The Little Missis. Charlotte Skinner

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СКАЧАТЬ understand wishing was not sufficient, that a definite act was needed. So the night before last I got out of bed and knelt down by my old easy-chair, and told Jesus I gave myself entirely to Him, that He should be my dear Master, and that I would be willing to do all He wished."

      How well the old friend could see the scene! She knew the room so well. The old chair was covered with brown leather, and it was the chair the girl's mother had died in. By its side stood a little writing-table, and on the wall above were portraits—mostly cut from newspapers and magazines—of some eminent men and women whom the girl regarded as heroes and heroines. An old apple-tree grew close by the window, and in the summer-time little could be seen of the outside world but its green leaves and greener fruit. When the wind blew the boughs tapped, tapped at the window-panes, but Phebe would not have them cut. "I like to think," said she, "they are messengers come to tell me the old tree's secrets."

      "Since then," the girl continued, "I have been so happy; and is it not funny," turning now towards the fire, "that the very next day Ralph should ask me to be his wife? So I have given myself away twice since I last saw you."

      "I wonder if there is anything left of you for me?" Mrs. Colston asked, with a twinkling smile.

      "Yes; I'm still yours. I could never forget how you loved me when I was a little crying mite. You gave me two kisses; I'll give you two—one for being good to me when I was a troublesome juvenile, and one for being good to me now I am a proper grown-up. But I have not finished my story, and if you interrupt me again I shall turn the mangle instead of talking to you. I think I told you a long time ago how much I wanted to write a book—indeed, I have tried, and sent little chapters of it to editors in London, but they have always been returned with thanks. Now you see Jesus has opened up my way to serve Him. I am going to help Ralph with his lectures and speeches—he says I shall—and I shall go with him to all his engagements. He says those who ask him must ask me, too; and, after all, to live a life for Jesus is better than writing a book for Him."

      "Comes to about the same thing, I should think."

      "I am sure you will be happy now I am a Christian"—this with a coaxing voice.

      "But you are a very young Christian."

      "A young Christian! Whatever do you mean?"

      "My dear child, you have only just started. Why, even the daisies don't come up all at once: flowers and fruits that do, don't come to much."

      "If that is what you mean," Phebe replied, with a sigh of relief, "I don't mind."

      "Why, you think of my work," the old woman continued; "I often do. The clothes are not finished when the dirt's out, and you are not a finished Christian as soon as your sin's forgiven. The clothes have to be bleached and dried, and then there comes the getting out of the creases, and so I mangle them and mangle them."

      "But look here," said Phebe, laughing, "you don't mean to say I have got to be mangled?"

      "You need not laugh, my dear, for I am quite sure if Jesus was to speak just now He'd use my old mangle for a text. I know He would; and why shouldn't He, just as well as using the woman's candle and yeast, and the man's fishing-net and pruning-knife."

      "I should not like to think I had to be mangled."

      "It's more than mangling, Miss Phebe, for if we want to put a nice polish on the clothes we use a hot iron to them. You are used to the thought of being like gold in the fire, and a lump of clay in the potter's hand: why not think of yourself as under my roller? I often and often think, as I smoothes out the marks, and stretches the corners, and turns, and turns, that is just how Jesus is doing with me."

      "H'm," mused Phebe, "I suppose it's another way of describing tribulation. But do you suppose everybody has tribulation?"

      "I do; there isn't a plant in my little garden I haven't used the scissors to."

      "Ah, well, I suppose we must submit."

      "Yes, dearie; and we must look beyond to the afterwards. When we see what the Lord has made us we shall thank Him. Why, the things that I carefully pack in the baskets are hardly like the same things I take out, they look that nice."

      "Do you think I shall have much tribulation, dear Mrs. Colston?" asked Phebe anxiously, placing her hand on her old friend's shoulder.

      "I don't know for certain; the Lord only can tell that. But," looking up lovingly into the face of her favourite, "don't you worry, He'll help you right through, sure enough."

      When Miss Phebe had taken her departure and the mangle had started again its painful song, the old woman said to herself: "Strikes me she will have a good deal; but it will be because the Lord wants her to be extra polished. She's real damask, she is; worth taking a good deal of trouble with. Some folks are only like dusters, and if the Lord was like me He'd not take much trouble with them. But, bless me, it's a good thing the Lord is not like me, it 'ud be a poor look-out for some folks if He was."

      As Miss Phebe walked home she said to herself: "I thought it was all settled, but it would seem I have only just commenced." That night she again knelt by the old arm-chair. It had always seemed she could pray best there, for it recalled the time when she had knelt at her mother's knees, and had first learnt to talk to Jesus. "Dear Lord," she prayed, "make me a true Christian; and help me to be perfectly willing to let Thee do it in whatever way you think will be best for me."

      A mile away, in a farmhouse on a height over-looking the little town of Hadley, another earnest soul knelt in prayer: "Lord, help me to put her out of my thoughts. If this is allowed by Thee as discipline, make me willing to bear it. Lord, help me, but Thou knowest how much I loved her!" and a sob, which would have broken his mother's heart if she had heard it, escaped from Stephen Collins as he looked forward into the future.

      At the foot of the same hill, in the back parlour of a thriving shop, a young fellow was counting his day's takings, and when he had finished, he drew his chair up to the fire to think things over. "Steve Collins thought he was sure of her, I know he did; but I got the start of him for once. I wonder if Phebe's father is really well off! I have got on very well so far, but it is slow work in this sleepy place."

      The gardener pegs some of his plants down to the ground: some he places by a south wall, some in open spaces where the north wind has free access. He has a purpose with each, and whatever he does is for their "making."

CHAPTER II

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THE HOME-COMING

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      "I say, mother, they've come!"

      "Well, let them. What do I care?"

      "Oh, but just come and look a minute. See how carefully he is helping her out of the cab. She's a sight too good for him. There! I've got a brilliant idea. I'll go and give them a tune. She shall enter her bridal home to the strains of music," and away downstairs Miss Bessie Marchant rushed. She was the daughter of Mr. Marchant, chemist, Ralph Waring's neighbour.

      "What is that girl playing?" exclaimed Mrs. Marchant a few minutes afterwards, as she was preparing supper in the kitchen.

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