THOUGH there was, as you have seen, so much to keep the children busy in the garden, the field, and the common, to say nothing of all was seen and done upon the seashore, there was yet another place which expected their presence for several hours every day, and perhaps you will easily guess that this was the schoolroom. For what would have been the use of that well-arranged apartment, with its large steady table and abundance of chairs, its varnished wall maps, its long reclining board, its bookshelves and rows of books, and Miss R. in her place, if the children had not been found also in their places?
Thanks to the slates and the books, and the patience of kind friends who had daily drawn Louie's attention to them, the time was long past when the finger had to take any part in the reading lesson; indeed Louie's eyes and lips by this time had learned to go so fast, that the patient little servant of former days would have found it very difficult to keep pace with them, as they safely traveled down page after page. Louie began to find great pleasure in reading, and to think a great deal about what she read; she often read stories of other children, like herself, and whenever the cloud, which had never left her, because there was nothing in her own heart that could chase it away, cast its dark shadow over her, she would think about some of the stories she had read, and would try to remember something in them which might give her help or comfort.
Besides reading about other children, Louie became acquainted, at this time, with two very sweet little girls who lived on the top of a high hill about a mile distant; their names were Ellen and Emma; their home was a very poor little cottage, and it stood in the midst of several other poor cottages. The children were all fond of visiting the people who lived in these cottages, and sometimes, when by self-denial they had saved a few pence out of their little pocket money, a piece of bright pink or lilac print would be bought at the village shop, and then, after a great many little stitches had been patiently put into it, ending with the more delightful task of running a tape into the neck for a string, the worker would be rewarded by having a pinafore which would be given with much pleasure, and equally well received by some child in the hill cottages. Sometimes a big loaf would be bought instead of a pinafore, and, though it was rather a heavy burden for so long a walk, it was very gladly carried; sometimes, Mamma sent a basket or parcel; sometimes the children had nothing to carry; but they always went with pleasure to the hill. The walk there was agreeable, and plenty of jumping and climbing might be done by the way; and besides this, though I am sure you will think it very strange, I must tell you that Pussy always took care to be of the party when they went up the hill. The sea shore, the high road, or the rush common she did not approve of, but she considered the lane a safe place, and would always conduct her little mistress to the first cottage she visited, and then would contentedly turn round and trot home.
Jane, Mary Ann, and several others were among those who lived in the cottages on the hill, but Ellen and Emma were Louie's favorites; Ellen's face was thin and pale, but there was a gentle, contented look upon it, and whenever her mother told her to repeat a few Scripture verses or a hymn to the visitors, she was ready, and whatever she said was said so correctly and so thoughtfully that Louie never forgot the sound of the texts and hymns repeated by Ellen's childish voice.
However, something happened which for a time put an end to the visits to the hill: a bad fever broke out among the cottages which were rather crowded together; little Ellen took the fever; the children saved up their pence to send her milk and some of the other little things which are good for sick children; grown up friends did their part; Ellen's mother watched and nursed and wept and prayed, the doctor attended and gave many remedies, but still, the Lord had need of little Ellen, and He took her away.
The children were very sorry when they heard that she was gone, and it was a long time after this before they were able to see little Emma and her mother. Louie thought a great deal about Ellen's death, as once she had thought about the death of the gardener's little grandchild, but her thoughts now were very different; she did not need to ask what had become of Ellen, she knew well now what became of those who died; she knew that only their bodies were laid in the grave; that the soul departed to be with Christ, happy forever, or else went to that place of distance from God where misery is eternal.
Ellen's mother told how patient and obedient her little girl had been all through her long, suffering illness, how she had spoken of going to be with Jesus, and how happy and peaceful she had been in her last moments. In many things Louie resembled Ellen; she was of about the same age, she too could repeat many hymns and verses of Scripture, and was, like Ellen, always ready to do this when called upon, but still Louie could not feel that she should be at all peaceful or happy if she found herself dying; she remembered the solemn words learned on that Saturday, long ago, "once to die, and after this the judgment." What could have made Ellen so happy? What could give peace, even in the prospect of death? Ah! there was an answer to Louie's question in God's own word, if she had but taken it as her counselor: "Being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ." But again she answered with the thoughts of her own heart, and so again she made some sad mistakes, and gained nothing but sorrow.
Louie knew well enough now that the hope under which she had before sheltered herself from fear of death was vain and useless; she knew that no care of a loving mother, and no attention from clever doctors could drive away death. Ellen's mother had loved and nursed her, yet she had died; the doctor had been kind and attentive to Ellen and had tried many remedies, and yet she had died; but Louie hoped that, before she should be called to die, a long illness would visit her; she hoped that she should lie, day after day, in bed, and that then, in some way, she could not tell how, she should become, by degrees, patient and gentle and good, and that then she should look peaceful as Ellen, and many others of whom she had read, had looked in their last moments. Oh! what a poor, miserable shelter was this! The deceitful thought of a deceitful heart.
Christ has made peace by the blood of His cross: there is no peace but the peace which Christ made. Christ came preaching peace: there is no peace but the peace which Christ preaches. Christ said, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you:" there is no peace but the peace which Christ gives. “There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked." These is no peace to those whose sins are not forgiven for His name's sake. There could be no peace to Louie from a long illness or from patient behavior. And could anyone be patient, peaceful, happy, with a sick, suffering body, and a conscience stung with the remembrance of unforgiven sins? For “the sting of death is sin."
There was once a miserable man who died in unbelief and so with sins unforgiven, without Christ; he had a long illness, but could that give him peace? No, indeed; so terrible was his misery and so awful his end, that the woman who nursed him said she would never again attend upon anybody who was not a Christian.
And could Louie know that she would have a time of illness, in which to prepare herself for death? Oh no! it was a sad mistake. I have known, and perhaps you too have known, many children and many grown up people who have been called away by death, in one moment. A few years ago, two little boys were running home from school; one of them never reached home. On the way was a canal, bordered by a narrow, green pathway. The little boys ran along this pathway, and the younger slipped in; the other, who was but a small child also, ran home to tell his mother. Many hastened to the spot, they drew out the little child, but it was too late; he was dead. Ten minutes before he had been running, full of life, by the water's edge; but now, he was dead!
Only a few weeks ago, a boy went out to his work in the field; a dark cloud was overhead, but E. never thought what that cloud would bring to him. Some raindrops fell, then a bright flash of lightning shot across the sky—E. fell to the ground, he was struck; the men who were at work with him ran to his help, but it was too late, he was dead.
Louie's shelter was a miserable one, a mistake arising from her own ignorant and foolish heart, and beneath it she might have perished, and perished forever: it was not "a hiding-place, a covert from the tempest, a place of refuge, a covert from storm and rain:" and Love would not allow her to remain undisturbed in it.