Chapter XIV: Jerry's Faith Has Its Reward

SOME months later, on a bright June morning, Ellen and Jerry Mansfield were waiting on the Charmouth platform for the train which was to take them home. The face of each was radiant with delight, for they had been counting on this day for weeks, and the flight of time had been far too slow for their eager anticipations. His six months' absence from the home which he had never before quitted even for a day, had been a trial to Jerry's loving heart, and he longed intensely to be with his parents and brothers and sisters once more.

But he was not going home as he had left it. No; his faith had received its reward. The Saviour had not turned a deaf ear to his oft-recurring cry, and he was no longer a helpless boy, with weak and crippled limbs; the bent frame was straightened now, and the little face bore the hue of returning health, though there were still traces of delicacy to proclaim the need for caution.

His recovery had been slow and painful, and his patience had been tried by the restrictions the doctors found it necessary to place upon his movements. For many weeks, he had been obliged to lie perfectly still upon a flat couch, but the boy had borne the restraint without murmuring.

His winning ways won the affection of all about him, and he became a favourite alike with doctors, nurses, and fellow-patients. Miss Graham, who frequently passed an hour by his bedside, was especially fond of him, and her kindness awakened in Jerry's heart the warmest love and gratitude. She fully sympathised in his joy as he felt his limbs regaining power and began to walk, at first only a few steps at a time, but with daily increasing strength.

The doctors were not a little proud of the cure they had effected, and Dr. Graham, much interested in the little lad, took pains to procure him an appliance recently invented for the relief of sufferers from spinal affections, which proved of great assistance to Jerry's feeble frame.

And now he was able to walk quite easily, and was going home to show them all what a change had taken place in him! How shall we describe the gladness that filled his young heart?

He and his sister were not alone. Their Aunt Matilda had contrived to spare half an hour from her work in order to see them off. It was not easy for her to do without her niece's assistance during the fortnight's holiday she had promised her, but she was learning to deny herself for the sake of others, and she did not regret the inconvenience thus occasioned as she noted the happy faces of brother and sister.

Presently, as they waited, they were joined by Miss Graham, who wished to see the last of her little friend, and to provide for his comfort on the journey.

"Oh, Miss Graham, how kind of you to come!" he cried, as he saw her. "I did want to say good-bye to you again."

"You are very glad to leave us, Jerry," she said, as she looked at his smiling face.

"Not glad to leave you, Miss Graham," he answered, "but very glad to go home."

"Your mother will be overjoyed to see you looking so well," said the lady; "you are not like the same boy you were when you came."

"Mother'll hardly know me, I think," said Jerry joyously. "Ellen says I have grown two or three inches since I left home."

"I dare say you have," replied Miss Graham; "and you are certainly stouter than you were, so that you are improved in all respects."

Jerry was silent for a few moments. He was thinking how best he could thank Miss Graham for her kindness to him since he had been in the hospital. But in vain, he tried to find suitable words. All he could say was,—

"Miss Graham, you have been very good to me since I have been here, and so has Dr. Graham. I shall never forget you."

"Thank you, Jerry," said the young lady, with a smile. "I am sure we shall always remember you. And if ever we can help you in any way, you may be sure of our willingness to do so. I shall hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again at Charmouth at some future time."

Jerry shook his head.

"I don't think I shall ever leave home again, if I can help it," he said decidedly. Then, as if fearing his remark might appear ungrateful, he added, "But I should very much like to see you again, though."

"Then I hope you may," replied Miss Graham. "Perhaps when you are older, you will come to Charmouth to learn a trade, or fit yourself for some calling, for I do not suppose you will be a farmer, Jerry?"

"No, I don't think I shall," returned Jerry, looking at his thin, white hands. "I know what I should like to do."

"What is that?" asked Miss Graham.

The boy's face flushed, as in a low tone, he answered, "I should like to tell others about Jesus, and how good He is to those who trust Him."

"Well, Jerry, perhaps that is the work the Lord means you to do," said his friend; "and it is work which you may begin at once. You remember how Jesus said to one whom He healed, 'Return to thine own house, and show how great things God hath done unto thee.' He says the same to you now."

"Yes, He has done great things for me," said Jerry gravely; "for it is Jesus who has really made me well. The doctors did all they could, but their doctoring would have been of no use without Him."

"And the bodily health He has given you is, after all, but a small blessing when compared with the spiritual health which He is willing to bestow upon all who seek it at His hands," said Miss Graham.

But here the arrival of the train interrupted the talk, and there was little time for further words. Ellen and Jerry were soon placed in a carriage, and as the train bore them away, joyously waving farewells to the friends they left behind, Miss Graham thought she had never seen such happy faces as theirs.

What a pleasant journey that was! It was now nearly a year since Ellen had quitted her home, and many a pang of home-sickness had she experienced in the interval. Absence had taught her to value her parents' love, and to long for the presence of the little ones, whom in past days she had often found tiresome. But she had learned higher lessons since her departure—lessons in the school of the Great Master, which she could never forget, and which made her, in many respects, a different being from the Ellen Mansfield of a year ago.

As the train sped on its way, bearing them from the smoky town, with its gloomy streets and crowded wharves, to the peaceful beauty of country scenes, Jerry felt inclined to sing for joy, and snatches of hymns he had heard in the hospital broke every now and then from his lips. The train moved too slowly for him. At each station they gained, he eagerly inquired of his sister how long it would be before they reached the one at which their father would meet them, and it seemed to his impatience as if they would never get there.

But at length, Ellen was able to say, "The next station will be ours, Jerry."

And soon, he felt the train slackening speed, and caught sight of his father standing on the platform, looking out for them. It was well his sister was there to take care of him, or he would certainly have sprung out before the train stopped, or have run some such risk of undoing all that the doctors had been able to do for him.

"My little man, how well you look!" exclaimed his father, as he helped him from the carriage. "And how bravely you walk!" he added, as Jerry, eager to show himself off to the best advantage, stepped out at his quickest pace.

The father's heart was more glad than words could express, and with the back of his hard, brown hand, he hastily dashed a tear from his eye, ere he helped his boy and girl into the cart which stood outside the station. They did not talk much as they drove home through the winding lanes on that bright summer afternoon. Somehow the hearts of all three seemed too full for many words, but the exclamations which burst from Ellen and Jerry at the sight of each familiar object they passed, were sufficiently eloquent.

At last, the farmhouse came into view, with a group of children standing at the gate, one head rising above another, as they watched for the first sign of the expected one's approach. A shout of joy was raised as they caught sight of the vehicle, and the noise brought their mother to the door.

Oh, how thankful she felt, as she lifted her boy from the cart, and held him in a warm embrace! Then she turned to receive her other child, whose radiant looks testified that she had quite recovered from the misadventure which had caused her mother such grief and alarm. Then the children pressed around their brother and sister, and kisses and hugs were exchanged, and questions and answers followed each other so rapidly that the talk seemed like a game of "cross questions and crooked answers."

"Come, come, children, you don't want to stay in the yard all the evening, do you?" asked their father. "Our travellers are hungry, I guess."

So saying, he pushed them before him into the large kitchen, which wore its brightest aspect in honour of the happy occasion. A snowy cloth was spread on the deal table, and the tea-things placed ready thereon, and, by way of ornament, a jug containing a bunch of dog-roses and other wild flowers of the month. An appetising odour pervaded the apartment, for the mother had been frying pancakes for the children, who she knew would relish them.

"Oh, how good it is to be home again!" said Ellen, and Jerry echoed her words.

Merry was the children's talk, as they gathered around the table for their evening meal. They were ready to laugh at the least thing, and Johnny, by simply remarking that Jerry and baby had learned to walk at the same time, provoked a burst of merriment. But beneath this innocent mirth, there were serious thoughts, and when his mother suggested that it was time the little ones went to bed, Jerry, looking at his father, said, quietly but earnestly:

"Father, before we go to bed, won't you thank Jesus for having made me well?"

The request took his father by surprise; he coloured deeply, scratched his head, and looked appealingly at his wife.

She responded to his glance by lifting her Bible from the shelf on which it lay, and placing it on the table before him.

"My father always used to read a chapter and pray with his children before they went to bed," she said. "I wish we had followed his example at the beginning of our married life. But it's not too late to turn over a new leaf. The Lord's been very gracious to us, although we've forgotten Him. Let us thank Him for His goodness, as the dear lad says."

Her husband opened the Bible, but turned over its leaves with an air of embarrassment.

"What shall I read, wife?" he asked.

She found him the 103rd Psalm, and slowly, and not without difficulty, for he was "no great scholar," as he often told his children, he read it.

The prayer was a harder matter. Memory came to his aid, however, recalling words familiar to his ears in boyhood, and in tremulous accents, he repeated the Lord's Prayer. Then he ventured to add a few words of thanksgiving for the especial blessings they, as a family, had received, with humble confession of sin. Broken and imperfect utterances they were, but spoken from the heart, and inspired by the Spirit of God.

That evening, watching angels could say of Joseph Mansfield, as was said of one of old, "Behold, he prayeth," and had cause to rejoice that to another of earth's homes, salvation had come. There were tears in his wife's eyes as she rose from her knees, but they were not tears of sorrow. The habit thus commenced was never dropped. Henceforth, not a day was allowed to close, without a portion of God's Word being read and a brief prayer offered.

All too quickly for Ellen, the happy hours passed by, and the day came when she must return to her work at Charmouth. It was with much regret that she said good-bye to her home once more. Had the choice been offered her, she would have preferred to remain at home, and help her mother with the domestic duties she had formerly despised. But it was too late to change her plans. Her assistance was no longer urgently needed, for baby was now out of hand, and Lucy was able to give her mother all the help she needed.

Ellen had made her decision, and must abide by it. Recognising this, she put a cheerful face upon the matter, and bravely, though with a somewhat heavy heart, went back to her tedious occupation, resolved to serve her aunt, not with "eye-service," but as "the servant of Christ."

She gradually became more accustomed to her aunt's peculiarities, and learned to love her in spite of them. Miss Mansfield treated her niece with kindness, and her demeanour showed that she was actuated by a different spirit from that which had influenced her in the past. But she still spoke quickly and sharply on occasion, and never quite lost her love of scolding, for the habit of a lifetime is not easily broken.