Chapter I: A Strange Visit

THE sun was just sinking to rest in a mass of soft white clouds which were banked up against a clear blue sky—streaks and waves of crimson mingled with tints of almost indescribable hues showed upon the white background with an intensity of beauty for those who had eyes to see it.

The earthly scene, from which the sun was just hiding itself, was very different to the heavenly; "that" consisted of a few straggling mud houses, which could not be called a village: they were too near to the large Indian city of which they had originally formed a part, but had by some means become separated.

Near by was a muddy pond, which dried up in the dry, hot months, but now afforded a cool, refreshing resting-place to a herd of buffaloes, who wisely showed they knew the best place to be comfortable in. Except for these ungainly animals, which could not be said to add any beauty to the scene, the place looked so silent and deserted that it was difficult to believe it to be inhabited by any human being.

Suddenly the dreary dinginess was brightened by a patch of bright red, which appeared on the roof of one of the desolate-looking mud houses. It moved warily across the flat roof, and then subsided in a corner, where it became a "very" small patch, and kept very still.

A closer inspection would have revealed the fact that this red patch was a sari worn by a little Hindu girl. From between its folds, which were often disturbed by the breeze, could be seen her face, very small and thin, surrounded by black hair, which apparently did not receive much attention. The sad, patient expression of the child's face could not fail to be noticed, and though she sat as if gazing on the glorious sky before her, no sign of pleasure helped to dispel the sadness.

It was not to see the beauties of the sunset that she had crept up to the roof, and sat there so still.

It mattered not to her whether the sun rose or set, except for the heat of its rays, for amidst the brightest glare of a tropical sun she remained in perfect darkness, for Hira was blind.

She had never thought of grieving over this sad fact, but quietly accepted it, as she did everything which came to her. Joy and happiness were words which had no meaning for her, and therefore sorrow and sadness could not be known by contrast—just as, never having seen the light, she could hardly comprehend the dense darkness in which she dwelt.

If she had been asked whether she was happy, she would have been sorely perplexed how to answer, for she knew no more of happiness than she did of the world in which she lived.

If she could have analysed her thoughts and feelings and put them into words, she might have said that what she liked best of all was to climb on to the roof, and sit alone in the dark, and "listen," for though she had no eyes to see, she had ears which no sound escaped.

She loved silence too, and that could seldom be had in the courtyard and verandah below, where children cried, and women talked or quarrelled, and men scolded.

So, as soon as the sun went down, Hira would steal away to this quiet corner, which she knew so well that she never feared as she groped her way to it.

She talked very little, this blind child, but she thought much, though it might be difficult to explain "how," when she had so little to think about.

Her mother was dead, and her father had gone away years ago and never come back; so she lived with her uncle and aunt, who had plenty of children of their own. She never missed the love which she had never known, and it was only when she received an extra hard blow, dealt by some impatient hand, or did not receive enough food to satisfy her hunger, that she would creep away to her corner on the roof, where her tears fell unseen and unknown. Even then she did not know that she was unhappy.

As she sat on that evening with her chin resting on her hands, suddenly she gave a start, for an unusual sound had reached her quick ears.

It was not often she heard anything like this, and a more critical listener than she might have been pleased to hear the clear, full tones of the manly voice which broke the stillness.

Hira was not left to enjoy her delight alone; it suddenly became evident that this was not such a deserted region as it appeared. A small crowd collected round the singer, and several women came on to the roof, that they might hear from there. The words were very simple and oft repeated, and before the hymn was finished, two were clearly imprinted on the blind child's memory, words never to be forgotten, for they were the name of Jesus Christ.

The hymn told how His work was to save souls, and because He had laid down His life that He might be the Saviour, no sinner could ever come to Him and not receive salvation at His hand.

Clear and distinct the words rang out on the still evening air, and were wafted afar on the breeze.

The singer's heart rejoiced, for a stranger in a strange land, as yet separated by an unknown language from those into whose midst he had come to dwell, he had found a means of telling the good news which he had come so far to proclaim.

But he had another message to give before he went on his way, and, not now in tones of persuasive sweetness, but as a command given by one in authority rang out the words, not twice, but again and again, "Prepare to meet thy God."

Then the messenger went on his way, and the astonished listeners never asked him why or whence he came.

For a time, people talked of the mysterious stranger who had come and gone so quickly and sang with such a beautiful voice. Then they forgot.

But there was one who always remembered.

Blind Hira, wrapped in her red sari on the corner of the roof, heard the words of the command, and, perhaps because she could not be so easily distracted by the things of earth, which were hidden from her, they remained written on her memory and heart.

"Prepare to meet thy God." "Prepare to meet thy God."

The words rang on and on, sometimes mixing with the words of the hymn, telling of One of whom she had never heard, and having heard, understood nothing, but yet whose name became so familiar, even Jesus Christ, the sinner's Saviour.

GOD'S MESSAGES—LETTICE'S LARK.

"LETTICE, go out and sit on the form in the shade till I am ready for church," said her mother.

"May I pick some moon-daisies for old Mrs. Robins? She does love them so."

"Very well, but do not make yourself dirty."

So Lettice set forth, and when she had filled her basket, she sat down to rest.

How quiet it all was! How soft the air blew, bringing on it the sound of the distant church bells; while from the field, a lark rose up singing with all its might.

Lettice's eyes followed it far up into the blue sky, and her thoughts went further than her eyes—even into heaven, where angels and the redeemed were praising God.

When she carried the marguerites into the sick chamber of old Mrs. Robins, her face brought a message, though the little girl was quite unconscious of it. As the invalid looked at the flowers that quiet Sunday evening, she said over and over again to herself, "God's little messenger, that's what she was! She looked as if she'd been talking to Him."

AN UNINVITED GUEST.

ONE day when the Lord Jesus was on this earth, He was invited to dinner by a rich man named Simon.

Perhaps this rich man asked the Lord Jesus to dinner because he wished to see Him do some miracle—something wonderful, which no one else could do; or he may have imagined that people would think more of himself if he had Jesus for a guest. At any rate, by what we read afterwards, I am afraid the Pharisee did not invite Jesus because he "loved" Him.

But there was somebody at that feast who did love Jesus, but she was not invited!

In Eastern lands, the houses are not shut up like our houses, but because it is so warm, the dining-rooms are often open to the air on one or two sides.

When a great man makes a feast, people hear of it, and come round the house to look at what is going on.

In the city, there lived a poor sinful and sorrowful woman who had learned to love the Lord Jesus; perhaps she had heard Him say those loving words: "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

When this sorrowful woman heard that Jesus was gone to dinner at the Pharisee's house, she brought a little box made of alabaster, which was filled with some very sweet-smelling ointment, and she made her way into the open dining-hall, and when she saw where the Lord was sitting, on a sort of couch close to the table, she came up and stood behind Him.

And as she stood there and thought of all her sinfulness, and of all His love and compassion, she began to weep, and her tears fell down over His feet as He reclined at the table.

Then she wiped His feet with her hair and anointed them with the sweet ointment.

But the Pharisee who had invited the Lord Jesus looked on with great anger. He thought if Jesus were a great teacher, He would not have allowed a woman from the city to come and wash His feet with her tears.

But Jesus knows all our hearts, and He could see that the poor woman loved Him so much that she would go away and try never to grieve Him any more.

By-and-by, He told Simon to look at this woman, and compare her love with his.

Jesus said words something like this: "Simon, I was tired and dusty when I came in, but you did not give Me water to bathe My feet; but she has washed My feet with her tears; you did not offer Me a kiss, but this woman has not ceased to kiss My 'feet'; you did not anoint My head with oil, but she has even anointed My 'feet' with precious ointment. She has loved Me very much because I have forgiven her very much."

And turning to the woman, Jesus said to her, "Thy sins are forgiven; . . . go in peace."

Oh, the joy of hearing Jesus say those words! And we may have the joy too, if we come to Him with humble, loving heart, and tell Him that we are sorry.

He never turns anyone away who comes to Him; so, dear little children, let us trust His loving heart, and though we know we are very unworthy, do not let us stay away for that, for Jesus longs that we may be forgiven, and so be able to go away "in peace."

JIM.

THE "Sailors' Arms" had held out alluring hands to Jim Adams for many a long day. His was the most familiar figure by its fireside in winter, and in fact, the "Sailors' Arms" saw more of Jim Adams when he was home from sea than the bare, dirty cottage where he lodged.

But one sunny summer afternoon, Jim turned out of the "Sailors' Arms" earlier than his wont.

Somehow he had got thinking of the Lizzie who would have been his wife if she hadn't taken the fever and died. He mightn't have been the Jim Adams he was now if she had lived. Who cared for him? Nobody. Who respected him? Nobody. Who would shed a tear if he never came back from sea? Nobody. They called him a drunken ne'er-do-weel, and they took a drink from him and laughed at him almost openly, and the respectable men and women drew away from him. It was a black picture that Jim drew of himself as he sat on the shingle and looked at the sea.

A sound of voices and laughter came up to him, and he saw Bob Sheppard and his children coming over the sand. Big Bob and little Bob were carrying small Liz in a net between them.

Jim watched them wistfully. He might have had a little laughing daughter like that.

The two bearers deposited the child on the shingle, and Liz, after looking round for something to do, came trotting straight towards Jim.

Jim held his breath. He didn't know what made him think of such a thing, but he decided that if she turned from him, there was no chance of his being different, but if she came past him without fear, he would try to be more like the Jim that the dead Lizzie had known.

Little Liz stooped and picked up a piece of shining seaweed; she came towards Jim and held it out. "That's for you!" she said in her baby voice.

Jim took it. He looked at it, and folded it and put it in his pocket, and the child stood and watched him as he got slowly up and went away.

Three days later, Jim Adams went to sea again, and Liz's bit of seaweed went in his pocket. For three days he had been perfectly sober, and the "Sailors' Arms" had been feeling empty.

Bob Sheppard sailed with him, and sometimes he would look pitifully at his neighbour's lowering, morose face. But Jim was such a well-known character that Bob never once dreamed of his wanting a helping hand or of the wish to be different.

But wish as Jim would, he had no power to make himself different, and when the ship put in at the seaport near his village home, he went on shore and got drunk. He was sitting on deck next morning feeling more ashamed and sorry than he ever remembered feeling before, and there was a terrible depression at his heart. He could never be different, never be good enough to meet Lizzie. He would not try any more. He even took out the little bit of seaweed that he had thought would be a talisman to help him, and was going to throw it into the sea, when a small voice beside him said,—

"Did you like my bit of seaweed? You never said you did."

Jim started violently. There stood little Liz, hugging a great fish, and behind her was her mother, smiling at her. The two had come over as a great treat to see Bob, and Liz had spied her old friend and sought him out.

Jim felt almost too shy to speak to her, but Mrs. Sheppard was talking quietly to her husband, and Jim drew the child nearer and admired her great fish. The two grew quite friendly, and hope began to creep back to Jim's heart. Suddenly looking up, he found Mrs. Sheppard looking down at him with a kindly expression in her eyes.

"My little Liz has taken quite a fancy to you," she said.

"I wish I was a better man," he said huskily. "I did try, but it don't seem no use."

"The Lord Jesus would help you," she answered softly. "He loves you and died for you."

A light came into Jim's bleared eyes.

"Lizzie used to talk like that," he said, "but it's too late now; I'm too bad."

"It's never too late," cried Mrs. Sheppard warmly. "Don't you remember—

"'The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there may I, as vile as he,
Wash all my sins away.'"

Bob called her just then, and she and Liz wished him good-bye. But before she parted from Bob, she said hesitatingly, "You know Jim Adams, Bob? Give him a kind word now and then; little Liz has taken such a fancy to him, and he looks lonely."

Bob looked down into little Liz's clear blue eyes thoughtfully. "He wouldn't take a word from me," he said, "but I'll think of it. You know, we think of those at home when we're out on the quiet nights, and I will see," he added fondly.

He watched Jim curiously after that. He wondered what had made Lizzie take to the man. She was a rather shy, particular little lady, and Jim was not prepossessing in appearance.

Bob watched Jim a good deal that voyage.

Jim was usually morose and taciturn; now, silent as ever, he looked different, less unkempt, less unhappy. But Bob did not find a chance of speaking to him; their duties lay apart, and it seemed as if all things combined to separate them.

One night a wild gale sprang up, and the ship, never very seaworthy in Bob's eyes, strained and tossed, and was beaten hither and thither in an alarming manner. Signals were fired, for they were in sight of the French coast, and as the tardy morning dawned, they saw that a small boat was putting out to them.

The storm had subsided and the sea had gone down, but the wild waves had done their work on the old ship and she was sinking fast, and but one boat was coming out in answer to the signals of distress.

Jim Adams stood looking out over the heaving water. He had a lifebelt on. He had just been at the pumps, and he knew the ship was doomed, and he was facing death and eternity. Yes, he could face them calmly now. He took out the bit of seaweed little Liz had given him—his first ray of hope—and he murmured over the verse Liz's mother had repeated. As he said the last line, he lifted his head with a look of triumph in his eyes—

"And there may I, as vile as he,
Wash all my sins away."

He started as he felt someone stand beside him, and Bob Sheppard's voice said, "She's going fast."

Jim nodded. "It's all right for me," he said gruffly. Then he added quickly, "Where's your lifebelt, man? That boat will never reach in time, and you've dear ones waiting at home."

Little Liz's fair face seemed to rise before Bob's eyes, but he knew nothing of the ring of pathos that came into his voice as he answered quietly, "There aren't enough belts to go quite round."

Jim made a quick movement, and Bob cried out earnestly, "No, no! Not your belt, Jim Adams; I'm determined about that."

"So am I," answered Jim; "I'll try for the boat. I've no one to shed a tear if I go down, and you have wife and child. If it should be so, tell little Liz when she's growed up as she pointed the way to God to a poor lost sinner—she and your missis."

He would take no denial, and he had but bound the life-preserver round Bob, when there was a sudden cry from below, "She's going!"

She was, indeed. In the rush of the swirl of water as the ship sank, Bob saw no more of Jim. He was not to wait for the boat after all, and Bob was borne away on the crest of a wave.

A spar touched his hand, and he grasped it. He would fight for the life Jim had tried to give him while his strength held out. An hour later, the boat from the French shore picked him up and bore him to land.

All his mates were saved but one, and the one that was missing was Jim.

It was early morning when the ill-fated boat that carried Jim Adams and Bob Sheppard sank into the seething water. The gale that had lulled somewhat rose again, and a few hours later, a little fishing-smack came in to the hospitable shore where Bob and his companions were recovering from their experiences. And with them, cold and still and altogether peaceful, came all that was left of Jim Adams. The fishermen said they had picked him up just alive, but in spite of all they could do, he had died before they could reach home.

As Bob Sheppard stood looking down on the face of the man who had given his life for him, great tears welled up into his eyes and rolled unheeded down his rough face. What was he that Jim Adams should give his chance of life for him? He remembered his wife's interest in Jim, and Jim's love for little Liz. Jim had given them back their dearest, and had died in the giving.

Bob stooped down and took a piece of seaweed from the hand of the dead man. It was twisted firmly in the fingers, and Bob took it as a little remembrance. It was all that he could take to tell of that morning's work. But he did not know that he was taking the bit of seaweed that Liz had given in the innocence of her childish heart that day when Jim had left the "Sailors' Arms" and gone to think of his lost Lizzie on the beach.

Bob did not guess that the seaweed that he folded in his pocket-book had been the first ray of hope for a new life for Jim. But he determined that the life given back to him that day should be devoted more wholly to following his Saviour.

He saw Jim laid to rest in the little French burying-place, and then he took the first opportunity of going back to his home.

How warm was his welcome!

And as he and his wife gathered round the fire that first evening, with small Bob at his elbow and Liz close clasped in his arms, he told them how Jim had given his life for him.

Ah, Jim! You thought that no tears would be shed for you; you thought no one would care! No one at the "Sailors' Arms" gave you another thought. Other sailors, tied and bound by the curse of drink, occupied the "Sailors' Arms," but you were mourned and spoken of gently in one home, the home where little Liz lived.

As Liz grew up, her mother often told her of Jim Adams, for the child had no knowledge of what her little innocent gift of seaweed had done for Jim, though she could well remember Jim's face and figure. And the story had an effect on all her life, making her kind and thoughtful for the sad and downtrodden, and ever ready to hold out a helping hand, or give a cheering word to those who had few to care for them.

TURNED OUT.

IT could not be true! George looked at his employer blankly; surely he had misunderstood. But once more, the harsh words fell on his ears, and he knew he had heard aright.

"Here are your wages, and I shall not need your services after next week."

George took the pile of silver handed him and walked mechanically out of the office. Some of the men eyed him curiously as he passed, not a few openly jeered, but George walked on, dragging his feet wearily.

At the corner he paused, then turned sharply away from the village towards the desolate bare heaps of refuse which lay around, and walked rapidly on. How could he go home and face his mother with that story, that mother so dependent on him, for whom he had toiled so long?

Making sure no one was within sight, he flung himself on the ground and moaned aloud. Oh, why had they left their little country home and come to this drear spot? It was all dark to him, and there was no one to comfort him then.

At last, he roused himself and turned back towards the village; the sun was setting in a red glow behind the church tower, and the rooks in the vicarage garden were flying homewards. All was at rest and in peace, but he alone. And why was it? What had he done that he should be dismissed? Ah! He knew, but the thought brought him no comfort yet.

"'Saint,'" they had called him, "'coward'" too, because he had refused to join in their gambling and drinks, and had mocked him; ay, and cursed him too for the loving care he gave to his mother.

So he strode through the village angry and sad. Angry, for he thought God had forsaken him, sad because his faith was dim, and he saw not the hand stretched out even then to shield.

He had passed the little gate which led from the vicarage garden, when a cheery voice called to him, and he turned to see the vicar leaning over it. A glance at his face told the vicar he was in trouble, and drawing him inside, he paced silently beside the lad while he told his tale.

He could do little then to comfort, but his sympathy helped George and took the hardness out of his heart and voice.

Then he hastened home and broke the news to his mother, never noticing in his trouble the glad bright light on her face.

When he had finished, she took her son by the arm and led him to the window, where lay a strange, long envelope. George took it, wondering, then read the letter almost with awe.

"Mother!" he said, and clasped her in his arms. "Then God has not forgotten."

The letter was from a strange lawyer, telling them that George's uncle had died in Australia and had left £500 to George's dear mother.

HER SAILOR BOY.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"I'D better go away, mother, and get over it as best I can!"

"Away from 'me,' Benny?"

"I shall be better away. It's no use trying here. I shall meet Mary every day, and I can't stand it."

Then the mother knew that what she had feared had come upon her. She only held his hand and looked into his face.

"There's only one way that I know on, to get broken hearts healed," she said, falteringly; "and that ain't going into foreign parts! There's a Healer as will do better for you nor that!"

The young man would not pull his hand away, for might it not be the last time she might hold it? But a slight movement on his part showed his unwillingness, which she well understood.

"Come back to me when you are tired of it," she said gently and tenderly. "If I'm alive, I shall be here waiting for you; and there's One as is nearer than ever I could be."

Then he packed his bundle; and with sore, wounded heart, and burning anger against the friend who had played him false, he went to sea.

His mother betook herself to her Refuge. She knew it would take time for the wound to heal; she knew that it would be hard for him to meet every day of his life the girl who had wronged him, and she let him go without further persuasion. Did she not know, too, that where she could not help him, God could?

Perhaps Ben had not guessed all it would cost him to leave his seaside cottage, and the fishing smacks, and the fisher folk.

He took train to the nearest seaport, and choosing a vessel that took his fancy, he engaged himself for a long voyage, and was soon off.

Whatever home-sickness he felt, he kept to himself. In the silent, starry nights when he was on watch, there were thoughts that passed through his mind that no one would have guessed in the day while busy life was round him.

Perhaps he thought more of his mother's God than he had ever done before; perhaps he humbled himself to seek comfort from Him who has so lovingly invited the weary and heavy laden to come to Him. But the three years were lengthened to many more. He had not meant to stay longer, but a sailor who was his chum persuaded him to try gold-digging, and somehow—Ben never knew how—he stayed on and on, writing to his mother that he was coming home "soon," but putting off the decision till ten long years had gone by.

At length, a letter reached him in a handwriting he knew long ago.

"I that did you the greatest unkindness years ago, will do you a kindness now," it said. "Your mother has aged a good bit lately. To my thinking, she won't be here so very long."

Then Ben woke up. All at once he realised that years instead of months had gone past. His mother's letters and her assurances of being well and thinking of him always had satisfied him. But now the world had grown dark suddenly, and he rubbed his hands across his eyes, wondering how everything was suddenly changed.

"I meant not to go back till I could take her a fortune," he said to his mate, "but I've mistook mother. She don't want a fortune, she wants to see me agin, and to know somethin' about me; that's better nor any fortune."

When once Ben had made up his mind to do a thing, it did not take long for him to begin it. The next morning saw him on his way home with much such a bundle as he had started with, but with a few nuggets hidden among his clothes. In the quiet nights of the homeward voyage, his real fortune came to him. It came in words which he had learned thirty years ago at his mother's side—"Seek ye the Lord while He may be found, call ye upon Him while He is near."

When his mother clasped him in her arms and looked in his face, she knew that the desire of her heart had been granted.

"The Lord's way is a right way," she said gently. "Welcome home, my boy, welcome home!"

HIRA'S QUEST.