'So Felix said, "When I have a more convenient season I will send for thee," but Felix never did send; he never crossed the line, but he was drawn over to the fearful depths.'

'Well, suppose we say to-morrow. It's late now, and you're tired, I know, and—'

'God says to-day he said. '"To-day, if ye will hear His voice, harden not your hearts. Behold, now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation."'

'Tell me how I can come,' I said.

'"Come over the line to Me." There you have it,' he answered. 'The Lord calls you, and you have not far to go. It is only a step. He stands in this room close to you. He holds out His arms to you. He does not compel you. He does not force you forward. He calls, and He waits to receive you. Jack, will you come?'

'Yes, I will,' I said earnestly; 'I will come.'

We knelt down together, and I cannot remember the words he said, but I know that whenever I read in the Gospels those words in the first chapter of St. John, 'He brought him to Jesus,' I think of that night. I do not think that Peter and Andrew felt the Lord Jesus more near them in the booth by the side of the Jordan than we felt Him in that little room in Runswick Bay.

I know He was there, and I know something more—I know that I came to Him. And I know that that night, before we rose from our knees, I crossed the line, and I was able henceforth to take my place amongst the glad, thankful people who can say, humbly and yet confidently, 'We know that we have passed from death unto life.'



Chapter VIII

A NIGHT OF STORM

It was late when I got back to my lodging, and I walked like one in a dream. Polly opened the door, and she seemed troubled about the child. Little John was evidently in pain, for I heard him moaning as I went upstairs.

'I should get a doctor, Polly,' I said.

'So Duncan says, sir; we shall have to send for him in the morning if he's no better.'

I slept calmly and peacefully, and I woke up to feel that I was beginning an entirely new life. Henceforth I was not my own. I was standing on the heavenward side of the line, and I had taken my place amongst the servants of Christ. I had never felt so happy before.

Duncan had set off for the doctor before I was down that morning. Little John was better, Polly said, but was still very feverish, and would eat nothing. She brought him down before I went off to my work, wrapped in a shawl, and I thought he looked very ill, but I did not like to say so.

Duncan came in just at that moment, and the child put out his arms to his father, and he took him on his knee by the fire, and when I came home to dinner he was still lying there.

'Has the doctor been?' I asked.

'No, sir; he was out when I called this morning. He had gone to a bad case, they said, ten miles off, but I left a message. I hope he'll come before I go this evening. I should be more comfortable like if he did.'

However, the evening came, and Duncan's mates were whistling for him from the shore, and the doctor had not appeared. The boy was still in his father's arms, and he was walking up and down the kitchen to soothe him.

'It's hard to leave him, sir,' he said, when he heard the whistle, 'but he seems a bit better, I think, this afternoon; he hasn't cried so much, has he, Polly?'

But I saw there were tears in his eyes as he gave the boy to his mother.

'I'll walk with you to the shore, Duncan,' I said, for I saw that the poor fellow was very downcast.

'Thank you kindly, sir,' he answered.

I stood on the shore whilst the nets and fishing tackle were put on board, then he said in a low voice,—

'It's a comfort to feel you will be near my poor lass to-night, sir. It cuts me to the heart to leave her; if anything happens to little John, whatever would me and my missus do! But the Lord knows, sir—He knows,' he repeated, and he wiped away a tear which fell on my hand as he grasped it.

I went back to Duncan's house, to find the doctor there. It was influenza and pneumonia, he said, and the boy must be kept in one room. He was a very silent man, and whether he thought it was a serious case or not I could not discover.

I determined not to go to bed that night, but to sit up in my room, in case I should be of any use. I was really glad of the quiet time for thought and prayer.

I am ashamed to confess that I had brought no Bible with me to Runswick Bay; I had not opened a Bible for years. But when all was quiet in the house I stole quietly downstairs, and brought up Duncan's Bible, which was lying on the top of the oak cupboard below. What a well-worn, well-read Bible it was! I wondered if my mother's Bible had been read like that. There was his name on the title-page, 'John Duncan, from his affectionate father.' It had evidently been given to him when a boy, and underneath the name was written this verse: 'Open Thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of Thy law.' I said that little prayer before I began to read, and I have said it ever since each time that I have opened my Bible.

About twelve o'clock that night the weather became very stormy. A sudden gale set in, and in a very short time the sea became lashed into a fury. I have never heard wind like the wind that night. It literally shrieked and moaned as it blew, and every window and door in the house rattled, and sometimes I felt as if the cottage itself would be swept away.

'What a time they must be having out at sea!' I said to myself.

I went to the window, and putting out my candle, I tried to see out into the darkness; but I could distinguish nothing whatever, so black was the sky and so tremendous was the rain.

It must have been about one o'clock that I heard a step on the stairs. I opened my door and went out. It was Polly.

'How is he, Polly?' I asked.

'Very bad, sir; very bad,' she said. 'He doesn't know me now, and he won't take anything; and oh, sir, do you hear the wind?'

Who could help hearing it? It was raging more furiously every moment, and the house seemed to rock with the violence of the storm.

'Let me help you, Polly,' I said; 'let me come and sit with you beside little John.'

'Well, sir, if you would just stay a few minutes whilst I fetch Betty Green,' she said; 'I feel as if I dursn't be alone any longer, I'm getting that nervous, what with little John talking so queer, sir, and the wind blowing so awful, and his father on the sea!' and Polly burst into tears.

'Polly,' I said, 'God is on the sea as well as on the land. Go and fetch Betty, and I will sit by the child.'

She went down and opened the door, and the wind rushed into the house and up the stairs, and I had to shut the bedroom door hastily to keep it out. Then I heard Polly pulling and pulling at it, and vainly trying to shut it, and I had to go down to help her. She was some minutes away, for she had difficulty in rousing her neighbour, and I sat beside the unconscious child. He was talking the whole time, but I could distinguish very little of what he said. It seemed to be chiefly about going with his daddy in his boat, and every now and then he would call out quite loudly, 'Come, daddy, come, daddy, to little John.'

When Polly returned with old Betty, I had again to go down to help them to close the door.

'What do you think of him, sir?' said Polly.

I did not like to say what I thought, so I answered, 'Well, perhaps it would be as well to get the doctor to have another look at him. I'll go for him if you like.'

'I don't believe you could manage it, sir,' said Betty. 'You can't stand outside; me and Polly has been clinging on to the palings all the way, and it will be terrible up on the top.'

'Shall I try, Polly?'

She gave me a grateful look, but did not answer by words. But the two women gave me so long a description of the way to the doctor's house, and interrupted each other so often, and at length both talked together in their eagerness to make it clear to me, that at the end I was more bewildered and hopelessly puzzled than at the beginning, and I determined to go to Mr. Christie before I started, in order to obtain from him full and clear directions.

It took me quite ten minutes to reach his house, and I felt as if I had gone through a battle when I arrived there at length, quite spent and breathless. I saw a light in the lower room, and I found Mr. Christie and his wife and children sitting in the room where I had passed through so much the night before. Marjorie and little Jack were in their nightgowns, wrapped in a blanket, and sitting in the same arm-chair. My mother's picture was looking at me from the wall, and I fancied that she smiled at me as I came in.

'What a terrible night!' said Mrs. Christie. 'The children were so frightened by the noise of the wind in their attic that we brought them down here.'

I told them my errand, and Mr. Christie at once offered to go with me for the doctor. I shall never forget that walk as long as I live. We could not speak to each other more than a few necessary words, we were simply fighting with the storm. Then, to our disappointment, when our long walk was ended, we found that the doctor was away, and would probably not return until morning.

The walk home was, if possible, worse than the walk there, for the wind was dead against us as we came down the cliff. It had changed somewhat the last hour, and was now blowing from the north-east.

'There will be trouble out at sea,' Mr. Christie said, as we stopped to take breath.

'And what about the boats?' I asked.

'Yes,' he said, almost with a groan, 'what about the boats?'

We could see very little out at sea, though it was beginning to grow light, but we determined to make our way to the shore, to see all that it was possible to distinguish. He went home for a moment, and then followed me to my lodging. Polly and her old friend were still watching the child.

'I think he's a little better, sir,' she said; 'he's quieter. Oh, Mr. Christie, I am glad to see you, sir! Will you pray, sir? I think I shall hear the wind less if you pray!'

We knelt down beside the child's bed, but the noise of the storm almost drowned his voice. At the end of the prayer the child began once more to cry for his father, so piteously, so beseechingly, that at last I could bear it no longer, but ran downstairs, to be out of the sound of that touching little voice. Mr. Christie soon followed me, and we went out together in the grey light of that terrible morning.

'The child is dying, Jack,' he said.

'Oh, don't say so, Mr. Christie!' I answered; 'dying before his father comes back.'

'God grant he may come back!' he said; 'look at the sea, Jack.'

The sea was dashing wildly against the rocks, and the noise of the wind was so great we could hardly hear our own voices. In the dim uncertain light we could at length distinguish a group of anxious watchers on the shore. Some old fishermen were there trying to hold a telescope steady in the gale, that they might look across the water for any sign of a boat, and mothers and wives and sweethearts of the absent fishermen were there also, with shawls tied over their heads, and with troubled and tear-stained faces, peering out into the dismal light of that sorrowful morning.

Mr. Christie and I stood near them, and he spoke from time to time a word of encouragement and hope to the anxious women beside him. As the light increased the wind dropped somewhat, and the gale seemed to have spent its violence. We were thankful to notice, that although the sea was still very rough, and would be so for hours, the wind was gradually subsiding; instead of howling and shrieking, as it had done the whole night long, it was dying away with gentle moans, like a child weary with passion who is crying himself to sleep. But still there was no sign of the boats.

The women on the shore were wet through, and Mr. Christie tried to persuade them to go home. Their men would want good fires and hot tea on their return, he told them, and they ought to make ready for them. I was glad to notice that one by one they followed his advice, and turned to climb the hill towards their cottages. Then we turned also, and went back to my lodging. We crept into the room, and found old Betty asleep in her chair, and Polly holding the little hand in hers as the child slept.

'Have the boats come, sir?' she said as we went in.

'Not yet, Polly; but please God they will come soon.'

We sat down beside her for a little time, but we presently heard a shout from the shore.

'Thank God,' said Polly, 'he's come!'

The child seemed in some strange way to have heard that shout, and to have understood its meaning, for he opened his eyes and said, 'Come, daddy, come to little John.'

We hurried down to the shore, where a large crowd had already collected. The whole of Runswick Bay seemed to have gathered together in that short space of time. We could distinctly see the boats far out at sea, but wind and tide were with them, and they, were coming rapidly nearer. What a night they must have had, and what a welcome they would receive from the watchers on the shore!

'How many boats went out last night, Bob?' said one man as they drew nearer.

'There was eight, Jem,' he said—'the Jane Ann one, Lady Hilda two, the Susan three, the Mary Ann four, Princess Alice five, the Lightning six, the Eliza seven, the Alert eight.'

'Are you sure, Bob?'

'Quite sure, I saw them start.'

'Well, there's one missing, Jem,' he said; 'catch hold of this glass, and just you count.'

'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.'

There was one missing, and I felt that I knew which it was before they came in sight.

It was the Mary Ann.



Chapter IX

ASK WHAT YE WILL

We had run down the hill as quickly as we possibly could, but we were in no haste to return. We waited until the boats were drawn in, and the worn-out fishermen had come on shore. They knew nothing of the Mary Ann; they had lost sight of her soon after the beginning of the gale. They told us they had had an awful night, and had thought they would never reach home in safety.

'However shall we tell Polly?' I groaned.

But a cold hand was laid on mine at that instant, and I turned round to see Polly herself just behind me. She could wait no longer, but had run down to the shore to hasten her husband up the hill. She was trembling from head to foot, and seemed ready to faint. The kind-hearted fishermen crowded round her with words of cheer and comfort.

'He'll be all right, my lass, never fear. He's put into Saltburn or Staithes maybe; these gales they drive so far. He'll be home all safe and sound afore night.'

But Polly did not seem to hear them. She stretched out her hands feebly to Mr. Christie and to me as she said:

'Take me home; I can bear it better there.'

The fishermen turned away sorrowfully, and there were very few dry eyes amongst the group which we left on the shore.

When we reached the house again all was quite still, and as we entered the bedroom I thought the little soul had passed away, but I bent over him to listen and to my relief I found he was still breathing.

As I look back, I hardly know how we lived through that sorrowful day. The doctor came, and did nothing but shake his head in the ominous way which doctors have when they feel a case is beyond their power. I think Polly had so little hope herself that she did not care to ask him what his real opinion was.

I went out for a short walk in the afternoon, to get a little fresh air to strengthen me for the coming night, when I had determined to watch with Polly beside little John, if he was still living. My young friends, Bob and Harry, joined me, and we were pacing up and down together watching the tide come in when we thought we saw a dark speck far out to sea.

There were others who saw it also. The coastguard was looking at it through his telescope, and before very long the shore was covered with fishermen and their wives, all gazing in the same direction. Whatever the object was, it was coming rapidly shoreward; wind and tide were both with it, and it was being borne swiftly along. After a little time we could distinguish, even without the help of a telescope, what it was, and I do not think there was anything which we could have been more aghast to see, for the floating object was a boat bottom upwards, and being driven rapidly before the tide.

A groan came from the group of fishermen who were watching, and as the capsized boat neared shore they ran into the water to meet it. I do not think it was necessary to look at the name upon it as it was dragged out of the water: we all did look, however, and we found there the name which we knew we should see before we looked. It was the Mary Ann.

I shall never forget the piercing shriek which came from the wife of one of Duncan's mates, who was standing just behind me, when she read the name on the boat. I thought the shock and the sorrow had driven her mad, for she ran screaming up the hill; indeed, I firmly believe that for the time she was quite out of her mind.

Poor Polly heard the shrieks of the woman as she ran under her window, and looking out, she saw the boat on the shore, and guessed the truth at once. She did not scream nor cry, but she looked as if she had been turned into stone. No word escaped her lips, not a tear was in her eye; but she looked as if all her youth had gone in a moment, and as if she had suddenly become an old and worn-out woman.

She never looked up as we went in, but bent over little John, moistening his lips from time to time, and watching his every movement. We tried to say a few words of comfort, but she did not seem even to hear our voices. Yet no moan, no sigh from the child was unheard by her; she seemed to be listening to every breath he drew, as if it might be his last.

I thought that terrible day would never have an end. Mr. Christie stayed with us until dark, and then he took me home with him to supper, that I might get a little change and rest before my night watch. I think they knew how tired I was, worn out more by feeling than by want of sleep, and they were very good to me. I do not think my own mother could have been more kind to me than Mrs. Christie was that night. She told me that she would have had a boy nearly as old as I was if he had lived, but he had died when he was very young; and then they had had no children for many years, not until Marjorie was born.

'Your mother was so good to me when my baby died,' she said. 'I thought I should never be happy again, but she came and talked to me, and made me look from my sorrow to my little boy's gain, and I think her kindness to me and the loving words she spoke made me love her more than ever.'

I felt much better for the good supper, and for the kind words of these dear people, and I went back determined to do all I could for poor Polly and her child through that sorrowful night. I felt so grateful to the Lord Jesus Christ for all He had done for me, and I was very glad to be able to do any little thing to show my love to Him. It seemed to me then, and it seems to me still, that the way in which we can please Him best is by showing kindness to His children. I remembered a verse about a cup of cold water being noticed by Him, if given for His sake, and I thought to myself, 'Polly is not in need of cold water, for she is too cold already, but I might make her a cup of tea.'

The fire was out, and the little kitchen, which was usually so neat, was all in confusion. I lighted the lamp that I might see what I was about, and then I tried to put the little place in order. First I found sticks and coal, and lighted a fire; then, whilst my fire was burning up, I cleared the table, carried the dirty plates and cups into the small back kitchen, found a tablecloth and a clean cup and saucer, and filled the kettle. As soon as the fire was hot enough I put the kettle on, and cutting a slice from the loaf I made some nice crisp toast, such as my aunt used to like when she was ill. Then I heated a plate, and buttered the toast, and set it down by the fire. By this time the kettle was boiling and I made the tea, and I said in my heart when all was finished, 'Lord Jesus, I do this for Thee.'

Then I went upstairs to my hardest task of all, namely, to persuade Polly to come down to eat the little meal I had prepared.

Polly was, as I had expected, most unwilling to leave the child, and at first she firmly declined to move, and would not listen to my pleading words. Yet I could see that she was almost fainting, and I knew that she would need all the strength that she could muster for the night which lay before us. Who knew what that night would bring?

I therefore spoke to her very firmly, telling her that I was willing and anxious to help her in her trouble, but that, if I was to be any use to her, she must not refuse to go downstairs for a few minutes at least, and I promised her to watch little John very carefully, and to call her at once if I saw any change in the child. She obeyed me at last, and I heard her weary footsteps descending the steep stairs.

When I was left alone, I saw that Polly's Bible was lying open by the little oil-lamp which stood on the table, upon which had been placed the medicine and milk for little John's use. I went up to it, and my eye fell upon these words:—

'If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.'

It seemed to me as if that verse was God's direct message to me that night. I saw it as clearly and distinctly as if the page had been lighted with electric light. 'Two conditions and a promise,' I said to myself; 'if only the conditions are fulfilled, the promise is sure.'

What are the two conditions? (1) 'If ye abide in Me.' I asked myself if I was fulfilling that condition. I humbly hoped I was; for, oh, I longed to be in Christ, saved by Him, more than I longed for anything else in this world.

(2) 'If My words abide in you.' Was I fulfilling the second condition? Again I humbly hoped that I was; for I felt that if Christ told me to go to the North Pole, or to an African desert, I would obey gladly. I would go anywhere, I would do anything, to show Him how grateful I was for His love to me.

Then might I claim the promise? I believed that I might.

I laid Polly's Bible on the bed. I knelt down beside little John. I put my finger on the promise, and I prayed, as I had never prayed before, for help in this time of need. I felt very strongly that all power was in the hands of Christ, and that He who healed the sick on earth had lost none of His power, now that He was exalted to the throne of God. I besought Him to come into that room that very night, and to touch and heal little John. And as I rose from my knees I felt that my prayer was heard.

Polly had not returned, so I went to the top of the stairs and listened, and I heard the sound of sobbing. I was thankful to hear it; the tears had come at last, and they would relieve the poor, weary, over-strained heart.

Little John was very quiet, so I crept downstairs. I found to my joy that Polly had eaten most of the toast, and had drunk the tea, and now she was sitting with her feet on the fender and her head in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break. What was it that had brought the tears? She had not cried when the empty boat had come ashore; she had shed no tear when the doctor's face had told her that he had no hope for the child; what was it that had helped her to give way to the tears which were such a relief to her? It was a very simple thing. She had picked up from the floor a little toy, a tiny roughly-shaped boat, which Duncan had made for the child, and which had been little John's greatest treasure. There had come over her such a rush of memories of the happy days of the past, gone, as she believed, for ever, of the father whose fingers had so busily carved the boat for his boy, but who would never come back to her again, and of the little lad passing away from her also, and leaving his treasured toy behind him. All these sad but lovely memories came before her, as she took up the little boat and pressed it to her lips. They came so strongly and with such power, that the tears which had refused to come before came with them, and brought, as I felt sure they would, wonderful relief to her over-strained heart.

'Polly,' I said, 'cheer up, don't lose heart; I believe little John will recover.'

'Thank you, sir, thank you,' she said; as she dried her eyes. 'I feel better now, a deal better, I do. You have been good to me, sir. I'll go up again to him now.'

'All right, Polly,' I said; 'I'll make up the fire, and then I'll come and help you. He's asleep now, Polly.'

'I'll creep quietly up, then, sir,' she said, and I saw as she rose to go that the stony look had gone out of her face and that she was herself again.

That sleep lasted for hours. It was a quiet night, the wind had quite gone down, and everything seemed more still after the tumult of the previous night. I was glad to see that Polly herself at length fell asleep in her chair; little John's hand lay in hers, and I knew she would wake with his least movement; but I was pleased to see it, for I felt sure that even a light sleep would soothe and strengthen her.

I had just looked at my watch, and had seen that it was nearly half-past two, when I thought I heard footsteps outside, and a moment afterwards there came a gentle knock at the door. It seemed a strange time for a visitor, but I thought probably it was some neighbour come to offer to help Polly in her long night watch, or perhaps it was Mr. Christie come to see how we were getting on. I crept softly downstairs, lest either Polly or the child should wake, and carefully unfastening the bolts I opened the door.

I nearly yelled with joy when I saw who was standing there. Never in all my life have I been more glad to see any man than I was that night to see Duncan, alive and uninjured, whilst all day long I had been picturing him being driven backwards and forwards by the waves, a drowned corpse at the mercy of the relentless sea.

He grasped my hand and came in to the fire, but at first he could not speak.

'Sir,' he said at last, in a broken voice, 'am I too late? Tell me the truth, sir; don't hide it over like; is little John dead?'

'No, Duncan,' I said, 'he still lives, and he is asleep; and, Duncan, I believe he will be given back to you.'

'Thank God!' he said; 'thank God for that!'

For just a moment a doubt crossed my mind as to whether I ought to give him this hope, and yet I rebuked myself for this doubt, for I was clinging to the promise, and the word of the Lord was sure, and I believed that if what I asked was good for these poor souls it must be granted to me.

Duncan had now sat down in his arm-chair, and by the light of the fire I could see that he was faint and exhausted. He leant back wearily for some time and seemed unable to speak. I had left the kettle on the fire, and I hastened to give him a cup of tea and something to eat.

Then I crept upstairs to see what was going on, but finding Polly and little John were still both fast asleep, I came back to him. He was better for the tea, and able to talk to me.

'I've had an awful time, sir,' he said, in answer to my inquiry. 'Many and many's the time since I was a boy that I've been near the dark valley, but this time, why, I think I've been half-way down it, sir. How's my poor lass, sir?'

'Very cut up, Duncan,' I said. 'She thinks you are dead. Your boat came up with last night's tide.'

'Poor Polly, poor lass!' he said; 'I'll go to her.'

'Wait a little, Duncan,' I said; 'she is asleep now, and she will bear the joy better when she wakes.'

'And my little lad?' he asked.

'Sleeping too, Duncan, so peacefully and quietly.'

'Well, it's hard not to go up, sir, but may be you're right.'

He waited very patiently for an hour, and when I crept up again at the end of that time Polly and the child were both awake, and she was giving him some milk. Little John was quite conscious, and looked more like himself than he had done since his illness began. He had no sooner finished his milk, however, than he began his old weary cry, 'Come, daddy, come to little John.'

Polly burst into tears again when she heard him calling for the father whom she believed to be dead; but I bent over the child and said, 'Yes, little John, daddy will come to you.'

I believe Polly fancied that I thought the child was dying, and that I meant his father's spirit was coming to fetch him, for she only cried the more bitterly and said, 'Oh, little John, little John!'

But when I added, 'Shall I fetch daddy, little John?' she sprang to her feet and looked at me wildly, but without speaking a word.

There was no need for me to say more, for she heard the sound of a well-known footstep on the stairs, and in another moment she was in her husband's arms.

I felt then that my work was over, and that the best thing that I could do would be to go to bed. But I glanced back from the door as I went out, and I saw the little hands held out, and I heard Duncan sob like a child as he cried, 'Oh, my little lad, my own little John, I never thought to see you again!'



Chapter X

WE KNOW

The next day Duncan was able to tell me what he had passed through during that terrible night. It seems he was separated from the other boats by the very first outburst of the gale, and never saw them again through the long hours of that night of storm. For some considerable time he and his mates, by straining every nerve, were able to keep the water out of their boat; but as the night went on, and the sea grew rougher and the waves seemed mountains high, they were compelled at last to own that their attempt was hopeless. 'At that time,' said Duncan, 'I just trusted my soul again to Christ, for I expected the next wave would sweep us to the bottom.'

'Was I frightened, sir, did you say? No, I think not; I felt more awed like, if you understand, and in them few moments all sorts of thoughts seemed to be running through my head, but through them all was the thought of my poor lass, of Polly and little John. Yes, sir, of Polly and little John, and I cried to Him as alone could help me, "O God," I said, "save me, for Polly and little John want me so bad!" And He heard my prayer, sir. I've often thought how them fishermen cried to Him in the storm that day, "Master, save us, we perish!" they said; and He heard their cry, didn't He, sir? And He heard mine. Yes, He heard mine, for when the wave did come which carried us over, the Mary Ann was driven right past where we were struggling in the water, and we caught hold on her. We clung on for dear life, sir, but we couldn't have clung there many minutes, for the sea was that cold and icy our hands was well-nigh frozen. But God Almighty knew how to save us, and He sent a steamer to pick us up, in less than ten minutes after we went overboard. And they were good to us, sir, for all they were foreign folk aboard. They warmed us, and gave us hot coffee, and lent us dry clothes, and they ran into the Hull docks in the afternoon and landed us there. Well, sir, you may be sure I came home as quick as ever I could, for I thought maybe I should never see my little lad again. Hasn't God been good to us, now hasn't He, sir?' he concluded, as he gently patted his little boy's hand.

The doctor gave a much better report of little John that day, although he said he was not yet out of danger. But from that time he improved slowly but steadily, and before very long he was able to lie once more in his father's arms, and to stroke his face with his little thin hand.

It was very touching to see the love and the gratitude of both Duncan and Polly; they could not say enough about the help and comfort I had given them in their time of trouble, small though I felt these to have been. If I had been a prince, I think they could not have made more of me, and I believe I should have been altogether spoiled if I had stayed in Runswick Bay much longer.

I had not touched my picture the whole of that week, for whilst our anxiety lasted I had no heart or desire to paint. On Saturday I saw Marjorie and little Jack giving out their pink papers, and I went to meet them.

'One for you, big Mr. Jack,' said the merry little rogue, as he threw it up in the air for me to catch.

The subject for the following day I saw was to be these two words—WE KNOW. I thought, as I put the paper in my pocket, how much had passed since last Sunday, and I thought also how differently I felt with regard to the service on the shore, from what I had done when I received the last pink paper. I had certainly no wish to run away to Kettleness, to be out of the way when it took place.

Sunday morning was bright and beautiful, and little John was so much better that his father was able to leave him and to take his place in the choir. I stood close to the old boat, and Jack put his hand in mine, and let me look at his hymn-book as he sang.

There was a large congregation, the fine day had tempted them out, and I think the danger of their companions and their narrow escape from death had stirred the hearts of the fishermen, and had made many of them feel that 'it is not all of life to live, nor all of death to die.'

'My mates are here to-day, sir,' whispered Duncan, as he went forward to take his place in the boat; 'it's the first time I've been able to persuade them to come. They see the good of it now, sir, you see.'

Never have I heard any man pray more earnestly for a blessing than Mr. Christie did that day, but I do not think even he prayed more earnestly than I did. My whole heart went out to God that day, for was it not my first Sunday on the right side of the line?

And then came the address, and I never noticed a congregation more attentive than was that one gathered on the shore that September morning. I can remember even now a good deal of the sermon.

'WE KNOW,' he said; 'those are strong words, confident words. It is not, We imagine, or We think. It is not even We hope, that would be wonderful; but it is something clearer and far more distinct than that; it is WE KNOW.

'If I were to ask you fishermen, you visitors, you mothers, you little children, this question, "Do you imagine you are on the shore now? Do you think you are here to-day? Do you hope you are listening to me?" what would you answer me?

'You would say, "Mr. Christie, it is not a case of imagining, or thinking, or hoping; we know we are here; we are sure of it."

'Now notice, that is the strong, confident word used in my text to-day. The holy apostle John stands side by side with all of us who have come to Christ, and he bids us join with him in these glad, happy, thankful words, "We know that we have passed from death unto life." We know, we are persuaded, we are sure, that we are on the right side of the line. We know that we have left the company of the servants of sin, and are now the servants of the Lord Jesus Christ.

'Dear friends, I would now ask each of you very earnestly, Can you say that? Can you take your stand by the apostle John, and say, "I know that I have passed from death unto life?"

'I think I hear some one answer in his heart, "Well, that's a great deal for any man to say, and I don't see that any man can know in this life if he is saved or not; when he gets to heaven he'll know he is all right, but not till then."

'Now look again at my text. It does not say, "We shall know"; it does not say, "We hope soon to know"; but it speaks in the present. It runs thus: "We know that we have passed from death unto life." So you see it is possible, nay, it is right, that you and I should, one by one, take up the words and say, "I know."

'Do I hear some one saying in his heart, "I do wish I could say that? I should be a happier man if I could. When I go out in my boat, and the storm rages, and I don't know whether I shall ever see land again, it would be a good thing if I could look up through the wind and tempest, and could say gladly, I know that I have passed from death unto life."'

I thought I heard a groan when he said this, and I looked round, and saw one of Duncan's mates burying his face in his hands.

'Do I hear one of you mothers say, "When I lie awake at night, and the baby will not let me sleep, and I get out and look from my window at the stars shining down upon me, I would give a great deal to say, as I think of the heaven above those stars, 'I know that I have passed from death unto life'"?

'And you, my friend, when the day comes, as come it will, when you lie on your bed, and you see by the doctor's face that you will never get out of it again; when you say to yourself, as the neighbours sit round, "This is my dying bed, and they are watching to see me die," oh, what would you not give at that solemn time to be able to say, "I know that I have passed from death unto life"?

'Do you want to be able to say it? You cannot want it more than God wants to hear you say it. The Christ stands on the shore beside us to-day, and He yearns with unutterable longing, that each man, each woman, each child here present, should be able to take up the words of my text, and say, "I know that I have passed from death unto life."'

Then he went on to tell us that it was not a long, weary, toilsome journey which we had to travel to reach the Christ. He was present amongst us now. He was very near to each one of us; His arms were wide open. He was waiting to receive each one who was willing to cross the line; one step would be sufficient, one step into those open arms. Then we ended by singing a hymn, which seemed to me a very beautiful one:—

'Only a step to Jesus! Believe, and thou shalt live: Lovingly now He's waiting, And ready to forgive.

Only a step to Jesus! A step from sin to grace: What has thy heart decided? The moments fly apace.

Only a step to Jesus! Oh, why not come and say, "Gladly to Thee, my Saviour, I give myself away?" Only a step, only a step, Come, He waits for thee; Come, and thy sin confessing, Thou shalt receive a blessing: Do not reject the mercy He freely offers thee.'

I was glad to see at the end of the service that Duncan's mate was still sitting under the old boat with his hands over his face. He had evidently felt the sermon very much, and when he rose to go home after the others had dispersed, I saw Mr. Christie walking by his side.

That was a lovely Sunday evening. The storm of the week before seemed to have cleared the air, and there was a golden light over everything, until the sun went down behind the hill. I spent the evening at Mrs. Christie's, for Polly was still fully occupied with the child, and was not able to attend to much of the work downstairs. Duncan did the cooking now, and the washing up and the cleaning, and I never saw a more handy man. He waited on me hand and foot, as if I was a lord; but I felt that I was giving the dear fellow a great deal of trouble, and was glad, therefore, to accept Mrs. Christie's invitation to have tea and supper at their house.

Little Jack welcomed me with the greatest joy. He was so delighted to have me at tea, and contemplated me with so much delight and interest from his high chair by my side, that he quite forgot to eat his own tea, and had to be recalled from his admiration of me, time after time, by his mother. After tea he told her he had a great secret to confide to her; he dragged her from the room and led her upstairs, and then with closed doors, and in a whisper so low that she could scarcely distinguish the words, he told her solemnly, 'I do love big Mr. Jack very much,' which secret his faithless mother was treacherous enough to reveal to me, after we had been upstairs that evening to see little Jack in bed.

After we came down, Mrs. Christie lighted the lamp, and we were sitting cosily round the fire talking of my mother, when suddenly there came a knock at the outer door.

'Who can it be?' said Mrs. Christie hastily; 'some one must be ill, I think, so few people come on Sunday.'

She was going to the door, but her little maid had already opened it, and coming into the parlour she announced,—

'There's a gentleman, sir, at the door, says as how he wants Mr. Villiers, sir.'

'A gentleman!' I repeated in astonishment, 'wanting me!'

'Yes, sir, he says he wants you very pertickler, he does.'

I went quickly to the door, wondering very much who could be there, and to my great astonishment I found my friend Tom Bernard, with a black bag in his hand, eagerly awaiting my approach.

'Found at last, old chap,' he cried when he saw me; 'why, I've been hunting for you all over in this rabbit-warren of a place, till at last some of these fisher-lads told me you were in here.'

'And what are you doing here, Tom?' I exclaimed.

'Doing here! Why, I've come to see you, of course, old fellow; what else should I have come for? I set off early this morning, and I thought I would give you a bit of a surprise. Are these your diggings?'

'No,' I said, 'I'm only spending the evening here; but I'll come back with you at once.'

I went in for a moment to explain my sudden departure to Mr. and Mrs. Christie, and then I went with Tom to my lodgings. He looked vastly amused when he saw Duncan's house, and when I told him that I had been there all the time he seemed to think it a capital joke.

'There's no room for me, I'm afraid,' he said, as he looked with an amused smile round my bedroom.

'No, indeed, Tom,' I said, 'and, joking apart, I would not ask you to come here if there was room; the hotel at the top of the hill will suit you better.'

Polly was sitting beside little John, but I tapped at the door, and told her a friend of mine had just arrived from London, and asked her if she thought it would be possible to get him some tea. Just at this moment Duncan came in, and the two good souls did all in their power to do honour to my guest. The whitest tablecloth was spread on the round table, the very finest herrings were cooked, round after round of crisp brown toast was buttered and put before the fire to keep hot, and all was ready in so short a time that Tom was astonished.

He did full justice to the meal, and seemed to appreciate my quarters better after he had partaken of it. Then he declared himself tired out, so I walked with him up to the hotel. He was in high spirits, and was much looking forward to the time we were to have there together, and to all the walks we should take to the places round.

Was I glad that he had come? I asked myself this question many times that night. I was fond of Tom; he had been like a brother to me, and yet—and yet—I wished he had not come to Runswick Bay.

Why was this? Why would I have kept him away if I could? I asked myself this question many times, as I came slowly down the hill that night.

Was it because it would be a hindrance to my work? No, for my picture had made good progress, and I could work it up even better in my studio at home. Besides which, Tom was a good-natured fellow, and would sit smoking and chatting in the old boat whilst I painted.

Was it that I wanted to be quiet, and to enjoy my present surroundings without interruption? No, surely, for Tom's company had always been pleasant to me, and I could not look upon him as a stranger.

Why was it, then, that I felt almost sorry that he had followed me here? I had a suspicion of the right answer to that question, but I did not own it, even to myself, till I entered my lodging.

Duncan was reading a chapter aloud to Polly, as he always did before going to bed. He stopped when he saw me come in, but I said, 'Go on, Duncan, never mind me; I shall like to listen.' And the very first words that Duncan read seemed to me to contain the answer to my question.

'He that is ashamed of Me and of My words, of him shall the Son of Man be ashamed.'

Yes, that was the reason. I was sorry that Tom had come, because I was ashamed of my Master. Since I had seen him last I had changed my service. I used to be a servant of sin, living for self, pleasing self in all things. Now, I had crossed the line, I had joined the company of Christ's servants, and I was afraid of Tom finding it out.

In London I thought I should have seen less of him, and it would have dawned on him gradually; but here he would discover it at once. And I dreaded his doing so. Yes, I was a downright coward, ashamed of the One who had died for me. This was not a comfortable reflection, but I was convinced that it was the truth.

What would be the best thing to do? Should I say anything to Tom about it in the morning? I thought at first that I would speak, and I made up several sentences with which I meant to begin; but the more I thought of it so much the more my heart failed me, and I decided at length that my best plan would be to let Tom find it out for himself.



Chapter XI

LITTLE JACK AND BIG JACK

I think Tom very much enjoyed that week at Runswick Bay. The more he saw of the place the more he liked it. He and Duncan got on famously together. They smoked together on a seat above the house, and Duncan told him stories of shipwrecks and storms, whilst I sat painting just below them.

One night he even persuaded Duncan to let him go out with him fishing, and Duncan confided to me afterwards, 'That there friend of yours, sir, he's a real handy chap; knows how to use his fingers, sir, and isn't afraid of a drop of salt water neither.'

We came across Mr. Christie on the shore the very first time that we went out together, and I introduced him as a friend of my mother whom I had been delighted to find in this out-of-the-way place; and Tom talked very pleasantly to him, and I think liked him.

'What is he doing here, Jack?' he said. 'He does not look like the rest of them.'

'He is a lay-preacher,' I said.

'Whatever in the world is a lay-preacher?' said Tom laughing.

I did not answer, but called his attention to little Jack, who was running along the shore after his red cap, which had been carried off by a gust of wind.

'That's his little boy,' I said, 'and my namesake; they lived in my father's parish in London, and Mr. Christie and his wife adored my mother. It was seeing her photograph on the wall of their room which made them discover who I was.'

'What a splendid little fellow!' said Tom as the child came up to us. 'So you are Jack, are you?'

'Yes, I'm little Jack, and he's big Jack,' said the boy roguishly, looking at me.

I was not surprised that Tom made friends very quickly with my little favourite, for he was wonderfully fond of children, and many were the games which he and the two children had together whilst I was at work.

Every evening Tom and I walked together, and we explored all the country for miles around. Sometimes we went by train and walked back by the cliffs. The train seemed to land us at each station in the midst of fresh beauty, and I came to the conclusion that Yorkshire was indeed, what I had always been told by my mother, the most beautiful county in England.

'Now, Jack,' said Tom on Saturday morning, 'we'll have a really good day to-morrow. You won't want to paint, will you?'

'No,' I said hurriedly, 'I don't paint on Sundays.'

'All right,' he said, 'it's much the best plan; you come fresher to it on Monday. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." That old couplet must have been made for you, Jack. Well, then, let's see, where shall we go? Suppose we make a long day of it, and go to Scarborough. We must see Scarborough before we go home, must we not? We will go by the early train, and come back as late as we can. The worst of it is there are not so many trains to choose from on Sunday, but I daresay we shall find one that will suit'; and, without saying another word, he went off to my lodging for a Bradshaw.

What was I to do? A few weeks ago a Sunday spent in pleasure would have been just what I should have chosen, and many a time had Tom and I been up the river on Sunday together. There was hardly a place within easy distance up the Thames which we had not visited in this way. But now I felt very differently about these things. Sunday was my Master's own day: every moment of it, I felt, must be consecrated to Him. No one had talked to me about Sunday observance, but my conscience told me very clearly what was right in the matter. Yet, although I had no doubt as to what I ought to do in the matter, I am ashamed to say that for some time I hesitated. Tom would be so terribly disappointed, I said to myself, and he had been a good friend to me, and I did not want to vex him; surely there would be no great harm in obliging him this once! Besides, when I get to Scarborough I may have time to go to church, and then, after all, where is the difference? I argued with myself; I shall take a longer journey to church, that is all.

And then Tom came back, full of his plans for the day. He had already settled the train we were to catch, and he told me that he looked forward to seeing Scarborough immensely, as his mother had stayed there a year ago, and she had told him it was the most beautiful watering-place she had ever visited.

I tried to feel pleased with what Tom had arranged, but in my heart I was very miserable, and just at that moment who should appear but Marjorie and Jack, distributing the pink papers containing the invitation to the service on the shore. I turned away when I saw them coming. I looked towards the sea, and took my little telescope from my pocket, that I might seem to be intent on watching a distant steamer. What would Duncan say? What would Mr. Christie say? What would my little friend Jack say, when I did not appear at the shore service? And how shocked they would be when they heard I had gone off for a day's pleasure!

I hoped that the children would pass us by, and would go to a large group of fishermen standing on the shore just beyond us. But I was not to escape thus. Marjorie came up to Tom and presented him with a paper, and she was going to give one to me, but my little friend stopped her, 'No, no, Marjorie,' he said in his most fascinating tones, 'let me give one to my own Mr. Jack. I always give you one my own self, don't I, big Jack?'

I patted him on the head and took the paper, but I did not answer, and the children passed on. Tom opened his paper and read it aloud,—

'"There will be a short service on the shore next Sunday morning." Oh, indeed,' he said, 'that's what they're after, is it? Distributing notices for some Methodist meeting. Is that where Christie holds forth?'

'Yes,' I said, 'he preaches every Sunday.'

'Well, Mr. Christie,' he went on, 'you won't have me there to hear you. I hate those canting meetings, don't you, Jack? Subject. Ah, he tells us his subject beforehand, does he? Very kind of him, I'm sure! Subject: Where are you going? Ah,' said Tom, 'that's soon answered: I'm going to Scarborough, old fellow, and a jolly good day I hope to have there'; and he threw the little pink paper into the air, and the wind carried it far out to sea.



All this time I had never spoken a word. A great battle was going on in my heart. Conscience was speaking very loudly, and telling me that I could not possibly take my pleasure on my Master's own day, but the tempter's voice was arguing that the time to speak had not yet come, and that perhaps for this once it would be better to yield to Tom's wishes, and that I might talk to him quietly about it, and make a fresh start after our return to London.

And so the day wore away, and evening came, and Tom had no idea whatever that I had even hesitated about going with him to Scarborough. I never spent a more unhappy day. I avoided Mr. Christie, lest he should say anything to me about the service on the following day. I was not even happy with Duncan. Tom had gone off to Saltburn, leaving me, as he supposed, to put some finishing touches to my picture; but I had no heart for painting, and only got my easel and painting materials out to put them away again directly.

Polly was in good spirits that day, for little John was so much better that he was able to sit on the floor and play, and, as I stood looking out of my small casement window, I watched her washing up in a tub standing on a wooden stool outside her door, and I heard her singing to herself as she did so. Most of the visitors had left Runswick Bay now, for it was late in the season, but the shore was covered with the village children—boys and girls without shoes and stockings, wading in the pools and running far out into the shallow sea. It was a pretty sight, the grey, quiet water, the strips of yellow sand, and the cliff covered with grass and flowers.

But I could not enjoy the scene that Saturday evening; even my artistic eye, of which I used sometimes to boast, failed me then. I was feeling thoroughly uncomfortable, and the most lovely view on earth would have failed to charm me at that moment.

There is a verse in the Bible which says, 'A little child shall lead them,' and whenever I hear that verse I think of that evening in Runswick Bay. For I was still gazing out of my window, looking at I knew not what, when I heard a well-known little voice just beneath me.

It was Jack. He had come down the hill beneath Duncan's cottage, so that I had not seen him until he spoke to me below the window.

'Mr. Jack,' he said, 'what are you doing up there? Are you very busy?'

'No, old man,' I said, 'I'm not busy.'

'Then do come out, that's a dear, big Mr. Jack; I do want you so much.'

Who could resist the pleading little face, and the pretty, fascinating voice of that child? He would have a hard heart who could do so. I ran downstairs, and a minute afterwards I was racing with Jack on the wet sands, for the tide was fast going out, and was helping him to fly a small kite which his father had bought for him in Whitby. We had a fine time together on the shore, until at last a towel was hung out of the top window in the Christies' house, as a sign that it was Jack's bedtime. Though he was wild with joy and excitement, the obedient little fellow at once stopped his play, and told me mother wanted him, and he must go.

'I'm coming for you to-morrow morning, Mr. Jack,' he said.

'To-morrow morning, Jack?'

'Yes, for church,' said the child, putting up his dear little chubby face to be kissed. 'Don't go without me, will you, Mr. Jack?'

'Well, I'm not sure I'm going to-morrow, little man,' I said reluctantly, 'so you had better not call for me.'

'Not going to church!' said Jack, in a very shocked voice. 'Why not, Mr. Jack?'

'I'm going to Scarborough for the day with my friend Tom,' I said. 'I shall go to church in Scarborough, Jack.'

I shall never forget the expression of that child's face as long as I live; it was a mixture of surprise, sorrow and dismay. 'Mr. Jack, do you know it's God's day to-morrow?' was all that he said, however; and as at this moment his mother called him from the bedroom window, he ran off without another word.

'Do you know it's God's day?' I asked myself when the little boy had gone. 'Yes, I do know,' I answered aloud, 'and He is my Master, and my Master's day shall be kept for Him and for His service.'

I walked to a lonely place on the shore where the sea had undermined the cliff, and had made strange holes and caves, which could only be entered at low tide. I clambered over the rocks, and crossed about half a mile of slippery seaweed, until I came to one of these weird places. Creeping inside, I felt myself safe from any human eye. I was alone—alone with my Master.

I cannot tell you all that passed during the half-hour that I spent in that lonely cave, but I know this, that I came out of it feeling that my Master had indeed given me the strength for which I had pleaded, the strength to act as His faithful and true servant.

I was waiting outside the station when Tom's train came in from Saltburn. He had not expected to see me again that night, and seemed pleased that I had come to meet him.

'I think we shall have a fine day to-morrow, old boy,' he said; 'what a dew there is! My feet are quite wet with it.'

'Tom,' I said, 'I came to meet you to-night because I wanted to tell you something. I am sorry, very sorry, to disappoint you, but I can't go with you to-morrow.'

'Why ever in the world not, Jack?' he said. 'I thought you were so keen on seeing Scarborough.'

'Yes, Tom,' I said, 'but I am still more keen on something else.'

'What's that?' he asked; 'do you mean Redcar? It's a stupid place, Jack: nothing in the world to see, I assure you.'

'No, Tom, I don't mean that. I don't want to change our plan. I had rather see Scarborough than any other place; I'll give myself a holiday on Monday, and go with you gladly, Tom; but I can't go to-morrow.'

'Nonsense, Jack!' he said angrily. 'You can go if you like; what's to hinder you? If you are willing to go at all, why on earth can't you go to-morrow?'

'Simply because to-morrow is Sunday, Tom.'

'And if it is Sunday, what of that?' said my friend. '"The better the day, the better the deed," and it's ridiculous your talking in this saintly way about Sunday, when to my certain knowledge you've spent every fine Sunday boating on the river for the last two years or more. No, no, my friend, that won't go down with me.'

'Tom,' I said, 'it's all quite true what you say. I have, I know I have, spent my Sundays in boating or in taking my pleasure in some other way, and I am more sorry for it, Tom, than I can tell you. But since I came here—'

'Since you came here,' Tom interrupted me, 'you've gone and turned Ranter or Methodist, or something of that sort, and you've got your head full of all sorts of insane and ridiculous ideas.'

'Since I came here, Tom,' I said, taking no notice of his last remark, 'I have seen what I never saw before—that I am a great sinner; and I have found what I never found before—that Jesus is a great Saviour.'

'Well, I wish you had never come to Runswick Bay, if this is the absurd way you are going on, Jack, and after all the good old times we've had together too.'

'And why shan't we have good times together still, dear old Tom?' I said. 'I have entered the service of a new Master, that's all; and, Tom,' I said timidly, 'I wish He was your Master too.'

Tom made no answer, but swung his stick round and round, and slashed at the thistles and the ox-eye daisies which grew by the roadside. I tried to make one or two remarks, but I saw he was very much upset by what I had said, and he did not answer me. He was vexed with me, and perhaps he was a little uncomfortable besides, and I felt it was far wiser to say no more.

He did not speak again until we reached the hotel, and then he simply said, 'Good-night, Jack, I'm sorry you've gone and made such a fool of yourself'; and I went down the hill, feeling as if I had lost my friend, and as if the old days and old companionship were dead and buried for ever.

But if I had lost one friend, I felt I had gained another. Mr. Christie was waiting for me at the bottom of the hill, and he proposed that we should take a turn together on the shore. Nellie was expecting me to supper, he said; he had told Duncan I was going there, and the moon was coming out, and a good stretch on the sands would make us enjoy it all the more.

We had walked across the bay, and were standing gazing out seawards, when he suddenly put his arm in mine.

'What is it, Jack?' he said kindly, 'something is troubling you this evening.'

'Yes, you are right,' I said. 'However did you know, Mr. Christie? I am bothered a bit; the fact is, I'm ashamed of myself, I've been such a coward.'

'What have you been doing, Jack? You don't mind telling me, do you?'

'Not at all, Mr. Christie, I would rather tell you,' I said; and then I gave him an account of the last week, of my fear of Tom, and how very nearly—I was ashamed to say it—I had yielded to him about the outing to-morrow. Then I spoke of my friend, and I told him I was afraid I had lost him through my plain speaking.

'Never mind, Jack,' he said, 'the Master must come first, and it does happen very often that when He is put in His right place we have to give up a great deal. He knew we should have to do it, and He spoke some very plain words about it: "He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me, and he that loveth son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me." You would like to be worthy of Him, Jack?'

'I shall never be that, Mr. Christie,' I said.

'No,' he said; 'you are right, we are all unworthy of Him; but when we love Him, we do long to do that which is pleasing in His sight. And, remember, there is always the hundredfold, Jack, always the Master's reward for anything we give up for Him.'

'Yes, in heaven,' I said softly.

'No, Jack, not in heaven, but on earth. Do you remember how the Master's words run: "He shall receive an hundredfold now, in this time, and in the world to come, life everlasting." The hundredfold is to be enjoyed here, the everlasting life there.'

'I never noticed that before,' I said.

'I have proved it true, Jack, abundantly true. I sometimes think I have got beyond the hundredfold. And then beyond, there lies the life eternal.'

'My mother is enjoying that,' I said.

'Yes, indeed,' he answered; 'and her boy will enjoy it too in God's good time, for does not the Master say of all those who belong to Him, "I give unto them eternal life?" "I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly"?'



Chapter XII

WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

I shall never forget my last Sunday in Runswick Bay. It was at the end of September, and was one of those gloriously brilliant days which we get in the early autumn, when the sky is cloudless, when the air is fresh and clear, and when the autumnal tints on trees, hedges, ferns and brambles make the landscape gorgeous and extremely beautiful and fascinating.

The high cliff above the bay was a perfect study in colour that morning; I have never seen more splendid colouring, every varied shade of red and gold and green was to be found there.

'Tom will be off to Scarborough,' I said to myself as I dressed. 'What a grand day he has got!'

But I did not wish myself with him; no, I was both glad and thankful to look forward to a quiet and peaceful Sunday.

There were not many visitors still at Runswick, most of them had left the week before; but the fishermen came in great numbers to the service, and the green was covered with them when little Jack and big Jack appeared, hand-in-hand as usual. Duncan was in the choir, but Polly thought the wind rather cold for little John, so had remained with him at home. A good many women and children were present, however, and the bank was covered with mothers and babies, sitting at a little distance, lest the noise of the children should disturb the preacher or the listeners.

What was it that made me think of Tom just as the service began? Was it a shepherd's plaid cloth cap, of the kind Tom wears, which I saw on the head of some visitor who was sitting almost out of sight on the seaward side of the bank? Such small things bring people and things before us sometimes, and my thoughts wandered to Scarborough for a few minutes, and I wondered what Tom was doing at that moment. I thought to myself how he would smile, if he saw me sitting under the old boat and listening attentively to an open air preacher.

But my thoughts did not wander long, for when the service began every word of it seemed to be for me.

WHERE ARE YOU GOING? I had worked the subject out in my mind before I came to the service, and had quite decided what line of thought Mr. Christie would take. I thought he would picture the two roads, the one leading to life, the other to destruction; and then I imagined that he would speak of the blessedness of being on the narrow road, and would dwell very vividly on the awful consequences of continuing to walk on the road leading to hell. But I found that my idea of what his sermon would be was quite a mistaken one.

'Where are you going? My question to-day,' he said, 'is addressed only to some of you; would to God it were addressed to you all! I speak to-day to those who have crossed the line, who have run into the loving Saviour's arms, who have become servants of Christ.

'My friends, my dear friends, where are you going? What does the Master say? He calls to every one of His servants, and He says, "If any man serve Me, let him follow Me, and where I am there shall also My servant be."

'Servant of Christ, where are you going? The Master answers you, WHERE I AM.

'And where is that? A little group of men are standing on the Mount of Olives; above them is the deep blue sky, and they are gazing earnestly upward, for their Master is rising far above them, and even as they watch a cloud receives Him out of their sight. Yet still He ascends higher and yet higher, and as He rises countless angels attend Him. He is joined by company after company of the heavenly host, who have come out to meet their King. At length heaven's gates are reached, and the cry goes forth, "Lift up your heads, O ye gates, even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory shall come in." Amidst heaven's most joyful music the Master passes within to the Heavenly Jerusalem, the glad, glorious Home. Every care, every sin, every sorrow is left outside; within all is sunshine, all is joy. And as heaven's gates are closing, we hear the Master's voice. He leaves us a word of hope, "Where I am, there shall also My servant be."

'Oh, fishermen, oh, friends, think of that! If you are His servants, those gates will open for you. Your life may be hard now: some of you have large families, and heavy work, and long, cold, comfortless nights tossing on the stormy sea; but never mind, home is coming, heaven is coming, for "Where I am, there shall also My servant be."

'But that is not all. There is something more wonderful still. For where is the Master now? He is not only inside the gates of the city, He is not only walking through the golden streets; but He is in the midst of the glory of God, He has sat down on the right hand of the throne of God. Will you and I, dear friends, ever dare to go near that throne? Will not the glory be too dazzling? Will not the place be holy ground, too holy for us to approach? Will He allow us to draw near to His footstool, and even there, close to His glory, to lie low before Him?

'Listen, O servant of Christ, again the Master says, "Where I am, there shall also My servant be."

'What, on the throne of God! Yes, even there He bids you come; for what does He say? "To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with Me in My throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with My Father in His throne." Oh, what a wonderful promise! We could never have thought of it; we could never have believed it; we could never even have dreamt of such a thing, if the Master had not told us Himself.'

And then he concluded by asking us to remember our glorious future. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'you get downhearted, full of sorrow and fear, and you say, "I shall never hold on to the end." Oh, dear friends, it is worth an effort, for at the end lies home, at the end stands the throne of God, with a place waiting for you upon it. "Where I am, there shall also My servant be."

'What if you have to bear something for the Master's sake? What if you have to give up friends or comforts for Him? What if you have to take up your cross and follow Him? It is only for a few days, only for a little while, and home is coming. "Where I am, there shall also My servant be." Is it not worth while?'

Then, as he ended, he spoke a few words to all who were there, and he begged those who were not servants of Christ, to consider what they were losing. 'All this might be yours,' he said, 'the wide-open gates, the Heavenly City, the seat on the glorious Throne; but you are turning your backs on it all, and you are choosing instead—what? A few of earth's fleeting pleasures, a little of this world's passing enjoyment. Oh, dear friends, think before it is too late, what your eternal loss will be!'

He said much more, but I cannot remember it now. I only know that I came away feeling that I had been very near the golden gates of which he spoke, and had heard the Master's voice saying to me, 'Where I am, there shall also My servant be.'

The tide was coming in as we left the service, and I was standing on the shore watching the waves rolling in over the rocks, when I felt an arm slipped in mine, and when I looked round, to my great surprise, I found that it was Tom.

'Why, Tom!' I said, 'back already? how early you have come home!'

'Back, Jack?' he said, laughing; 'why, I've never been.'

'Do you mean you haven't been to Scarborough?'

'No, of course not; you didn't think I would go without you, old boy. We'll go to-morrow, of course. I thought we settled that last night.'

'Why, I've been thinking of you in Scarborough all day!' I said.

'Then your thoughts have gone in a wrong direction for once, Jack,' he replied, 'for I've been here all the time.'

'I'll walk with you up the hill,' I said; 'it isn't quite dinner-time.'

I was very pleased to see him, and to find that he did not appear to be vexed with me. We chatted for some time, and then he said casually, 'He does not speak badly, that lay preacher of yours, Jack.'

I stood still in astonishment. 'Who?' I said, 'Mr. Christie? Why, you surely were not at the service, Tom! Oh, I know,' I cried, before he could answer, 'you were behind the bank; I saw a black and white cap, and I thought how much it was like yours.'

'It could not be much more like, seeing that it was the very same,' said Tom.

'I'm so glad you heard him,' I ventured to say.

He made no answer, so I thought it was better to say no more; but when we reached the top of the hill, and he was just leaving me, he said:

'Jack, I'm afraid I was a bit crusty last night. You must not think any more of it, old fellow. We'll have a jolly day at Scarborough to-morrow. And, Jack,' he went on, 'I was very much annoyed at the time, I own I was; but I'm not sure after all that you're not right.'

He said no more, but hurried away, and it was many years before he referred to the subject again; but the day came when he did mention it, and when he told me, with tears in his eyes, that he looked upon that Sunday at Runswick as the first link in the chain of God's loving Providence, by means of which He had led him to Himself. He told me then that he had never forgotten my firm refusal to go with him, and he had never forgotten the sermon to which he had listened hidden from sight by the bank.

Our day at Scarborough exceeded all our anticipations. The weather was glorious, and Tom was in excellent spirits, and we thoroughly enjoyed everything.

I could not help feeling sorry when Thursday came, which was to be my last day at Runswick Bay. It had been such a happy and so eventful a time. I seemed to have passed through so much, and to have learnt so much unknown to me before, that I felt very reluctant to bring my holiday to a close. As for Duncan and Polly, they were quite melancholy as the time for my departure drew near.

'We shall feel lost without you, sir,' said Duncan. 'We shan't know what to do'; and there were tears in Polly's eyes as she said mournfully, when she set the herrings on the table for my supper, 'Them's the last herrings I shall fry you, sir, and I feel as if there was going to be a death in the house.'

'Cheer up, Polly,' I said, 'who knows? Perhaps you may have to put up with me next time I get a holiday, and you may be sure I shall want plenty of herrings then.'

She brightened a little at this, and little John, who was quite well now, and who had become very friendly with me since his illness, climbed up on my knee, and stroked my face with his little thin hand, as if he were trying to coax me to come back to them again.

There was one thing which I had a great desire to do before leaving Runswick. I knew that Duncan was much troubled about the Mary Ann. She had been terribly knocked about in the storm, which was no wonder, seeing that she had drifted about, bottom upwards, and had been driven hither and thither on the waves. When Duncan had examined her the day after his arrival, he had found that she leaked in several places, and was altogether unseaworthy, and he had been obliged to hire a boat until such time as the Mary Ann could be properly repaired. Then he went over to Whitby, and brought an experienced man back with him, and he overhauled her thoroughly, and gave it as his opinion that it would be a waste of money to try to patch her up.

When Duncan came in that night I saw that the poor fellow was terribly downcast. 'The Mary Ann's days are numbered, sir; she'll never be able to rough it again,' he said. 'She's been a good old boat to me and my father before me, and it will be like parting from an old friend to give her up. Yon man, he says she might be cobbled together a bit; but you would never make a good job of her; she'd do maybe well enough for fine weather, but you couldn't trust to her in a storm.'

I saw Polly turn pale as he said this. 'Duncan,' she said, going up to him, and laying her hand on his arm, 'you'll never go in her again; promise me that. Think of me and little John, Duncan.'

'Ay, my lass,' he said; 'ay, Polly, I do think of thee and little John; but the worst of it is there's bread must be earnt for thee and little John. I can't let thee starve, wife.'

'What about the bank-book, Duncan?' I said.

He went to the old oak-chest, and brought it out. I was much touched by his handing it to me, and bidding me see how it stood. He was perfectly open with me, and spoke to me as freely as if I had been an old and tried friend. I added up the amount and read it out to him.

'Well, sir,'he said, 'it's getting on; but it's a good ten pound short yet. We shall have to hire Brown's boat a bit and do as well as we can, though it isn't a very paying business when one takes to hiring: it will be hard enough to make two ends meet, you see, sir, let alone saving up for the new boat. But I can't see nothing else for it, sir; that is, if Polly won't let me risk it in the Mary Ann.'

'Duncan,' she said solemnly, 'if thee went to sea in the Mary Ann, and she went to the bottom, I could never say, "The will of the Lord be done," for I don't believe it would be God's will for thee to go in that rotten old thing.'

'Polly is right, Duncan,' I said; 'you must never go in the Mary Ann again.'

'Well, sir,' he said, 'I see what you mean, you and Polly too, and the Lord will show us what's to be done.'

Nothing more was said about the Mary Ann at that time, but I had already made my own plan about the new boat. My aunt had just left me her little property, and a very nice little property it was. I felt myself a rich man, for in addition to money invested in various ways, about L200 of ready money had been placed to my account at the bank.

What could be more delightful, I thought, than to spend the first ten pounds of this in helping Duncan to complete the purchase of the new boat? The only difficulty would be to get Duncan to accept the money, for he had all the honest independence of a Yorkshireman, and I knew would hesitate about receiving help from any one. But, at the same time, I knew that in this instance his need was great, and his kindly feeling towards myself was so strong, that I was not without hope that I might be able to manage what I had contemplated without giving the dear fellow offence. I thought, at one time, that I would take Mr. Christie into my confidence, and would consult with him, but on second thoughts I decided that it would be wiser not to do so, and felt that I should be more likely to succeed if no one else was in the secret. So I folded my bank-note in paper, put it into an envelope, and wrote outside, 'With little John's love to his daddy, to help him to buy another Little John.' This I determined to slip into the child's hand when I said good-bye.

That evening I had supper with the Christies. They were kindness itself, and told me what a great pleasure it had been to them to meet me. 'Not only because you are your mother's son, Jack, but for your own sake as well as hers,' said Mr. Christie with a smile.

I wanted to say something in return, but the words would not come—at least not then. But, just before I left, I went with Mr. Christie into his study, and he said, 'Jack, I thought perhaps we might have a little prayer together before we part'; and then the words came,—

'Mr. Christie,' I said, 'I can never, never thank God enough that I came here.'

'Let us thank Him together, Jack,' he said.

Then we knelt down, he by the table, and I with my arms resting on the old organ, and he thanked God for His mercy in bringing me across the line, and he committed me to His care and keeping to bring me safely along the road which leads home.

The next morning I was up early, for our train started at eight, and we had two miles to walk. I had told Polly I should want nothing but a cup of tea before I set off, but when I came down I found a most tempting breakfast prepared for me—ham and eggs, and toast in abundance, and fresh lettuces from Duncan's small garden.

'Well, Polly,' I said, 'you are spoiling me to the last.'

'We can never make enough of you, sir,' said Polly, and there were tears in her eyes as she said it.

I ran up to pack my bag and collect my things, and I determined to start in good time, so that I might allow myself a few minutes to say good-bye to the Christies.

'I must be off, Duncan,' I said.

He was standing outside with little John in his arms, and Polly, with her hat on, was standing beside him.

'We're coming along with you, sir, to the station,' said Duncan. 'You won't think it a liberty will you, sir? but me and Polly and little John would like to see the last of you.'

'Come, that is good of you,' I said. 'I shall have a grand escort up the hill!'

Polly took the child from his father, and Duncan carried my bag and easel, and would not even hear of my giving him a hand with them.

I ran into the Christies, but could find no one below; however, I heard a great running backwards and forwards overhead, and presently Mr. Christie called out of the bedroom window, 'Wait one moment, Jack; we are all coming to see you off.'

So my escort increased as I proceeded, and Tom, as he came out of the hotel, said he thought the whole of Runswick must be going by the early train, when he saw us, one after another, come toiling up the hill. Little Jack rode up the whole way on my back, and his horse was very hot when the top was reached.

Though it is now so many years ago I can see that little party of friends standing together on the platform, as the train moved out of the station. I can feel again the warm grasp of Mr. Christie's hand, and can hear his whispered, 'God bless you, Jack!' I can see Mrs. Christie holding Marjorie by the hand, and waving her handkerchief to me, and can hear little Jack crying out, 'Come back soon, do, big Mr. Jack.' I can see Duncan bareheaded, with little John in his arms, the child waving the envelope which I had put in his hand as I stepped into the carriage, and which was still unopened. I can see Polly wiping her eyes with her apron, and then holding it up and waving it till I was lost to sight. I can see them all as they appeared to me that day, kind hearts and true, not one of them ranking amongst the number whom the world counts great, and yet all of them well known to Him who calleth His own sheep by name and leadeth them out.

I must just mention here that I had a very touching letter from Duncan at the end of that week. The spelling was most wonderful, and the grammar was quite of his own making; but it was full, from end to end, of the most simple-hearted affection, and of the deepest gratitude.

'Me, and my missus, and little John, can never be thankful enough, sir,' he said, 'and when the other 'Little John' is afloat, as please God she soon will be, we hopes as how you will come and have a sail in her.'

So ended my visit to Runswick; and when I consider all that happened during those few weeks, I think it is small wonder that the little bay is still fresh in my memory, and that Ella's yellow ragwort made me dream of it so distinctly. For surely that month was the most important month in my life, for was it not the beginning of a new life, which, thank God, has continued ever since?

I can say to-day, even as I said then, 'One is my Master, even Christ,' and I can look forward, humbly but hopefully, to the time when the golden gates will open to me, and when the Master's promise will be fulfilled to me, 'Where I am, there shall also My servant be.'

O Jesus Christ, my Master, I come to Thee to-day; I ask Thee to direct me In all I do or say: I want to keep my promise To be Thy servant true, I come to Thee for orders; Dear Lord, what shall I do?

I want a heart not heeding What others think or say; I want a humble spirit, To listen and obey. To serve Thee without ceasing, 'Tis but a little while,— My strength, the Master's promise, My joy, the Master's smile.

A.C.W.

THE END