Chapter XVI: Home at Last

MONTH after month glided quietly on, till a year had elapsed since Mark Dayál left his home.

His children had almost forgotten the time when they had a father—all except Reuben, who had grown a tall, manly boy, and was the chief help and support of his mother.

Those who spoke of the missing man shook their heads and whispered mysteriously that there must have been more in his disappearance than they had imagined; if he were living, he would surely have sent some news of himself before this.

Mary heard nothing of these hints and suspicions, and it was well for her she did not. In spite of her faith that God would hear and answer her prayer, her heart sometimes failed her, and she grew weary of the long waiting and watching.

It was true that this year of sorrow and anxiety had also been one of great blessing; that was evident to all.

The family had been obliged to move into a smaller house, at a lower rent, but it was kept so much more clean and tidy that no one could regret the change. Mary herself in her busy life, teaching her school and looking after her own children, could hardly be recognised as the untidy, discontented woman who had done so little in past days. The children too, though it needed more than a year to correct the negligence and bad management of former years, were learning to be obedient and less self-willed.

The heavy burden of debt under which it would have been almost impossible for the lonely wife to have made her way had been taken off her by the united efforts of several kind friends on condition that nothing should ever induce her to go into debt again.

To this Mary readily agreed, especially when it was pointed out to her that "Owe no man anything" is one of the commands of God's Word, and cannot be broken by His own obedient children.

Harnáth Singh had undertaken the education of Reuben, while another friend had shown the same kindness to Julius, the second boy. And thus the burden had been lightened, and with great care, it was possible for Mary to provide for the needs of her family.

The school had prospered under her charge, and as she listened to the children joining eagerly in Christian hymns and repeating texts so willingly, and realised that only a year ago they had not even heard the name of Christ, she thanked God for having given her the honour and privilege of making known His great salvation to these little ones outside the fold.

If it had not been for the cloud which always rested on her heart and life on account of her husband, Mary Dayál would have counted herself a much-favoured and happy woman.

One day she was returning home from school, when, just as she reached her door, a postman came up, "Can you tell me anything of a Mrs. Dayál?" he asked. "Here is a letter with that name, but the address does not seem to be right, for I cannot find it anywhere."

"I am Mrs. Dayál," said Mary, her heart beginning to beat. Could it be that news had come at last?

She held out her hand for the letter and recognised her husband's handwriting at once.

The postman, relieved at having found the rightful owner, went on his rounds, while Mary turned into her house, and with eager hands opened the much-longed-for letter.

Her hands trembled so that she could hardly read it, and the letters seemed to dance before her eyes. Gradually she became calmer and was able to read what was written.

"MY DEAR WIFE,

"I am almost ashamed to write the word because I feel I no longer deserve to call myself your husband, and that is one reason why I am writing this letter instead of coming myself. Another reason is that I cannot come to be a burden on you. After these many days of silence, my own fault I know, the other day I heard news of you and my children, and from what I heard, I know that my going away did you no harm, but rather good.

"I am told that my wife has become so good and industrious that I should hardly know her, and my children so well-behaved and obedient that they are favourites with all. I might tell you that I am changed too; but how will you trust me when I have so often deceived you? I shrink from coming to the home which 'you' have made for yourself and the children. I would rather make a home to which I could fetch you, but that may take time, and there is much I want to tell you.

"First of all, I ask you to forgive me for forsaking you as I did, and
I leave it for you to decide whether I shall return.

"Your affectionate husband,

"MARK DAYÁL."

By the time Mary had finished her letter, she could hardly see for tears, but they were tears of joy, not of sorrow. Was not this letter a proof that her prayer had been answered? What but the grace of God could have transformed her husband so as to make him write a letter like this?—He who had always been so quick to blame her, but never himself.

No time must be lost in sending an answer. And though writing materials were not abundant or often used in this house, a sheet of paper was found, and the few words necessary quickly written.

"MY DEAR HUSBAND,

"Come home as quickly as you can. I forgive you all; please forgive me
too. The new house is very near the old one.

"Your loving wife,

"MARY DAYÁL."

Just as the letter was finished, Reuben came in and was at once despatched to buy a stamp and post the letter.

"It is to your father; he is coming home," was all the explanation given to the astonished boy as he was hurried off on his errand.

It was difficult for Mary to give her mind to her work the next day. However much she tried to keep her attention to what she was teaching, she constantly found herself wondering by what train her husband would arrive, and would she be there to receive him.

Happily for her, Miss Elsemere paid a visit to the school that day, which relieved her for a time and also gave her an opportunity to say, "I am expecting my husband home to-morrow."

Miss Elsemere knew enough of the teacher's story to understand how much that one sentence meant, and her heart went out in loving sympathy to the wife who had borne her grief so bravely.

"Then you must have a holiday," she said at once; "so do not think of coming to school, and I will arrange for someone to take your place."

This removed a great difficulty, and as Mary saw her pupils depart and started for home, she felt she was now free to give herself up to the thought of meeting her husband and hearing all he had to tell her.

"How much 'I' shall have to tell," she thought to herself; "and even if he has not yet come back to God, surely when he hears of all the Lord's goodness to me and the children, it will touch his heart and bring him back."

But something seemed to tell her that her husband, like herself, was already "a new creature in Christ Jesus." Had not this been her constant prayer all through the year? And why should she not believe that it had been heard and answered?

Very little sleep came to Mary Dayál that night. And when it was still scarcely morning, she was awake and active, for it might be that the traveller would arrive by some very early train.

When school-time came, the children begged that they might have a holiday as well as their mother, and so all the family waited in readiness to welcome the father home.

It proved to be a long wait, and when four o'clock came and still no arrival, Mary's heart began to sink. Perhaps the letter had not been received, or she had not said enough to show that he would be welcomed back.

Suddenly the door opened, and the long-expected wanderer was present in their midst.

In a moment, Mary saw how much her husband must have suffered during those days of absence; he looked so thin and ill, and at least ten years older than when he went away. But the change in his words and manner was even greater than that in his appearance, and again came the thought, "What but the grace of God can have accomplished this?"

The children, who had forgotten so much of the past and felt no fear of this quiet, gentle man, clustered round him, while baby Rose very soon held out her arms, and claimed the place of honour.

It was just as well that the little ones were so ready to talk, for their parents found their hearts too full to say very much at present, and each was longing to hear the story the other had to tell, but as yet there was no opportunity.

For some months, Mary had made it a custom to gather her children round her after the evening meal, and read and pray with them.

As the time drew near, she began to wonder what she should do. She felt too shy to pray before her husband, and yet she could not be quite sure that he would be willing to take her place if she asked him.

Reuben solved the problem. It was always his part to fetch his mother the Bible; this evening, he hesitated a moment, and then handing it to his father, said, "Will you read to-night, father?"

Mark Dayál took the book with a look of surprise and pleasure, and after turning over the leaves, began to read Psalm ciii.

Then they knelt down, and as Mary heard her husband pray, she knew without the shadow of a doubt that her own prayer had been answered. These were not the words of one going his own way and seeking to do his own will, but rather the reconciled and forgiven son telling out the gratitude of his heart to the loving Father who had so wonderfully cared for and guided His children.

As Mark's prayer ended, Mary's heart was too full to remain silent, and she added her petition and thanksgiving to that of her husband, and so it came to pass that each learnt of the change in the other, and of the blessing received, as they knelt at the feet of Him who had done so much for them.

As they rose from their knees, Maggie whispered, "Sometimes we sing a hymn; would you like to hear us, father?"

A ready consent was given, and after a little discussion, "mother's most favourite one" was chosen. And so the first message which Mark Dayál heard from his children's lips was the one which had gone home with such power to the heart of his wife. As they heard together the words—

"Oh, dearly, dearly, has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood,
And try His works to do—"

each determined afresh that, because of that great redeeming love which had done so much for them, they would, with all their hearts, and to their life's end, "try His works to do."

LOOKING FOR FATHER'S BOAT.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"COME along, Hans!" said his sister, pushing back the bowl which had held his porridge. "What a time you have been!"

Hans looked rather discomfited. He glanced at his spoon, and then at the empty bowl, taken so far away, and finally deciding that it was very unpleasant to be spoken to so roughly, he began to cry.

"Hullo!" exclaimed his sister sharply. "What's that for? You leave off, or you'll get a slap, I tell you!"

She paused abruptly, for slowly and painfully their invalid mother was making her way into the kitchen, and Minette had not intended her to hear such talk as that.

The mother bent over her little boy, and kissed his forehead, and then stood smoothing his hair with her thin white fingers. Minette often thought how white they were for a working woman.

She did not speak, but her presence soothed both her children—the eldest and the youngest. Hans left off his sobs, and Minette busied herself in finding her bonnet and a fish basket, preparatory to going down to meet her father's boat.

"Run outside, Hans," said their mother's gentle voice, "and Minette will come in a minute."

The girl moved towards the door, but a gesture from her mother stopped her.

The child ran out, and their mother sat down by the fire and beckoned her daughter to her side.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, raising her eyes anxiously to the clouded face above her.

"Nothing," answered Minette, abruptly.

"Nothing, when you treat your good little brother so?" asked her mother. "What if I were not here, Minette?"

Minette felt a great inward pang, but she replied gruffly, "You're always fancying things, mother! One can't be sweet all the time—at least, I can't—and Hans has been half an hour over his porridge, and you said he must not go till it was done."

"Well?" asked her mother, gently.

"Well! I wanted to go quickly," said Minette, frowning, "and Hans always spoils everything. You're so faddy with him, mother! It would not have hurt him to go a little short for once—"

"I think he would often go short if it were left to you, dear," said her mother, patiently. She ceased to look up, for her eyes were filling, and she could not.

"May I go?" asked Minette, edging towards the door.

"Yes, dear," answered her mother. "Someday, you will understand how patient we have to be with the little ones—"

And then Minette took Hans by the hand, and they went to the shore, while the wind blew in their faces and moaned round the boats.

The fishing boats were long in coming, and Minette had time to think over her mother's words. Surely "she" had had patience shown her all those twenty years she had lived in that little cottage! Could she not bear with her little brother?

"Poor mother," she thought, with fresh tenderness, "poor, dear, mother! How hard it must be to be so ill, and to know that she'll have to leave little Hans to—such as me! But when I go back, I will kiss her and tell her I'm sorry, and that I'll never behave so again—never!"

Under the Lych Gate.

THERE were voices in the doctor's hall, and Eileen Lanyon sprang from her seat and opened the drawing-room door to peep out. Was it her father at last?

But no! A tall, awkward boy stood there facing the old housekeeper. There was a pitiful ring in his voice, though it was angry too.

"I tell you it'll be too late!" he said. "Can't ye tell me where I'll find the doctor? My mother's dying! The doctor might save her."

"I don't know!" said the housekeeper's voice. "I can't say what I don't know, I s'pose."

"Then it will be too late!" The boy turned away, and the housekeeper went back to her kitchen grumbling. "It's all nonsense about dying," she muttered; "it's all dying if their little finger aches. They'll kill the doctor between 'em."

Eileen shut the drawing-room door and pondered. Where was her father? Why, he had said he would finish putting up the Christmas motto in the church at five o'clock! Like a flash, she was across the hall and had flung open the front door. But the boy was gone. Nothing but the white snow and the dark, bare trees lay between her and the road. It was getting dark, and only the red sunset still lingered in the west, but Eileen's resolution was taken. She would go down to the church herself and tell her father. She could still hear Dick Donovan's despairing "Too late!"

In three minutes, Eileen was dressed and on her way. Such a little girl to be out alone on that snowy Christmas Eve! However, the loneliness did not daunt Eileen.

But the church was still and dark. Evidently her father had not come yet. Eileen stood and waited under the lych gate. How lonely it was! How still! Eileen's heart seemed to stand still as the trees creaked in the breeze. Once she turned to rush home, but then the thought of Mrs. Donovan checked her, and she looked up into the quiet sky. After all, Christ, whose birthday they would celebrate to-morrow, was near her. No harm could happen to her, and He could keep Mrs. Donovan alive till her father could come.

So busy was she with this thought that she did not hear her father's step till he spoke her name: "Why Eileen!"

She sprang into his arms and poured out her story, and the doctor went at once.

Late that night, when the Christmas bells were pealing joyfully, the doctor bent over Eileen's bed.

"Mrs. Donovan is saved," he whispered. "Half an hour later and I should have been too late."

"ME TOO."

THE glory of the setting sun streamed across the wide sea, and one long ray crept through a port-hole in a ship and lit up a tiny cabin.

In the narrow berth, a young seaman lay dying, and he spoke to the sailor who knelt beside him.

"The sun's setting," he said. "I'd have liked to die at home, but it doesn't matter now—I'm nearly home, John. Ask Sandy Miller to see me before I go."

John rose obediently and passed out of the little cabin, but he felt it was on a fruitless errand, and he wished George had been satisfied to die without asking for Sandy. George had been no favourite with the elderly Scotchman, and if Sandy had an enemy—well, the enemy was apt to have an unpleasant time, and George had had no peace since the day when he had openly confessed before the men that he was a Christian.

And now George was dying—they had hoped to reach England before the end came, but the disease had come with a gallop, and he would not see home again. He had always been John's "protégé," but John was astonished now to see how the other sailors rallied round George. They nursed him, watched by him, read his little Bible to him, and vied with each other in serving him; and yet he was the youngest and most insignificant on board, and he had dared to speak to each of his Saviour.

Sandy alone never visited the lad, Sandy alone never asked of his welfare, and now George had begged for him to be fetched.

Sandy leant on a rail watching the setting sun. He started as John touched him.

"What do you want?" Sandy growled.

"George is dying, and he wants to see you," said John briefly.

Sandy's face turned to a dull red. "Let him die," he shouted hoarsely. "How dare you come to me with his messages? Let him die, and the sooner the better; there'll be one less to ask if you're saved. Saved, indeed! I wish I had thrown him overboard before he asked me."

He flung off John's hand and turned his back.

Well might he wish that he had thrown George overboard before the lad spoke about his soul's salvation, for not one minute's peace had Sandy had since.

John went away, and Sandy leaned on his rail and watched the sinking sun. A sort of hush came over the ship, and he knew that George was dead. And if he were, where was he gone, and what made him happy to go into that unknown world?

Sandy shivered as his eyes followed the pathway of crimson that stretched away to the far-off sun. What a long way away heaven was! And how could one be sure of going there?

Then like a whisper of the sea wind came back to his memory the words George had said that day he spoke to Sandy: "This Man receiveth sinners."

And Sandy's proud heart bowed itself.

"Me too, Lord," he whispered. "I have been a sinner and a rebel all these many years, but if I'm not too bad, take me and make me clean."

And somehow a sweet assurance that Christ Jesus had accepted him came to his heart.

Sandy did not keep his change of heart to himself. That very night, he told his mates that he was a Christian like George now. And when he had done speaking, one by one his mates rose up and shook his rough hand.

"George has done us all good," they said.

"MASTER, REBUKE THY DISCIPLES."

WHEN the time was getting very close for the Lord Jesus to be crucified—that He might die for our sins instead of us—He went up to Jerusalem, willingly going among the Jews who, He knew, would take Him and kill Him. He did all this because He loved us so very much.

As He got near to the city, He sent on two of His disciples to find a colt for Him to ride on.

Jesus knew everything beforehand, and He told them just where the colt was tied and what they should say to the man to whom it belonged.

This man must have loved Jesus, for directly the disciples said "The Lord hath need of him," he let the colt go at once.

No one had ever ridden that colt before, but Jesus, the Lord of Glory, did not have any trouble with him. They put their garments on him for a saddle, and Jesus sat on him, and so they went along towards the city.

The people who had been healed, and who had seen some of the wonderful things Jesus had done, began to rejoice very much as they saw Him riding there so gentle and lowly, and with such tender compassion in His face.

They ran before Him, casting down their clothes for Him to ride over. Others cut down branches of trees and strewed them along the path; while even the children ran along by His side shouting, "Hosanna! Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord."

And the whole multitude, as they went down the hill from the Mount of Olives, began to praise God with a loud voice for all the mighty works which they had seen.

But some of the Jews were very displeased indeed, and they asked Jesus to stop His disciples.

But Jesus told them that if the disciples were to hold their peace the very stones would cry out for joy.

And why do you think that was? Because He was coming to save us.

"He knew how wicked men had been; | So out of pity Jesus said
He knew that God must punish sin; | He'd bear the punishment instead."

Do you feel, children, that you wish you were good, or that you are sorry that you did something that was naughty, perhaps to-day, or yesterday, or a long time ago?

Well then, think of His love in dying for you, and be comforted.

You can say to yourself: "Jesus came to save even me. He lived on this earth for thirty-three years, and at last died on the cross that I might be forgiven and made God's happy, holy child."

There is a very short little prayer that you can pray every day:

"Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."

That little prayer has made little children, and old people too, so happy. For if we ask God from our hearts to wash us in our Saviour's precious blood, we shall be whiter than snow, and we "shall" be ready to go and be with Him in heaven.

HIRA'S QUEST.