, the\nSusan three, the Mary Ann four, Princess Alice five, the Lightning six,\nthe Eliza seven, the Alert eight.'\n\n'Are you sure, Bob?'\n\n'Quite sure, I saw them start.'\n\n'Well, there's one missing, Jem,' he said; 'catch hold of this glass,\nand just you count.'\n\n'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.'\n\nThere _was_ one missing, and I felt that I knew which it was before\nthey came in sight.\n\nIt was the Mary Ann.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX\n\nASK WHAT YE WILL\n\n\nWe had run down the hill as quickly as we possibly could, but we were in\nno haste to return. We waited until the boats were drawn in, and the\nworn-out fishermen had come on shore. They knew nothing of the Mary Ann;\nthey had lost sight of her soon after the beginning of the gale. They\ntold us they had had an awful night, and had thought they would never\nreach home in safety.\n\n'However shall we tell Polly?' I groaned.\n\nBut a cold hand was laid on mine at that instant, and I turned round to\nsee Polly herself just behind me. She could wait no longer, but had run\ndown to the shore to hasten her husband up the hill. She was trembling\nfrom head to foot, and seemed ready to faint. The kind-hearted fishermen\ncrowded round her with words of cheer and comfort.\n\n'He'll be all right, my lass, never fear. He's put into Saltburn or\nStaithes maybe; these gales they drive so far. He'll be home all safe\nand sound afore night.'\n\nBut Polly did not seem to hear them. She stretched out her hands feebly\nto Mr. Christie and to me as she said:\n\n'Take me home; I can bear it better there.'\n\nThe fishermen turned away sorrowfully, and there were very few dry eyes\namongst the group which we left on the shore.\n\nWhen we reached the house again all was quite still, and as we entered\nthe bedroom I thought the little soul had passed away, but I bent over\nhim to listen and to my relief I found he was still breathing.\n\nAs I look back, I hardly know how we lived through that sorrowful day.\nThe doctor came, and did nothing but shake his head in the ominous way\nwhich doctors have when they feel a case is beyond their power. I think\nPolly had so little hope herself that she did not care to ask him what\nhis real opinion was.\n\nI went out for a short walk in the afternoon, to get a little fresh air\nto strengthen me for the coming night, when I had determined to watch\nwith Polly beside little John, if he was still living. My young friends,\nBob and Harry, joined me, and we were pacing up and down together\nwatching the tide come in when we thought we saw a dark speck far out to\nsea.\n\nThere were others who saw it also. The coastguard was looking at it\nthrough his telescope, and before very long the shore was covered with\nfishermen and their wives, all gazing in the same direction. Whatever\nthe object was, it was coming rapidly shoreward; wind and tide were both\nwith it, and it was being borne swiftly along. After a little time we\ncould distinguish, even without the help of a telescope, what it was,\nand I do not think there was anything which we could have been more\naghast to see, for the floating object was a boat bottom upwards, and\nbeing driven rapidly before the tide.\n\nA groan came from the group of fishermen who were watching, and as the\ncapsized boat neared shore they ran into the water to meet it. I do not\nthink it was necessary to look at the name upon it as it was dragged out\nof the water: we all did look, however, and we found there the name\nwhich we knew we should see before we looked. It was the Mary Ann.\n\nI shall never forget the piercing shriek which came from the wife of one\nof Duncan's mates, who was standing just behind me, when she read the\nname on the boat. I thought the shock and the sorrow had driven her mad,\nfor she ran screaming up the hill; indeed, I firmly believe that for the\ntime she was quite out of her mind.\n\nPoor Polly heard the shrieks of the woman as she ran under her window,\nand looking out, she saw the boat on the shore, and guessed the truth at\nonce. _She_ did not scream nor cry, but she looked as if she had\nbeen turned into stone. No word escaped her lips, not a tear was in her\neye; but she looked as if all her youth had gone in a moment, and as if\nshe had suddenly become an old and worn-out woman.\n\nShe never looked up as we went in, but bent over little John, moistening\nhis lips from time to time, and watching his every movement. We tried to\nsay a few words of comfort, but she did not seem even to hear our\nvoices. Yet no moan, no sigh from the child was unheard by her; she\nseemed to be listening to every breath he drew, as if it might be his\nlast.\n\nI thought that terrible day would never have an end. Mr. Christie stayed\nwith us until dark, and then he took me home with him to supper, that I\nmight get a little change and rest before my night watch. I think they\nknew how tired I was, worn out more by feeling than by want of sleep,\nand they were very good to me. I do not think my own mother could have\nbeen more kind to me than Mrs. Christie was that night. She told me that\nshe would have had a boy nearly as old as I was if he had lived, but he\nhad died when he was very young; and then they had had no children for\nmany years, not until Marjorie was born.\n\n'Your mother was so good to me when my baby died,' she said. 'I thought\nI should never be happy again, but she came and talked to me, and made\nme look from my sorrow to my little boy's gain, and I think her kindness\nto me and the loving words she spoke made me love her more than ever.'\n\nI felt much better for the good supper, and for the kind words of these\ndear people, and I went back determined to do all I could for poor Polly\nand her child through that sorrowful night. I felt so grateful to the\nLord Jesus Christ for all He had done for me, and I was very glad to be\nable to do any little thing to show my love to Him. It seemed to me\nthen, and it seems to me still, that the way in which we can please Him\nbest is by showing kindness to His children. I remembered a verse about\na cup of cold water being noticed by Him, if given for His sake, and I\nthought to myself, 'Polly is not in need of cold water, for she is too\ncold already, but I might make her a cup of tea.'\n\nThe fire was out, and the little kitchen, which was usually so neat, was\nall in confusion. I lighted the lamp that I might see what I was about,\nand then I tried to put the little place in order. First I found sticks\nand coal, and lighted a fire; then, whilst my fire was burning up, I\ncleared the table, carried the dirty plates and cups into the small back\nkitchen, found a tablecloth and a clean cup and saucer, and filled the\nkettle. As soon as the fire was hot enough I put the kettle on, and\ncutting a slice from the loaf I made some nice crisp toast, such as my\naunt used to like when she was ill. Then I heated a plate, and buttered\nthe toast, and set it down by the fire. By this time the kettle was\nboiling and I made the tea, and I said in my heart when all was\nfinished, 'Lord Jesus, I do this for Thee.'\n\nThen I went upstairs to my hardest task of all, namely, to persuade\nPolly to come down to eat the little meal I had prepared.\n\nPolly was, as I had expected, most unwilling to leave the child, and at\nfirst she firmly declined to move, and would not listen to my pleading\nwords. Yet I could see that she was almost fainting, and I knew that she\nwould need all the strength that she could muster for the night which\nlay before us. Who knew what that night would bring?\n\nI therefore spoke to her very firmly, telling her that I was willing and\nanxious to help her in her trouble, but that, if I was to be any use to\nher, she must not refuse to go downstairs for a few minutes at least,\nand I promised her to watch little John very carefully, and to call her\nat once if I saw any change in the child. She obeyed me at last, and I\nheard her weary footsteps descending the steep stairs.\n\nWhen I was left alone, I saw that Polly's Bible was lying open by the\nlittle oil-lamp which stood on the table, upon which had been placed the\nmedicine and milk for little John's use. I went up to it, and my eye\nfell upon these words:--\n\n'If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask _what ye\nwill_, and _it shall be done unto you_.'\n\nIt seemed to me as if that verse was God's direct message to me that\nnight. I saw it as clearly and distinctly as if the page had been\nlighted with electric light. 'Two conditions and a promise,' I said to\nmyself; 'if only the conditions are fulfilled, the promise is sure.'\n\nWhat are the two conditions? (1) 'If ye abide in Me.' I asked myself if\nI was fulfilling _that_ condition. I humbly hoped I was; for, oh, I\nlonged to be in Christ, saved by Him, more than I longed for anything\nelse in this world.\n\n(2) 'If My words abide in you.' Was I fulfilling the\nsecond condition? Again I humbly hoped that I was;\nfor I felt that if Christ told me to go to the North\nPole, or to an African desert, I would obey gladly. I\nwould go anywhere, I would do anything, to show Him\nhow grateful I was for His love to me.\n\nThen might I claim the promise? I believed that I might.\n\nI laid Polly's Bible on the bed. I knelt down beside little John. I put\nmy finger on the promise, and I prayed, as I had never prayed before,\nfor help in this time of need. I felt very strongly that all power was\nin the hands of Christ, and that He who healed the sick on earth had\nlost none of His power, now that He was exalted to the throne of God. I\nbesought Him to come into that room that very night, and to touch and\nheal little John. And as I rose from my knees I felt that my prayer was\nheard.\n\nPolly had not returned, so I went to the top of the stairs and listened,\nand I heard the sound of sobbing. I was thankful to hear it; the tears\nhad come at last, and they would relieve the poor, weary, over-strained\nheart.\n\nLittle John was very quiet, so I crept downstairs. I found to my joy\nthat Polly had eaten most of the toast, and had drunk the tea, and now\nshe was sitting with her feet on the fender and her head in her hands,\nsobbing as if her heart would break. What was it that had brought the\ntears? She had not cried when the empty boat had come ashore; she had\nshed no tear when the doctor's face had told her that he had no hope for\nthe child; what was it that had helped her to give way to the tears\nwhich were such a relief to her? It was a very simple thing. She had\npicked up from the floor a little toy, a tiny roughly-shaped boat, which\nDuncan had made for the child, and which had been little John's greatest\ntreasure. There had come over her such a rush of memories of the happy\ndays of the past, gone, as she believed, for ever, of the father whose\nfingers had so busily carved the boat for his boy, but who would never\ncome back to her again, and of the little lad passing away from her\nalso, and leaving his treasured toy behind him. All these sad but lovely\nmemories came before her, as she took up the little boat and pressed it\nto her lips. They came so strongly and with such power, that the tears\nwhich had refused to come before came with them, and brought, as I felt\nsure they would, wonderful relief to her over-strained heart.\n\n'Polly,' I said, 'cheer up, don't lose heart; I believe little John will\nrecover.'\n\n'Thank you, sir, thank you,' she said; as she dried her eyes. 'I feel\nbetter now, a deal better, I do. You _have_ been good to me, sir.\nI'll go up again to him now.'\n\n'All right, Polly,' I said; 'I'll make up the fire, and then I'll come\nand help you. He's asleep now, Polly.'\n\n'I'll creep quietly up, then, sir,' she said, and I saw as she rose to\ngo that the stony look had gone out of her face and that she was herself\nagain.\n\nThat sleep lasted for hours. It was a quiet night, the wind had quite\ngone down, and everything seemed more still after the tumult of the\nprevious night. I was glad to see that Polly herself at length fell\nasleep in her chair; little John's hand lay in hers, and I knew she\nwould wake with his least movement; but I was pleased to see it, for I\nfelt sure that even a light sleep would soothe and strengthen her.\n\nI had just looked at my watch, and had seen that it was nearly half-past\ntwo, when I thought I heard footsteps outside, and a moment afterwards\nthere came a gentle knock at the door. It seemed a strange time for a\nvisitor, but I thought probably it was some neighbour come to offer to\nhelp Polly in her long night watch, or perhaps it was Mr. Christie come\nto see how we were getting on. I crept softly downstairs, lest either\nPolly or the child should wake, and carefully unfastening the bolts I\nopened the door.\n\nI nearly yelled with joy when I saw who was standing there. Never in all\nmy life have I been more glad to see any man than I was that night to\nsee Duncan, alive and uninjured, whilst all day long I had been\npicturing him being driven backwards and forwards by the waves, a\ndrowned corpse at the mercy of the relentless sea.\n\nHe grasped my hand and came in to the fire, but at first he could not\nspeak.\n\n'Sir,' he said at last, in a broken voice, 'am I too late? Tell me the\ntruth, sir; don't hide it over like; is little John dead?'\n\n'No, Duncan,' I said, 'he still lives, and he is asleep; and, Duncan, I\nbelieve he will be given back to you.'\n\n'Thank God!' he said; 'thank God for that!'\n\nFor just a moment a doubt crossed my mind as to whether I ought to give\nhim this hope, and yet I rebuked myself for this doubt, for I was\nclinging to the promise, and the word of the Lord was sure, and I\nbelieved that if what I asked was good for these poor souls it\n_must_ be granted to me.\n\nDuncan had now sat down in his arm-chair, and by the light of the fire I\ncould see that he was faint and exhausted. He leant back wearily for\nsome time and seemed unable to speak. I had left the kettle on the fire,\nand I hastened to give him a cup of tea and something to eat.\n\nThen I crept upstairs to see what was going on, but finding Polly and\nlittle John were still both fast asleep, I came back to him. He was\nbetter for the tea, and able to talk to me.\n\n'I've had an awful time, sir,' he said, in answer to my inquiry. 'Many\nand many's the time since I was a boy that I've been near the dark\nvalley, but this time, why, I think I've been half-way down it, sir.\nHow's my poor lass, sir?'\n\n'Very cut up, Duncan,' I said. 'She thinks you are dead. Your boat came\nup with last night's tide.'\n\n'Poor Polly, poor lass!' he said; 'I'll go to her.'\n\n'Wait a little, Duncan,' I said; 'she is asleep now, and she will bear\nthe joy better when she wakes.'\n\n'And my little lad?' he asked.\n\n'Sleeping too, Duncan, so peacefully and quietly.'\n\n'Well, it's hard not to go up, sir, but may be you're right.'\n\nHe waited very patiently for an hour, and when I crept up again at the\nend of that time Polly and the child were both awake, and she was giving\nhim some milk. Little John was quite conscious, and looked more like\nhimself than he had done since his illness began. He had no sooner\nfinished his milk, however, than he began his old weary cry, 'Come,\ndaddy, come to little John.'\n\nPolly burst into tears again when she heard him calling for the father\nwhom she believed to be dead; but I bent over the child and said, 'Yes,\nlittle John, daddy will come to you.'\n\nI believe Polly fancied that I thought the child was dying, and that I\nmeant his father's spirit was coming to fetch him, for she only cried\nthe more bitterly and said, 'Oh, little John, little John!'\n\nBut when I added, 'Shall I fetch daddy, little John?' she sprang to her\nfeet and looked at me wildly, but without speaking a word.\n\nThere was no need for me to say more, for she heard the sound of a\nwell-known footstep on the stairs, and in another moment she was in her\nhusband's arms.\n\nI felt then that my work was over, and that the best thing that I could\ndo would be to go to bed. But I glanced back from the door as I went\nout, and I saw the little hands held out, and I heard Duncan sob like a\nchild as he cried, 'Oh, my little lad, my own little John, I never\nthought to see you again!'\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter X\n\nWE KNOW\n\n\nThe next day Duncan was able to tell me what he had passed through\nduring that terrible night. It seems he was separated from the other\nboats by the very first outburst of the gale, and never saw them again\nthrough the long hours of that night of storm. For some considerable\ntime he and his mates, by straining every nerve, were able to keep the\nwater out of their boat; but as the night went on, and the sea grew\nrougher and the waves seemed mountains high, they were compelled at last\nto own that their attempt was hopeless. 'At that time,' said Duncan, 'I\njust trusted my soul again to Christ, for I expected the next wave would\nsweep us to the bottom.'\n\n'Was I frightened, sir, did you say? No, I think not; I felt more awed\nlike, if you understand, and in them few moments all sorts of thoughts\nseemed to be running through my head, but through them all was the\nthought of my poor lass, of Polly and little John. Yes, sir, of Polly\nand little John, and I cried to Him as alone could help me, \"O God,\" I\nsaid, \"save me, for Polly and little John want me so bad!\" And He heard\nmy prayer, sir. I've often thought how them fishermen cried to Him in\nthe storm that day, \"Master, save us, we perish!\" they said; and He\nheard their cry, didn't He, sir? And He heard mine. Yes, He heard mine,\nfor when the wave did come which carried us over, the Mary Ann was\ndriven right past where we were struggling in the water, and we caught\nhold on her. We clung on for dear life, sir, but we couldn't have clung\nthere many minutes, for the sea was that cold and icy our hands was\nwell-nigh frozen. But God Almighty knew how to save us, and He sent a\nsteamer to pick us up, in less than ten minutes after we went overboard.\nAnd they _were_ good to us, sir, for all they were foreign folk\naboard. They warmed us, and gave us hot coffee, and lent us dry clothes,\nand they ran into the Hull docks in the afternoon and landed us there.\nWell, sir, you may be sure I came home as quick as ever I could, for I\nthought maybe I should never see my little lad again. Hasn't God been\ngood to us, now hasn't He, sir?' he concluded, as he gently patted his\nlittle boy's hand.\n\nThe doctor gave a much better report of little John that day, although\nhe said he was not yet out of danger. But from that time he improved\nslowly but steadily, and before very long he was able to lie once more\nin his father's arms, and to stroke his face with his little thin hand.\n\nIt was very touching to see the love and the gratitude of both Duncan\nand Polly; they could not say enough about the help and comfort I had\ngiven them in their time of trouble, small though I felt these to have\nbeen. If I had been a prince, I think they could not have made more of\nme, and I believe I should have been altogether spoiled if I had stayed\nin Runswick Bay much longer.\n\nI had not touched my picture the whole of that week, for whilst our\nanxiety lasted I had no heart or desire to paint. On Saturday I saw\nMarjorie and little Jack giving out their pink papers, and I went to\nmeet them.\n\n'One for you, big Mr. Jack,' said the merry little rogue, as he threw it\nup in the air for me to catch.\n\nThe subject for the following day I saw was to be these two words--WE\nKNOW. I thought, as I put the paper in my pocket, how much had passed\nsince last Sunday, and I thought also how differently I felt with regard\nto the service on the shore, from what I had done when I received the\nlast pink paper. I had certainly no wish to run away to Kettleness, to\nbe out of the way when it took place.\n\nSunday morning was bright and beautiful, and little John was so much\nbetter that his father was able to leave him and to take his place in\nthe choir. I stood close to the old boat, and Jack put his hand in mine,\nand let me look at his hymn-book as he sang.\n\nThere was a large congregation, the fine day had tempted them out, and I\nthink the danger of their companions and their narrow escape from death\nhad stirred the hearts of the fishermen, and had made many of them feel\nthat 'it is not all of life to live, nor all of death to die.'\n\n'My mates are here to-day, sir,' whispered Duncan, as he went forward to\ntake his place in the boat; 'it's the first time I've been able to\npersuade them to come. They see the good of it now, sir, you see.'\n\nNever have I heard any man pray more earnestly for a blessing than Mr.\nChristie did that day, but I do not think even he prayed more earnestly\nthan I did. My whole heart went out to God that day, for was it not my\nfirst Sunday on the right side of the line?\n\nAnd then came the address, and I never noticed a congregation more\nattentive than was that one gathered on the shore that September\nmorning. I can remember even now a good deal of the sermon.\n\n'WE KNOW,' he said; 'those are strong words, confident words. It is not,\n_We imagine_, or _We think_. It is not even _We hope_, that would be\nwonderful; but it is something clearer and far more distinct than that;\nit is WE KNOW.\n\n'If I were to ask you fishermen, you visitors, you mothers, you little\nchildren, this question, \"Do you _imagine_ you are on the shore\nnow? Do you _think_ you are here to-day? Do you _hope_ you are\nlistening to me?\" what would you answer me?\n\n'You would say, \"Mr. Christie, it is not a case of imagining, or\nthinking, or hoping; we _know_ we are here; we are sure of it.\"\n\n'Now notice, that is the strong, confident word used in my text to-day.\nThe holy apostle John stands side by side with all of us who have come\nto Christ, and he bids us join with him in these glad, happy, thankful\nwords, \"We know that we have passed from death unto life.\" We know, we\nare persuaded, we are sure, that we are on the right side of the line.\nWe know that we have left the company of the servants of sin, and are\nnow the servants of the Lord Jesus Christ.\n\n'Dear friends, I would now ask each of you very earnestly, Can you say\nthat? Can you take your stand by the apostle John, and say, \"_I\nknow_ that _I_ have passed from death unto life?\"\n\n'I think I hear some one answer in his heart, \"Well, that's a great deal\nfor any man to say, and I don't see that any man can know in this life\nif he is saved or not; when he gets to heaven he'll know he is all\nright, but not till then.\"\n\n'Now look again at my text. It does not say, \"We _shall_ know\"; it\ndoes not say, \"We hope soon to know\"; but it speaks in the present. It\nruns thus: \"We _know_ that we have passed from death unto life.\" So\nyou see it _is_ possible, nay, it is right, that you and I should,\none by one, take up the words and say, \"_I know_.\"\n\n'Do I hear some one saying in his heart, \"I do wish I could say that? I\nshould be a happier man if I could. When I go out in my boat, and the\nstorm rages, and I don't know whether I shall ever see land again, it\nwould be a good thing if I could look up through the wind and tempest,\nand could say gladly, I know that I have passed from death unto life.\"'\n\nI thought I heard a groan when he said this, and I looked round, and saw\none of Duncan's mates burying his face in his hands.\n\n'Do I hear one of you mothers say, \"When I lie awake at night, and the\nbaby will not let me sleep, and I get out and look from my window at the\nstars shining down upon me, I would give a great deal to say, as I think\nof the heaven above those stars, 'I know that I have passed from death\nunto life'\"?\n\n'And you, my friend, when the day comes, as come it will, when you lie\non your bed, and you see by the doctor's face that you will never get\nout of it again; when you say to yourself, as the neighbours sit round,\n\"This is my dying bed, and they are watching to see me die,\" oh, what\nwould you not give at that solemn time to be able to say, \"I know that I\nhave passed from death unto life\"?\n\n'Do you want to be able to say it? You cannot want it more than God\nwants to hear you say it. The Christ stands on the shore beside us\nto-day, and He yearns with unutterable longing, that each man, each\nwoman, each child here present, should be able to take up the words of\nmy text, and say, \"I know that I have passed from death unto life.\"'\n\nThen he went on to tell us that it was not a long, weary, toilsome\njourney which we had to travel to reach the Christ. He was present\namongst us now. He was very near to each one of us; His arms were wide\nopen. He was waiting to receive each one who was willing to cross the\nline; one step would be sufficient, one step into those open arms. Then\nwe ended by singing a hymn, which seemed to me a very beautiful one:--\n\n  'Only a step to Jesus!\n    Believe, and thou shalt live:\n  Lovingly now He's waiting,\n    And ready to forgive.\n\n  Only a step to Jesus!\n    A step from sin to grace:\n  What has thy heart decided?\n    The moments fly apace.\n\n  Only a step to Jesus!\n    Oh, why not come and say,\n  \"Gladly to Thee, my Saviour,\n    I give myself away?\"\n    Only a step, only a step,\n    Come, He waits for thee;\n    Come, and thy sin confessing,\n    Thou shalt receive a blessing:\n    Do not reject the mercy\n    He freely offers thee.'\n\n\nI was glad to see at the end of the service that Duncan's mate was still\nsitting under the old boat with his hands over his face. He had\nevidently felt the sermon very much, and when he rose to go home after\nthe others had dispersed, I saw Mr. Christie walking by his side.\n\nThat was a lovely Sunday evening. The storm of the week before seemed to\nhave cleared the air, and there was a golden light over everything,\nuntil the sun went down behind the hill. I spent the evening at Mrs.\nChristie's, for Polly was still fully occupied with the child, and was\nnot able to attend to much of the work downstairs. Duncan did the\ncooking now, and the washing up and the cleaning, and I never saw a more\nhandy man. He waited on me hand and foot, as if I was a lord; but I felt\nthat I was giving the dear fellow a great deal of trouble, and was glad,\ntherefore, to accept Mrs. Christie's invitation to have tea and supper\nat their house.\n\nLittle Jack welcomed me with the greatest joy. He was so delighted to\nhave me at tea, and contemplated me with so much delight and interest\nfrom his high chair by my side, that he quite forgot to eat his own tea,\nand had to be recalled from his admiration of me, time after time, by\nhis mother. After tea he told her he had a great secret to confide to\nher; he dragged her from the room and led her upstairs, and then with\nclosed doors, and in a whisper so low that she could scarcely\ndistinguish the words, he told her solemnly, 'I do love big Mr. Jack\nvery much,' which secret his faithless mother was treacherous enough to\nreveal to me, after we had been upstairs that evening to see little Jack\nin bed.\n\nAfter we came down, Mrs. Christie lighted the lamp, and we were sitting\ncosily round the fire talking of my mother, when suddenly there came a\nknock at the outer door.\n\n'Who can it be?' said Mrs. Christie hastily; 'some one must be ill, I\nthink, so few people come on Sunday.'\n\nShe was going to the door, but her little maid had already opened it,\nand coming into the parlour she announced,--\n\n'There's a gentleman, sir, at the door, says as how he wants Mr.\nVilliers, sir.'\n\n'A gentleman!' I repeated in astonishment, 'wanting me!'\n\n'Yes, sir, he says he wants you very pertickler, he does.'\n\nI went quickly to the door, wondering very much who could be there, and\nto my great astonishment I found my friend Tom Bernard, with a black bag\nin his hand, eagerly awaiting my approach.\n\n'Found at last, old chap,' he cried when he saw me; 'why, I've been\nhunting for you all over in this rabbit-warren of a place, till at last\nsome of these fisher-lads told me you were in here.'\n\n'And what are you doing here, Tom?' I exclaimed.\n\n'Doing here! Why, I've come to see you, of course, old fellow; what else\nshould I have come for? I set off early this morning, and I thought I\nwould give you a bit of a surprise. Are these your diggings?'\n\n'No,' I said, 'I'm only spending the evening here; but I'll come back\nwith you at once.'\n\nI went in for a moment to explain my sudden departure to Mr. and Mrs.\nChristie, and then I went with Tom to my lodgings. He looked vastly\namused when he saw Duncan's house, and when I told him that I had been\nthere all the time he seemed to think it a capital joke.\n\n'There's no room for me, I'm afraid,' he said, as he looked with an\namused smile round my bedroom.\n\n'No, indeed, Tom,' I said, 'and, joking apart, I would not ask you to\ncome here if there was room; the hotel at the top of the hill will suit\nyou better.'\n\nPolly was sitting beside little John, but I tapped at the door, and told\nher a friend of mine had just arrived from London, and asked her if she\nthought it would be possible to get him some tea. Just at this moment\nDuncan came in, and the two good souls did all in their power to do\nhonour to my guest. The whitest tablecloth was spread on the round\ntable, the very finest herrings were cooked, round after round of crisp\nbrown toast was buttered and put before the fire to keep hot, and all\nwas ready in so short a time that Tom was astonished.\n\nHe did full justice to the meal, and seemed to appreciate my quarters\nbetter after he had partaken of it. Then he declared himself tired out,\nso I walked with him up to the hotel. He was in high spirits, and was\nmuch looking forward to the time we were to have there together, and to\nall the walks we should take to the places round.\n\nWas I glad that he had come? I asked myself this question many times\nthat night. I was fond of Tom; he had been like a brother to me, and\nyet--and yet--I wished he had not come to Runswick Bay.\n\nWhy was this? Why would I have kept him away if I could? I asked myself\nthis question many times, as I came slowly down the hill that night.\n\nWas it because it would be a hindrance to my work? No, for my picture\nhad made good progress, and I could work it up even better in my studio\nat home. Besides which, Tom was a good-natured fellow, and would sit\nsmoking and chatting in the old boat whilst I painted.\n\nWas it that I wanted to be quiet, and to enjoy my present surroundings\nwithout interruption? No, surely, for Tom's company had always been\npleasant to me, and I could not look upon him as a stranger.\n\nWhy was it, then, that I felt almost sorry that he had followed me here?\nI had a suspicion of the right answer to that question, but I did not\nown it, even to myself, till I entered my lodging.\n\nDuncan was reading a chapter aloud to Polly, as he always did before\ngoing to bed. He stopped when he saw me come in, but I said, 'Go on,\nDuncan, never mind me; I shall like to listen.' And the very first words\nthat Duncan read seemed to me to contain the answer to my question.\n\n'He that is ashamed of Me and of My words, of him shall the Son of Man\nbe ashamed.'\n\nYes, that was the reason. I was sorry that Tom had come, because I was\nashamed of my Master. Since I had seen him last I had changed my\nservice. I used to be a servant of sin, living for self, pleasing self\nin all things. Now, I had crossed the line, I had joined the company of\nChrist's servants, and I was afraid of Tom finding it out.\n\nIn London I thought I should have seen less of him, and it would have\ndawned on him gradually; but here he would discover it at once. And I\ndreaded his doing so. Yes, I was a downright coward, ashamed of the One\nwho had died for me. This was not a comfortable reflection, but I was\nconvinced that it was the truth.\n\nWhat would be the best thing to do? Should I say anything to Tom about\nit in the morning? I thought at first that I would speak, and I made up\nseveral sentences with which I meant to begin; but the more I thought of\nit so much the more my heart failed me, and I decided at length that my\nbest plan would be to let Tom find it out for himself.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI\n\nLITTLE JACK AND BIG JACK\n\n\nI think Tom very much enjoyed that week at Runswick Bay. The more he saw\nof the place the more he liked it. He and Duncan got on famously\ntogether. They smoked together on a seat above the house, and Duncan\ntold him stories of shipwrecks and storms, whilst I sat painting just\nbelow them.\n\nOne night he even persuaded Duncan to let him go out with him fishing,\nand Duncan confided to me afterwards, 'That there friend of yours, sir,\nhe's a real handy chap; knows how to use his fingers, sir, and isn't\nafraid of a drop of salt water neither.'\n\nWe came across Mr. Christie on the shore the very first time that we\nwent out together, and I introduced him as a friend of my mother whom I\nhad been delighted to find in this out-of-the-way place; and Tom talked\nvery pleasantly to him, and I think liked him.\n\n'What is he doing here, Jack?' he said. 'He does not look like the rest\nof them.'\n\n'He is a lay-preacher,' I said.\n\n'Whatever in the world is a lay-preacher?' said Tom laughing.\n\nI did not answer, but called his attention to little Jack, who was\nrunning along the shore after his red cap, which had been carried off by\na gust of wind.\n\n'That's his little boy,' I said, 'and my namesake; they lived in my\nfather's parish in London, and Mr. Christie and his wife adored my\nmother. It was seeing her photograph on the wall of their room which\nmade them discover who I was.'\n\n'What a splendid little fellow!' said Tom as the child came up to us.\n'So you are Jack, are you?'\n\n'Yes, I'm little Jack, and he's big Jack,' said the boy roguishly,\nlooking at me.\n\nI was not surprised that Tom made friends very quickly with my little\nfavourite, for he was wonderfully fond of children, and many were the\ngames which he and the two children had together whilst I was at work.\n\nEvery evening Tom and I walked together, and we explored all the country\nfor miles around. Sometimes we went by train and walked back by the\ncliffs. The train seemed to land us at each station in the midst of\nfresh beauty, and I came to the conclusion that Yorkshire was indeed,\nwhat I had always been told by my mother, the most beautiful county in\nEngland.\n\n'Now, Jack,' said Tom on Saturday morning, 'we'll have a really good day\nto-morrow. You won't want to paint, will you?'\n\n'No,' I said hurriedly, 'I don't paint on Sundays.'\n\n'All right,' he said, 'it's much the best plan; you come fresher to it\non Monday. \"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.\" That old\ncouplet must have been made for you, Jack. Well, then, let's see, where\nshall we go? Suppose we make a long day of it, and go to Scarborough. We\nmust see Scarborough before we go home, must we not? We will go by the\nearly train, and come back as late as we can. The worst of it is there\nare not so many trains to choose from on Sunday, but I daresay we shall\nfind one that will suit'; and, without saying another word, he went off\nto my lodging for a _Bradshaw_.\n\nWhat was I to do? A few weeks ago a Sunday spent in pleasure would have\nbeen just what I should have chosen, and many a time had Tom and I been\nup the river on Sunday together. There was hardly a place within easy\ndistance up the Thames which we had not visited in this way. But now I\nfelt very differently about these things. Sunday was my Master's own\nday: every moment of it, I felt, must be consecrated to Him. No one had\ntalked to me about Sunday observance, but my conscience told me very\nclearly what was right in the matter. Yet, although I had no doubt as to\nwhat I ought to do in the matter, I am ashamed to say that for some time\nI hesitated. Tom would be so terribly disappointed, I said to myself,\nand he had been a good friend to me, and I did not want to vex him;\nsurely there would be no great harm in obliging him this once! Besides,\nwhen I get to Scarborough I may have time to go to church, and then,\nafter all, where is the difference? I argued with myself; I shall take a\nlonger journey to church, that is all.\n\nAnd then Tom came back, full of his plans for the day. He had already\nsettled the train we were to catch, and he told me that he looked\nforward to seeing Scarborough immensely, as his mother had stayed there\na year ago, and she had told him it was the most beautiful\nwatering-place she had ever visited.\n\nI tried to feel pleased with what Tom had arranged, but in my heart I\nwas very miserable, and just at that moment who should appear but\nMarjorie and Jack, distributing the pink papers containing the\ninvitation to the service on the shore. I turned away when I saw them\ncoming. I looked towards the sea, and took my little telescope from my\npocket, that I might seem to be intent on watching a distant steamer.\nWhat would Duncan say? What would Mr. Christie say? What would my little\nfriend Jack say, when I did not appear at the shore service? And how\nshocked they would be when they heard I had gone off for a day's\npleasure!\n\nI hoped that the children would pass us by, and would go to a large\ngroup of fishermen standing on the shore just beyond us. But I was not\nto escape thus. Marjorie came up to Tom and presented him with a paper,\nand she was going to give one to me, but my little friend stopped her,\n'No, no, Marjorie,' he said in his most fascinating tones, 'let me give\none to my own Mr. Jack. I always give you one my own self, don't I, big\nJack?'\n\nI patted him on the head and took the paper, but I did not answer, and\nthe children passed on. Tom opened his paper and read it aloud,--\n\n'\"There will be a short service on the shore next Sunday morning.\" Oh,\nindeed,' he said, 'that's what they're after, is it? Distributing\nnotices for some Methodist meeting. Is that where Christie holds forth?'\n\n'Yes,' I said, 'he preaches every Sunday.'\n\n'Well, Mr. Christie,' he went on, 'you won't have _me_ there to\nhear you. I hate those canting meetings, don't you, Jack?\n_Subject_. Ah, he tells us his subject beforehand, does he? Very\nkind of him, I'm sure! _Subject: Where are you going_? Ah,' said\nTom, 'that's soon answered: I'm going to Scarborough, old fellow, and a\njolly good day I hope to have there'; and he threw the little pink paper\ninto the air, and the wind carried it far out to sea.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAll this time I had never spoken a word. A great battle was going on in\nmy heart. Conscience was speaking very loudly, and telling me that I\ncould not possibly take my pleasure on my Master's own day, but the\ntempter's voice was arguing that the time to speak had not yet come, and\nthat perhaps for this once it would be better to yield to Tom's wishes,\nand that I might talk to him quietly about it, and make a fresh start\nafter our return to London.\n\nAnd so the day wore away, and evening came, and Tom had no idea whatever\nthat I had even hesitated about going with him to Scarborough. I never\nspent a more unhappy day. I avoided Mr. Christie, lest he should say\nanything to me about the service on the following day. I was not even\nhappy with Duncan. Tom had gone off to Saltburn, leaving me, as he\nsupposed, to put some finishing touches to my picture; but I had no\nheart for painting, and only got my easel and painting materials out to\nput them away again directly.\n\nPolly was in good spirits that day, for little John was so much better\nthat he was able to sit on the floor and play, and, as I stood looking\nout of my small casement window, I watched her washing up in a tub\nstanding on a wooden stool outside her door, and I heard her singing to\nherself as she did so. Most of the visitors had left Runswick Bay now,\nfor it was late in the season, but the shore was covered with the\nvillage children--boys and girls without shoes and stockings, wading in\nthe pools and running far out into the shallow sea. It was a pretty\nsight, the grey, quiet water, the strips of yellow sand, and the cliff\ncovered with grass and flowers.\n\nBut I could not enjoy the scene that Saturday evening; even my artistic\neye, of which I used sometimes to boast, failed me then. I was feeling\nthoroughly uncomfortable, and the most lovely view on earth would have\nfailed to charm me at that moment.\n\nThere is a verse in the Bible which says, 'A little child shall lead\nthem,' and whenever I hear that verse I think of that evening in\nRunswick Bay. For I was still gazing out of my window, looking at I knew\nnot what, when I heard a well-known little voice just beneath me.\n\nIt was Jack. He had come down the hill beneath Duncan's cottage, so that\nI had not seen him until he spoke to me below the window.\n\n'Mr. Jack,' he said, 'what are you doing up there? Are you _very_\nbusy?'\n\n'No, old man,' I said, 'I'm not busy.'\n\n'Then _do_ come out, that's a dear, big Mr. Jack; I do want you so\nmuch.'\n\nWho could resist the pleading little face, and the pretty, fascinating\nvoice of that child? He would have a hard heart who could do so. I ran\ndownstairs, and a minute afterwards I was racing with Jack on the wet\nsands, for the tide was fast going out, and was helping him to fly a\nsmall kite which his father had bought for him in Whitby. We had a fine\ntime together on the shore, until at last a towel was hung out of the\ntop window in the Christies' house, as a sign that it was Jack's\nbedtime. Though he was wild with joy and excitement, the obedient little\nfellow at once stopped his play, and told me mother wanted him, and he\nmust go.\n\n'I'm coming for you to-morrow morning, Mr. Jack,' he said.\n\n'To-morrow morning, Jack?'\n\n'Yes, for church,' said the child, putting up his dear little chubby\nface to be kissed. 'Don't go without me, will you, Mr. Jack?'\n\n'Well, I'm not sure I'm going to-morrow, little man,' I said\nreluctantly, 'so you had better not call for me.'\n\n'Not going to church!' said Jack, in a very shocked voice. 'Why not,\nMr. Jack?'\n\n'I'm going to Scarborough for the day with my friend Tom,' I said.\n'I shall go to church in Scarborough, Jack.'\n\nI shall never forget the expression of that child's face as long as I\nlive; it was a mixture of surprise, sorrow and dismay. 'Mr. Jack, do you\nknow it's God's day to-morrow?' was all that he said, however; and as at\nthis moment his mother called him from the bedroom window, he ran off\nwithout another word.\n\n'Do you know it's God's day?' I asked myself when the little boy had\ngone. 'Yes, I do know,' I answered aloud, 'and He is my Master, and my\nMaster's day shall be kept for Him and for His service.'\n\nI walked to a lonely place on the shore where the sea had undermined the\ncliff, and had made strange holes and caves, which could only be entered\nat low tide. I clambered over the rocks, and crossed about half a mile\nof slippery seaweed, until I came to one of these weird places. Creeping\ninside, I felt myself safe from any human eye. I was alone--alone with\nmy Master.\n\nI cannot tell you all that passed during the half-hour that I spent in\nthat lonely cave, but I know this, that I came out of it feeling that my\nMaster had indeed given me the strength for which I had pleaded, the\nstrength to act as His faithful and true servant.\n\nI was waiting outside the station when Tom's train came in from\nSaltburn. He had not expected to see me again that night, and seemed\npleased that I had come to meet him.\n\n'I think we shall have a fine day to-morrow, old boy,' he said; 'what\na dew there is! My feet are quite wet with it.'\n\n'Tom,' I said, 'I came to meet you to-night because I wanted to tell you\nsomething. I am sorry, very sorry, to disappoint you, but I can't go\nwith you to-morrow.'\n\n'Why ever in the world not, Jack?' he said. 'I thought you were so keen\non seeing Scarborough.'\n\n'Yes, Tom,' I said, 'but I am still more keen on something else.'\n\n'What's that?' he asked; 'do you mean Redcar? It's a stupid place, Jack:\nnothing in the world to see, I assure you.'\n\n'No, Tom, I don't mean that. I don't want to change our plan. I had\nrather see Scarborough than any other place; I'll give myself a holiday\non Monday, and go with you gladly, Tom; but I can't go to-morrow.'\n\n'Nonsense, Jack!' he said angrily. 'You _can_ go if you like;\nwhat's to hinder you? If you are willing to go at all, why on earth\ncan't you go to-morrow?'\n\n'Simply because to-morrow is Sunday, Tom.'\n\n'And if it is Sunday, what of that?' said my friend. '\"The better the\nday, the better the deed,\" and it's ridiculous your talking in this\nsaintly way about Sunday, when to my certain knowledge you've spent\nevery fine Sunday boating on the river for the last two years or more.\nNo, no, my friend, that won't go down with me.'\n\n'Tom,' I said, 'it's all quite true what you say. I have, I know I have,\nspent my Sundays in boating or in taking my pleasure in some other way,\nand I am more sorry for it, Tom, than I can tell you. But since I came\nhere--'\n\n'Since you came here,' Tom interrupted me, 'you've gone and turned\nRanter or Methodist, or something of that sort, and you've got your head\nfull of all sorts of insane and ridiculous ideas.'\n\n'Since I came here, Tom,' I said, taking no notice of his last remark,\n'I have seen what I never saw before--that I am a great sinner; and I\nhave found what I never found before--that Jesus is a great Saviour.'\n\n'Well, I wish you had never come to Runswick Bay, if this is the absurd\nway you are going on, Jack, and after all the good old times we've had\ntogether too.'\n\n'And why shan't we have good times together still, dear old Tom?' I\nsaid. 'I have entered the service of a new Master, that's all; and,\nTom,' I said timidly, 'I wish He was your Master too.'\n\nTom made no answer, but swung his stick round and round, and slashed at\nthe thistles and the ox-eye daisies which grew by the roadside. I tried\nto make one or two remarks, but I saw he was very much upset by what I\nhad said, and he did not answer me. He was vexed with me, and perhaps he\nwas a little uncomfortable besides, and I felt it was far wiser to say\nno more.\n\nHe did not speak again until we reached the hotel, and then he simply\nsaid, 'Good-night, Jack, I'm sorry you've gone and made such a fool of\nyourself'; and I went down the hill, feeling as if I had lost my friend,\nand as if the old days and old companionship were dead and buried for\never.\n\nBut if I had lost one friend, I felt I had gained another. Mr. Christie\nwas waiting for me at the bottom of the hill, and he proposed that we\nshould take a turn together on the shore. Nellie was expecting me to\nsupper, he said; he had told Duncan I was going there, and the moon was\ncoming out, and a good stretch on the sands would make us enjoy it all\nthe more.\n\nWe had walked across the bay, and were standing gazing out seawards,\nwhen he suddenly put his arm in mine.\n\n'What is it, Jack?' he said kindly, 'something is troubling you this\nevening.'\n\n'Yes, you are right,' I said. 'However did you know, Mr. Christie? I am\nbothered a bit; the fact is, I'm ashamed of myself, I've been such a\ncoward.'\n\n'What have you been doing, Jack? You don't mind telling me, do you?'\n\n'Not at all, Mr. Christie, I would rather tell you,' I said; and then I\ngave him an account of the last week, of my fear of Tom, and how very\nnearly--I was ashamed to say it--I had yielded to him about the outing\nto-morrow. Then I spoke of my friend, and I told him I was afraid I had\nlost him through my plain speaking.\n\n'Never mind, Jack,' he said, 'the Master must come first, and it does\nhappen very often that when He is put in His right place we have to give\nup a great deal. He knew we should have to do it, and He spoke some very\nplain words about it: \"He that loveth father or mother more than Me is\nnot worthy of Me, and he that loveth son or daughter more than Me is not\nworthy of Me.\" You would like to be worthy of Him, Jack?'\n\n'I shall never be that, Mr. Christie,' I said.\n\n'No,' he said; 'you are right, we are all unworthy of Him; but when we\nlove Him, we do long to do that which is pleasing in His sight. And,\nremember, there is always the hundredfold, Jack, always the Master's\nreward for anything we give up for Him.'\n\n'Yes, in heaven,' I said softly.\n\n'No, Jack, not in heaven, but on earth. Do you remember how the Master's\nwords run: \"He shall receive an hundredfold _now, in this time_,\nand in the world to come, life everlasting.\" The hundredfold is to be\nenjoyed _here_, the everlasting life _there_.'\n\n'I never noticed that before,' I said.\n\n'I have proved it true, Jack, abundantly true. I sometimes think I have\ngot beyond the hundredfold. And then beyond, there lies the life\neternal.'\n\n'My mother is enjoying that,' I said.\n\n'Yes, indeed,' he answered; 'and her boy will enjoy it too in God's good\ntime, for does not the Master say of all those who belong to Him, \"I\ngive unto them eternal life?\" \"I am come that they might have life, and\nthat they might have it more abundantly\"?'\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII\n\nWHERE ARE YOU GOING?\n\n\nI shall never forget my last Sunday in Runswick Bay. It was at the end\nof September, and was one of those gloriously brilliant days which we\nget in the early autumn, when the sky is cloudless, when the air is\nfresh and clear, and when the autumnal tints on trees, hedges, ferns and\nbrambles make the landscape gorgeous and extremely beautiful and\nfascinating.\n\nThe high cliff above the bay was a perfect study in colour that morning;\nI have never seen more splendid colouring, every varied shade of red and\ngold and green was to be found there.\n\n'Tom will be off to Scarborough,' I said to myself as I dressed. 'What a\ngrand day he has got!'\n\nBut I did not wish myself with him; no, I was both glad and thankful to\nlook forward to a quiet and peaceful Sunday.\n\nThere were not many visitors still at Runswick, most of them had left\nthe week before; but the fishermen came in great numbers to the service,\nand the green was covered with them when little Jack and big Jack\nappeared, hand-in-hand as usual. Duncan was in the choir, but Polly\nthought the wind rather cold for little John, so had remained with him\nat home. A good many women and children were present, however, and the\nbank was covered with mothers and babies, sitting at a little distance,\nlest the noise of the children should disturb the preacher or the\nlisteners.\n\nWhat was it that made me think of Tom just as the service began? Was it\na shepherd's plaid cloth cap, of the kind Tom wears, which I saw on the\nhead of some visitor who was sitting almost out of sight on the seaward\nside of the bank? Such small things bring people and things before us\nsometimes, and my thoughts wandered to Scarborough for a few minutes,\nand I wondered what Tom was doing at that moment. I thought to myself\nhow he would smile, if he saw me sitting under the old boat and\nlistening attentively to an open air preacher.\n\nBut my thoughts did not wander long, for when the service began every\nword of it seemed to be for me.\n\nWHERE ARE YOU GOING? I had worked the subject out in my mind before I\ncame to the service, and had quite decided what line of thought Mr.\nChristie would take. I thought he would picture the two roads, the one\nleading to life, the other to destruction; and then I imagined that he\nwould speak of the blessedness of being on the narrow road, and would\ndwell very vividly on the awful consequences of continuing to walk on\nthe road leading to hell. But I found that my idea of what his sermon\nwould be was quite a mistaken one.\n\n'Where are you going? My question to-day,' he said, 'is addressed only\nto some of you; would to God it were addressed to you all! I speak\nto-day to those who have crossed the line, who have run into the loving\nSaviour's arms, who have become servants of Christ.\n\n'My friends, my dear friends, where are you going? What does the Master\nsay? He calls to every one of His servants, and He says, \"If any man\nserve Me, let him follow Me, and _where I am_ there shall also My\nservant be.\"\n\n'Servant of Christ, where are you going? The Master answers you, WHERE\nI AM.\n\n'And where is that? A little group of men are standing on the Mount of\nOlives; above them is the deep blue sky, and they are gazing earnestly\nupward, for their Master is rising far above them, and even as they\nwatch a cloud receives Him out of their sight. Yet still He ascends\nhigher and yet higher, and as He rises countless angels attend Him. He\nis joined by company after company of the heavenly host, who have come\nout to meet their King. At length heaven's gates are reached, and the\ncry goes forth, \"Lift up your heads, O ye gates, even lift them up, ye\neverlasting doors, and the King of Glory shall come in.\" Amidst heaven's\nmost joyful music the Master passes within to the Heavenly Jerusalem,\nthe glad, glorious Home. Every care, every sin, every sorrow is left\noutside; within all is sunshine, all is joy. And as heaven's gates are\nclosing, we hear the Master's voice. He leaves us a word of hope, \"Where\nI am, _there_ shall also My servant be.\"\n\n'Oh, fishermen, oh, friends, think of that! If you are His servants,\nthose gates will open for you. Your life may be hard now: some of you\nhave large families, and heavy work, and long, cold, comfortless nights\ntossing on the stormy sea; but never mind, home is coming, heaven is\ncoming, for \"Where I am, there shall also My servant be.\"\n\n'But that is not all. There is something more wonderful still. For where\nis the Master now? He is not only inside the gates of the city, He is\nnot only walking through the golden streets; but He is in the midst of\nthe glory of God, He has sat down on the right hand of the throne of\nGod. Will you and I, dear friends, ever dare to go near that throne?\nWill not the glory be too dazzling? Will not the place be holy ground,\ntoo holy for us to approach? Will He allow us to draw near to His\nfootstool, and even there, close to His glory, to lie low before Him?\n\n'Listen, O servant of Christ, again the Master says, \"Where I am,\n_there_ shall also My servant be.\"\n\n'What, on the throne of God! Yes, even _there_ He bids you come;\nfor what does He say? \"To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with\nMe in My throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with My Father\nin His throne.\" Oh, what a wonderful promise! We could never have\nthought of it; we could never have believed it; we could never even have\ndreamt of such a thing, if the Master had not told us Himself.'\n\nAnd then he concluded by asking us to remember our glorious future.\n'Sometimes,' he said, 'you get downhearted, full of sorrow and fear, and\nyou say, \"I shall never hold on to the end.\" Oh, dear friends, it is\nworth an effort, for at the end lies home, at the end stands the throne\nof God, with a place waiting for you upon it. \"Where I am, there shall\nalso My servant be.\"\n\n'What if you have to bear something for the Master's sake? What if you\nhave to give up friends or comforts for Him? What if you have to take up\nyour cross and follow Him? It is only for a few days, only for a little\nwhile, and home is coming. \"Where I am, there shall also My servant be.\"\nIs it not worth while?'\n\nThen, as he ended, he spoke a few words to all who were there, and he\nbegged those who were not servants of Christ, to consider what they were\nlosing. 'All this might be yours,' he said, 'the wide-open gates, the\nHeavenly City, the seat on the glorious Throne; but you are turning your\nbacks on it all, and you are choosing instead--what? A few of earth's\nfleeting pleasures, a little of this world's passing enjoyment. Oh, dear\nfriends, think before it is too late, what your eternal loss will be!'\n\nHe said much more, but I cannot remember it now. I only know that I came\naway feeling that I had been very near the golden gates of which he\nspoke, and had heard the Master's voice saying to me, 'Where I am, there\nshall also My servant be.'\n\nThe tide was coming in as we left the service, and I was standing on the\nshore watching the waves rolling in over the rocks, when I felt an arm\nslipped in mine, and when I looked round, to my great surprise, I found\nthat it was Tom.\n\n'Why, Tom!' I said, 'back already? how early you have come home!'\n\n'Back, Jack?' he said, laughing; 'why, I've never been.'\n\n'Do you mean you haven't been to Scarborough?'\n\n'No, of course not; you didn't think I would go without you, old boy.\nWe'll go to-morrow, of course. I thought we settled that last night.'\n\n'Why, I've been thinking of you in Scarborough all day!' I said.\n\n'Then your thoughts have gone in a wrong direction for once, Jack,' he\nreplied, 'for I've been here all the time.'\n\n'I'll walk with you up the hill,' I said; 'it isn't quite dinner-time.'\n\nI was very pleased to see him, and to find that he did not appear to be\nvexed with me. We chatted for some time, and then he said casually, 'He\ndoes not speak badly, that lay preacher of yours, Jack.'\n\nI stood still in astonishment. 'Who?' I said, 'Mr. Christie? Why, you\nsurely were not at the service, Tom! Oh, I know,' I cried, before he\ncould answer, 'you were behind the bank; I saw a black and white cap,\nand I thought how much it was like yours.'\n\n'It could not be much more like, seeing that it was the very same,' said\nTom.\n\n'I'm so glad you heard him,' I ventured to say.\n\nHe made no answer, so I thought it was better to say no more; but when\nwe reached the top of the hill, and he was just leaving me, he said:\n\n'Jack, I'm afraid I was a bit crusty last night. You must not think any\nmore of it, old fellow. We'll have a jolly day at Scarborough to-morrow.\nAnd, Jack,' he went on, 'I was very much annoyed at the time, I own I\nwas; but I'm not sure after all that you're not right.'\n\nHe said no more, but hurried away, and it was many years before he\nreferred to the subject again; but the day came when he did mention it,\nand when he told me, with tears in his eyes, that he looked upon that\nSunday at Runswick as the first link in the chain of God's loving\nProvidence, by means of which He had led him to Himself. He told me then\nthat he had never forgotten my firm refusal to go with him, and he had\nnever forgotten the sermon to which he had listened hidden from sight by\nthe bank.\n\nOur day at Scarborough exceeded all our anticipations. The weather was\nglorious, and Tom was in excellent spirits, and we thoroughly enjoyed\neverything.\n\nI could not help feeling sorry when Thursday came, which was to be my\nlast day at Runswick Bay. It had been such a happy and so eventful a\ntime. I seemed to have passed through so much, and to have learnt so\nmuch unknown to me before, that I felt very reluctant to bring my\nholiday to a close. As for Duncan and Polly, they were quite melancholy\nas the time for my departure drew near.\n\n'We _shall_ feel lost without you, sir,' said Duncan. 'We shan't\nknow what to do'; and there were tears in Polly's eyes as she said\nmournfully, when she set the herrings on the table for my supper,\n'Them's the last herrings I shall fry you, sir, and I feel as if there\nwas going to be a death in the house.'\n\n'Cheer up, Polly,' I said, 'who knows? Perhaps you may have to put up\nwith me next time I get a holiday, and you may be sure I shall want\nplenty of herrings then.'\n\nShe brightened a little at this, and little John, who was quite well\nnow, and who had become very friendly with me since his illness, climbed\nup on my knee, and stroked my face with his little thin hand, as if he\nwere trying to coax me to come back to them again.\n\nThere was one thing which I had a great desire to do before leaving\nRunswick. I knew that Duncan was much troubled about the Mary Ann. She\nhad been terribly knocked about in the storm, which was no wonder,\nseeing that she had drifted about, bottom upwards, and had been driven\nhither and thither on the waves. When Duncan had examined her the day\nafter his arrival, he had found that she leaked in several places, and\nwas altogether unseaworthy, and he had been obliged to hire a boat until\nsuch time as the Mary Ann could be properly repaired. Then he went over\nto Whitby, and brought an experienced man back with him, and he\noverhauled her thoroughly, and gave it as his opinion that it would be a\nwaste of money to try to patch her up.\n\nWhen Duncan came in that night I saw that the poor fellow was terribly\ndowncast. 'The Mary Ann's days are numbered, sir; she'll never be able\nto rough it again,' he said. 'She's been a good old boat to me and my\nfather before me, and it will be like parting from an old friend to give\nher up. Yon man, he says she might be cobbled together a bit; but you\nwould never make a good job of her; she'd do maybe well enough for fine\nweather, but you couldn't trust to her in a storm.'\n\nI saw Polly turn pale as he said this. 'Duncan,' she said, going up to\nhim, and laying her hand on his arm, 'you'll never go in her again;\npromise me that. Think of me and little John, Duncan.'\n\n'Ay, my lass,' he said; 'ay, Polly, I do think of thee and little John;\nbut the worst of it is there's bread must be earnt for thee and little\nJohn. I can't let thee starve, wife.'\n\n'What about the bank-book, Duncan?' I said.\n\nHe went to the old oak-chest, and brought it out. I was much touched by\nhis handing it to me, and bidding me see how it stood. He was perfectly\nopen with me, and spoke to me as freely as if I had been an old and\ntried friend. I added up the amount and read it out to him.\n\n'Well, sir,'he said, 'it's getting on; but it's a good ten pound short\nyet. We shall have to hire Brown's boat a bit and do as well as we can,\nthough it isn't a very paying business when one takes to hiring: it will\nbe hard enough to make two ends meet, you see, sir, let alone saving up\nfor the new boat. But I can't see nothing else for it, sir; that is, if\nPolly won't let me risk it in the Mary Ann.'\n\n'Duncan,' she said solemnly, 'if thee went to sea in the Mary Ann, and\nshe went to the bottom, I could _never_ say, \"The will of the Lord\nbe done,\" for I don't believe it _would_ be God's will for thee to\ngo in that rotten old thing.'\n\n'Polly is right, Duncan,' I said; 'you must never go in the Mary Ann\nagain.'\n\n'Well, sir,' he said, 'I see what you mean, you and Polly too, and the\nLord will show us what's to be done.'\n\nNothing more was said about the Mary Ann at that time, but I had already\nmade my own plan about the new boat. My aunt had just left me her little\nproperty, and a very nice little property it was. I felt myself a rich\nman, for in addition to money invested in various ways, about L200 of\nready money had been placed to my account at the bank.\n\nWhat could be more delightful, I thought, than to spend the first ten\npounds of this in helping Duncan to complete the purchase of the new\nboat? The only difficulty would be to get Duncan to accept the money,\nfor he had all the honest independence of a Yorkshireman, and I knew\nwould hesitate about receiving help from any one. But, at the same time,\nI knew that in this instance his need was great, and his kindly feeling\ntowards myself was so strong, that I was not without hope that I might\nbe able to manage what I had contemplated without giving the dear fellow\noffence. I thought, at one time, that I would take Mr. Christie into my\nconfidence, and would consult with him, but on second thoughts I decided\nthat it would be wiser not to do so, and felt that I should be more\nlikely to succeed if no one else was in the secret. So I folded my\nbank-note in paper, put it into an envelope, and wrote outside, 'With\nlittle John's love to his daddy, to help him to buy another Little\nJohn.' This I determined to slip into the child's hand when I said\ngood-bye.\n\nThat evening I had supper with the Christies. They were kindness itself,\nand told me what a great pleasure it had been to them to meet me. 'Not\nonly because you are your mother's son, Jack, but for your own sake as\nwell as hers,' said Mr. Christie with a smile.\n\nI wanted to say something in return, but the words would not come--at\nleast not then. But, just before I left, I went with Mr. Christie into\nhis study, and he said, 'Jack, I thought perhaps we might have a little\nprayer together before we part'; and then the words came,--\n\n'Mr. Christie,' I said, 'I can never, never thank God enough that I came\nhere.'\n\n'Let us thank Him together, Jack,' he said.\n\nThen we knelt down, he by the table, and I with my arms resting on the\nold organ, and he thanked God for His mercy in bringing me across the\nline, and he committed me to His care and keeping to bring me safely\nalong the road which leads home.\n\nThe next morning I was up early, for our train started at eight, and we\nhad two miles to walk. I had told Polly I should want nothing but a cup\nof tea before I set off, but when I came down I found a most tempting\nbreakfast prepared for me--ham and eggs, and toast in abundance, and\nfresh lettuces from Duncan's small garden.\n\n'Well, Polly,' I said, 'you are spoiling me to the last.'\n\n'We can never make enough of you, sir,' said Polly, and there were tears\nin her eyes as she said it.\n\nI ran up to pack my bag and collect my things, and I determined to start\nin good time, so that I might allow myself a few minutes to say good-bye\nto the Christies.\n\n'I must be off, Duncan,' I said.\n\nHe was standing outside with little John in his arms, and Polly, with\nher hat on, was standing beside him.\n\n'We're coming along with you, sir, to the station,' said Duncan. 'You\nwon't think it a liberty will you, sir? but me and Polly and little John\nwould like to see the last of you.'\n\n'Come, that _is_ good of you,' I said. 'I shall have a grand escort\nup the hill!'\n\nPolly took the child from his father, and Duncan carried my bag and\neasel, and would not even hear of my giving him a hand with them.\n\nI ran into the Christies, but could find no one below; however, I heard\na great running backwards and forwards overhead, and presently Mr.\nChristie called out of the bedroom window, 'Wait one moment, Jack; we\nare all coming to see you off.'\n\nSo my escort increased as I proceeded, and Tom, as he came out of the\nhotel, said he thought the whole of Runswick must be going by the early\ntrain, when he saw us, one after another, come toiling up the hill.\nLittle Jack rode up the whole way on my back, and his horse was very hot\nwhen the top was reached.\n\nThough it is now so many years ago I can see that little party of\nfriends standing together on the platform, as the train moved out of the\nstation. I can feel again the warm grasp of Mr. Christie's hand, and can\nhear his whispered, 'God bless you, Jack!' I can see Mrs. Christie\nholding Marjorie by the hand, and waving her handkerchief to me, and can\nhear little Jack crying out, 'Come back soon, do, big Mr. Jack.' I can\nsee Duncan bareheaded, with little John in his arms, the child waving\nthe envelope which I had put in his hand as I stepped into the carriage,\nand which was still unopened. I can see Polly wiping her eyes with her\napron, and then holding it up and waving it till I was lost to sight. I\ncan see them all as they appeared to me that day, kind hearts and true,\nnot one of them ranking amongst the number whom the world counts great,\nand yet all of them well known to Him who calleth His own sheep by name\nand leadeth them out.\n\nI must just mention here that I had a very touching letter from Duncan\nat the end of that week. The spelling was most wonderful, and the\ngrammar was quite of his own making; but it was full, from end to end,\nof the most simple-hearted affection, and of the deepest gratitude.\n\n'Me, and my missus, and little John, can never be thankful enough, sir,'\nhe said, 'and when the other 'Little John' is afloat, as please God she\nsoon will be, we hopes as how you will come and have a sail in her.'\n\nSo ended my visit to Runswick; and when I consider all that happened\nduring those few weeks, I think it is small wonder that the little bay\nis still fresh in my memory, and that Ella's yellow ragwort made me\ndream of it so distinctly. For surely that month was the most important\nmonth in my life, for was it not the beginning of a new life, which,\nthank God, has continued ever since?\n\nI can say to-day, even as I said then, 'One is my Master, even Christ,'\nand I can look forward, humbly but hopefully, to the time when the\ngolden gates will open to me, and when the Master's promise will be\nfulfilled to me, 'Where I am, there shall also My servant be.'\n\n  O Jesus Christ, my Master,\n    I come to Thee to-day;\n  I ask Thee to direct me\n    In all I do or say:\n  I want to keep my promise\n    To be Thy servant true,\n  I come to Thee for orders;\n    Dear Lord, what shall I do?\n\n  I want a heart not heeding\n    What others think or say;\n  I want a humble spirit,\n    To listen and obey.\n  To serve Thee without ceasing,\n    'Tis but a little while,--\n  My strength, the Master's promise,\n    My joy, the Master's smile.\n\n\nA.C.W.","title":"Christie, the King's Servant: A Sequel to \"Christie's Old Organ\"","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":32303}