Chapter I

MANY men and women have days and seasons in their lives which stand out from all the rest, and mark its stages as the milestones bid us mark the distances we travel on the king's highway, and the guide-posts indicate a turn in a fresh direction.

I look back on such days and seasons, and I love to look, even though some of them bring sorrowful pictures before my mind's eye, or tell of actual bereavement—of hushed voices and empty chairs. For, thank God! the memories of mercies and blessings far outnumber those of a sorrowful sort. Indeed, He has shown me the exceeding preciousness of trial as a preparation for the enjoyment of happiness to follow, and which was held back for a little while, until I was fit to be trusted with it.

Thirty years is a large portion of even a long life, but as each Christmas is drawing near, I look back to the same season.

I was a homeless girl, just turned nineteen. I say "homeless," because there was no house in the whole wide world which I had the right to call home, no roof under which I could actually claim a shelter. I had neither father, mother, sister, nor brother, though three years before I had all these. How I lost them, one by one, and was left with no provision or property except two hundred pounds, the bequest of my great-aunt, I will not relate at length.

I had, however, one dowry which was better than houses or land, and was sure to be the best fitted to cheer me in my lonely condition, because it came to me as a direct gift from God. This was a bright and happy disposition, which inclined me to thankfulness rather than repining, and made me ever on the watch for some gleam of light, however dark might be the overhanging cloud.

I was nineteen when I found myself in the position I have described—namely, about to be homeless, and with an income of six pounds sterling per annum arising from the two hundred pounds in the Three per Cents.

I can hardly say, however, that this was my only heritage, for during my father's prosperous days, he had spent money freely enough on my education, and given me a good all-round training, which was likely to prove useful, and of which, I could not be deprived. Then he had left me an honoured name, and though, through unforeseen circumstances, he had no money or lands to leave his child, what he did leave sufficed to pay every claim, so that I could hold up my head and feel that his memory was free from the reproach of insolvency.

It had always been a matter alike of principle and of—shall I say, pride?—with him to owe no man anything. It lightened his last hours to know that no one would lose a penny through the trouble which had deprived him of everything in the shape of worldly goods.

I hope I cheered him too, for, when the curate had gone, he turned his dying eyes upon me, with a wealth of love and tenderness in the look, and said, "Lois, I never thought I should leave you penniless. I expected to enrich my children by what has beggared you, the last I have left. Can you forgive me?"

I turned a brave face towards him, choked back the sobs that wanted to make themselves heard, and said, "I am young and strong. Do not fear for me, father. If I could only keep you, I would work by your side, for you, or with you, and desire nothing better than to use such talents as God has bestowed upon me to gain a livelihood for us both. As to forgiving, do not name the word. What have I to forgive? You and my mother strove by every means that love could devise to make my life a happy one."

He smiled, and then, as if talking to himself, he said, "Yes, the child will have happy memories, and, thank God! No debt, no dishonour. He is faithful that promised to be a 'Father to the fatherless.' She may find earthly friends turn carelessly or coldly away, but that Friend will never forsake my Lois. But she is so young to be left alone."

I took up the subject in reply, though he had not addressed me directly.

"Not alone, father," I said. "What would be the worth of such promises as you have just called to mind, if I could not lay hold of them and get strength and comfort from them? I have no doubt, there will be rough places in my path, but what has God given me a brave heart and a bright spirit for? No doubt to fit me for what lies before me."

"True, my child. He bestows His gifts in proportion to the need of His children," he replied, and as my father spoke his face looked brighter still.

I would not give in whilst he lived and needed such ministry in word and work as I could render, so I stayed by him to the last. Then, when I could do no more for this well-loved parent, I went from the death-bed of my earthly father to the footstool of my Heavenly Father, and prayed for a renewal of the strength which I felt was fast breaking down.

I did not ask in vain, and when I rose from my knees it was with power to face my position and to begin my work.

It was on Christmas Day that the snow was cleared away round a newly made grave in Askerton Churchyard, and I stood on the strip of black bare ground thus uncovered, and saw all that remained of my father lowered to its last resting-place.

I was not quite alone. That would have been too terrible. My maternal uncle stood beside me, a kindly man, with not much depth of feeling or of purse. He had a large and expensive family, altogether out of proportion to his income, and knowing something of my present circumstances, had come to the funeral of his brother-in-law in fear and trembling—fear that the sight of my loneliness would be too much for his kindly nature to endure, and that he should be obliged to offer me a home in his already over-peopled dwelling; and trembling as to the reception I should meet with from his wife were I to accompany him thither.

He did offer to take me back with him, and was, I am sure, immensely relieved when, with grateful thanks, I firmly declined the invitation. Perhaps it may be thought I had little to thank him for, but indeed I had, because I knew his will to serve me exceeded his ability.

My uncle asked me a number of questions, which I was quite prepared to answer, and at every reply, his brow cleared. I could see that he had come to the funeral in doubt whether the expenses of it might not have to be met by himself. But I reassured him on this and every other point relating to money matters. There was absolutely nothing to be paid by any outsider.

Then my uncle turned to me. "About yourself, Lois. What are you going to do?"

I replied, as cheerfully as possible, "Pack up what belongs to me. This will soon be done."

He thought I was a strange girl, and he said, "You bear up wonderfully, Lois. It is hardly natural to see a girl like you coming from your father's funeral with dry eyes."

It was not natural. No one could be more sensible of this than myself, and when he said those words, looking straight in my face, I had hard work to steady my quivering lips and keep the tears from overflowing.

"Uncle James," I said, "it is the thought of my darling father that makes me both want to weep and keeps me from weeping. When I think of what I have lost, it is hard work indeed. He was so good."

I paused, and he looked pityingly down upon me, for he understood by my face and tone something of the struggle that was going on within, and of which before, he hardly guessed the existence.

"But," I continued, "think what it would have been for my father, ruined in means, broken in health, bereft of the true helpmeet of thirty years, and of his two eldest children, to begin a new struggle with the world. I turn my back upon the old, happy past, the very memory of which would break me down just now, and I say to myself, 'God knew best. He has reunited the two who loved each other so well on earth. He has given them back the children over whose graves they shed such bitter tears. What if I am left solitary?' I keep saying to myself, 'It is best so,' and this is why I will not weep, Uncle James."

"It is really wonderful, Lois, how a girl like you can argue the matter out in this way and keep so calm. Well, my dear, if you have quite made up your mind that you will not go back with me, I will try to catch the half-past two train. I think your aunt and the children hoped I might be home in time for dinner at five. Being Christmas Day, you know, they would all miss me. But before I start tell me where you go from here, and if you have money for present needs."

"Our old nurse, who married the lodge-keeper, will find me accommodation for a few days. I am willing to work, and hope soon to find some employment. As to money, I have this."

My face went very hot as I opened my purse. It held just half-a-sovereign, and about as much silver as made up a pound.

"And is this all? My poor child, I have not brought a great deal with me, but I can spare you a five-pound note; and mind, you must write for more when you want it. My sister's orphan daughter shall not be without a shilling to call her own."

I kissed my uncle's kind face, and thanked him, adding, "I shall pay this back, Uncle James. You have plenty of calls upon your purse without my adding to them. Will you please give me gold instead of the note?"

He did as I asked, deprecated the idea of repayment, and went away, I am sure, full of good-will and affection towards me, but not a little relieved to find that, God helping me, I meant to help myself.

I did sit down for a little while after my uncle left me, to indulge the grief which I had kept back whilst he was present. His allusion to all those who would be awaiting his coming, in order to gather round the Christmas dinner-table, was in such a strong contrast to my utter loneliness, that I was forced to let the waiting tears find a channel.

This little indulgence did me good, and I was even able to picture the welcome that my uncle would receive, and to fancy how the troop of children would be looking for him, and set up a glad shout when he came in sight; how clinging arms would surround his neck, and the youngest of all the flock would insist on being triumphantly carried, held by his father's strong grasp, shoulder-high into his mother's presence, and she would also be waiting with words of welcome.

Then my uncle would tell them about my poor father, and how he had left Lois so much better than he expected, and they would put the subject out of mind as a thing well got over, and begin to enjoy themselves as we had been used to do on bygone Christmas Days.

I did not think hardly of them as I drew this mental picture. My aunt was only akin by marriage, and of the large troop of cousins we knew but little personally.

I was not without another invitation for that Christmas Day. Our good rector and his wife had asked me to go to their house, and they really wished me not to return to that which was home no longer. But for the sake of them and their little ones, I would not carry my sorrow to the rectory. I felt it would be cruel to kill by my presence the innocent mirth in which I was unfit to share, and so I went back to Birch Hill—my old home—to complete my preparations for leaving it. Hannah Brown, our former nurse, was waiting for me there, and after Uncle James left she assisted me to finish my work.

There was not much to be done. I had gradually prepared for leaving the only home I had ever known. In half an hour, I had passed through the various rooms, and taken a silent farewell of everything to which I had been accustomed from my very birth. All the contents of the house would soon be scattered, the place would have a new master, and I felt that when I next crossed its threshold it would be for the last time.

My old nurse had no children. She and her husband were a quiet, sober, elderly couple, so no young hearts would be saddened by my presence in their little home. Still, it may well be supposed in that, in spite of my efforts to be brave and look boldly towards the unknown future, my heart sank within me as I turned my back on all that had been associated with my life thus far.

That Christmas Day may well stand out among others, may well be deemed the date at which one stage of my life-journey ended. I call it the first of the six milestones.