The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories. Alexander Francesca

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      He could not taste of the food prepared

      Till he his errand to both declared.

      Said he: "My friends, I have come to-day

      With something grave on my mind to say,

      And more to hear; and I pray you now

      To answer truly, and not allow

      A feeling, whether of pride or shame,

      Or any shrinking from praise or blame,

      To change the answer you both may give,

      Of what you are and of how you live."

      Then she with distaff still at her side,

      Of speech more ready, at once replied.

      In years the elder, but not in face,

      She kept a little of youthful grace:

      The dark eyes under her snow-white hair

      Were keen and clear as the autumn air!

      "We are but what we appear to be:

      Two toiling women, as you may see!

      And neither so young nor strong as when

      In field and forest we helped the men.

      We now have only the lesser care,

      To keep the house, and the meals prepare,

      And other labours of small account,

      Yet something worth in the week's amount.

      But in our youth, and a lifetime through,

      We laboured, much as the others do!

      Through storm and sunshine we still have tried

      To do our best by our husbands' side.

      And keep their hearts and our own at rest

      When sickness came or when want oppressed.

      For even famine our house assailed

      That year when the corn and chestnuts failed.

      And once – that winter ten years ago —

      Our house was buried beneath the snow,

      And ere it melted and light returned,

      The very benches for warmth we burned!

      Nor is there want, in our busy hive,

      Of children keeping the house alive:

      For she has seven, and I have nine;

      But three of hers and the first of mine

      Are safe with Jesus, – more happy they!

      Two more have married and gone away.

      My son's young wife, with her infant small,

      Make up the household – fourteen in all."

      "In this," he said, "there is much to praise:

      In humble service you pass your days,

      And spend your life for your children's needs.

      But tell me now of the pious deeds

      (For such there are) that you seek to hide,

      To me in a vision signified!"

      "But, sir, we are just two poor old wives.

      Who never have done in all our lives

      A pious deed that was worth the name!"

      She said; and her white head drooped with shame.

      Then said the other: "And yet, 't is true,

      We help in all that our husbands do.

      When twice a year they have killed a sheep,

      'T is only half for ourselves we keep;

      Our poorer neighbours have all the rest.

      And this, I fear, is the very best

      We ever do!" "And," said he, "'t is well!

      But think – is there nothing more to tell?"

      They both were silent a little space,

      And each one questioned the other's face,

      Till, doubtful, when she had thought awhile,

      The elder said, with a modest smile:

      "This summer have forty years gone by,

      Since she – my sister-in-law – and I

      Together came in this house to dwell;

      And, Father, it is not much to tell,

      But in all these years, from first to last,

      No angry word has between us passed,

      Nor even a look that was less than kind.

      And that is all I can call to mind."

      Enough it was for the hermit's need!

      He rose, like one from a burden freed.

      "Thank God!" he said; "if indeed He sees

      My soul as worthy and white as these!

      And great the mercy He doth bestow,

      That I should His hidden servants know!"

      A sudden flash, as of heavenly light,

      Then shone within him, and all was bright;

      And in a moment were things made clear

      Had vexed him many a weary year!

      For he, who had thought on earth to view

      God's people only a scattered few,

      Saw now, in spirit, an army great

      Of hidden servants who on Him wait.

      No saintly legends their names disclose,

      And no man living their number knows,

      Nor can their service and place declare.

      The hidden servants are everywhere!

      And some are hated, despised, alone;

      And some to even themselves unknown.

      But the Father's house has room for all,

      And never one from His hand can fall!

      The one brave deed of a desperate man,

      Grown hard in crime since his youth began,

      Who yet, for a helpless woman's sake,

      Had strength to rise, and his chain to break;

      The holy sweetness that fills the heart

      Of him who dwells from the world apart,

      His life one dream of celestial things,

      Till almost heaven to earth he brings;

      Or yet the humble, unnoticed life

      Of toiling mother and patient wife,

      Who, year on year, has had grace to bear

      Her changeless burden of daily care, —

      Are all accepted with equal love,

      And laid with treasures that wait above

      Until the day when we all believe

      That every man shall his deeds receive.

      And when, that evening, with weary feet

      The hermit stood by his lone retreat,

      And watched awhile, with a tranquil gaze,

      The mountains soft in the sunset haze,

      And sleeping forest, and field below,

      He said, as he saw the star-like glow

      Of lights in the cottage windows far,

      "How many God's hidden servants are!"