SO Louie was still in a place of danger, notwithstanding the shelter which, her own thoughts had erected and with which her heart tried to whisper, "Peace, peace," when there was no peace. She was still like a child in a burning house, and moreover now like a child who, though called by love to escape, shut her eyes to the glare of flames and stopped her ears from the sound of ruins falling around her, and, retreating behind some frail little screen, desired to be left to slumber instead of continuing to hasten away from the scene of destruction. But Love, patient, pitying Love, even the Love of Him who "fainteth not, neither is weary," would arouse her again.
The days and weeks passed by; winter had set in, and there was less opportunity for play in the field or for work in the garden. Other employments took the place of those which had chiefly engaged the attention of the children during the summer; besides this, each month more work was expected from them in the schoolroom. Louie's fingers had grown a great deal longer than those little fingers that used to point the way in the large, red leather book, but her sums had increased in length still more than her fingers, and now they often stretched all down her slate, for she was just beginning long division, which she thought was very well named, for whether measured by minutes or inches, it seemed to her a very long affair indeed. Then, besides the sums, there were French exercises to be written, and French stories to be read, and quite a pile of books, from each of which she had to repeat a lesson every day; but yet there remained plenty of time for walks and play, and long winter evenings in the drawing-room, which were almost more pleasant than the summer evenings spent in th' field or on the sands. The drawing-room had a large bay window looking out upon the sea, and when the tide was high and rough, the sound of the waves could be plainly heard in the quiet evening hour, when the children were all seated at the large round table with their work.
One evening, when they were each of them thus busy, Grandmamma had laid aside her knitting and was reading aloud. Grandmamma read slowly and distinctly, and always from some simple book that the children could understand; and often the reading was so interesting that Louie could scarcely spare enough of her mind from it to give the attention which her needle required to send it along its hem or seam. So the needle had long holidays, while Louie's eyes were fixed upon Grandmamma, and her thoughts were journeying back, perhaps to the wonderful days when Martin Luther, in the midst of his deep darkness and dreary useless penances, had heard the voice which said to him, like a message from heaven, "The just shall live by faith," and when, like Paul of old, being not disobedient to the heavenly communication, he had risen from his knees, and standing upon his feet had learned to walk by faith. Or, sometimes, with a full heart she followed the wanderings, and watched the conflicts, and shared the hopes and fears of the Vaudois or Waldenses, those few despised ones who yet were among the number "of whom the world was not worthy," who wandered in sheepskins and goatskins, in deserts and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth; who counted not their lives dear unto themselves, so that they might finish their course with joy. Sometimes the scene was nearer home, and the time a less distant one, and Louie's heart was engaged in Ireland, hearing of the terrible sufferings brought there by famine and fever, and how, in the very day of need and languishing, many a poor thirsty one had drunk of the water of life and had found Him who said, "He that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never thirst."
How wonderful all these stories were to Louie! Not only because of the stirring scenes in dark convent, royal court, and stately judgment hall where the brave Luther witnessed his good confession; not only because of the heroic endurance and wondrous escapes of the despised mountaineers, or the depths of almost unparalleled poverty known among the once plentiful hills and fields of Ireland; but because each and all seemed to find, in the Scriptures and in the name of Jesus, a something that made up for all losses, and that satisfied every longing of the heart and every need of the soul. Louie knew the Scriptures, those same Scriptures, well, and that Name above every name, the precious name of Jesus, how familiar to her ears and lips, and yet she felt no satisfaction, no joy nor sense of a treasure possessed; she felt nothing but fear and the desire of a guilty conscience to put off as long as might be, the day when she must see Him face to face: the same Scriptures, the same precious Name, but what a difference! and where was the difference? Louie hardly knew, and sometimes she almost thought it would have been better for her if, instead of the quiet home and surroundings of peace and plenty, and instruction in wisdom's ways, she had been one of the persecuted wanderers long ago, or one of those dark heathen told of in her Missionary Magazine, who received with such joyful surprise the knowledge of the only true God and Jesus Christ whom He had sent; or one of those in the famine-stricken land who, from their deep poverty, had learned to trust in "the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, though he was rich, yet for our sakes became poor, that we through his poverty might be rich." Louie knew not as yet half the depth of her own need, nor that her poverty was far greater than that of the famine-stricken children who lay gasping beside the cold fireplace, and the empty cupboard; she knew not that she herself, though seated in that pleasant room and listening to the dear Grandmamma's voice, was poor and miserable and wretched and blind and naked; and so her trust and hope was still in self, and such trust could give but a restless dissatisfied feeling, for it is only when we are "justified by faith" that we "have peace with God," and that, not through anything in ourselves, but only "through Jesus Christ our Lord." Fear and peace cannot dwell together in the heart; “fear hath torment," that is not peace; and on this very evening, though the scene seemed one of peace and security, something happened which, in a moment, brought poor Louie into a very torment of fear.
Amid the surging of the waves, as they beat against the strong sea wall, a strange sound was heard; a dull, distant roar, increasing in strength, till it ended in a great heavy boom. Again and again this strange sound was repeated. The reading was stopped, while every one wondered what the noise meant, and in the midst of the talk and the wondering, Louie's bedtime came, and she left the drawing-room. The noise was really from a ship in distress, a sound of heavy guns coming strange and solemn through the evening stillness, but Louie had gone away before this was discovered, and so, as soon as she reached her room, she asked the maid who was waiting to undress her if she had heard the noise, and if she knew what it meant. The servant had heard the noise, “But," said she, " I don't know what it was; I never heard any noise like it; I thought the end of the world must be coming." “The end of the world!" repeated Louie in an awestruck voice, “I never thought about that. Why did this noise make you think about the end of the world?"
"Oh because," replied the maid, "this noise was like the blowing of a loud trumpet, and I have heard that just before the end of the world a great trumpet will sound; it is called the last trump."
“And what will happen then?" said Louie.
“Why then the whole world and everything in it will be burned up," was the reply.
“The whole world burnt up!" Louie repeated this to herself, and she remembered having often read and heard words which described the awful scene. “The day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night, in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat; the earth also and the works which are therein shall be burnt up." In the face of such a prospect what was the use of her frail little shelter; of what use to dream about a deathbed and long preparation when, before even death, judgment in another form might overtake her? And must this be Louie's prospect? Was there no hope? No way of escape?
By this time, some of the other children had come up to get ready for bed, and when Louie asked, "Must everyone who remains alive be burnt up?" one of them answered, "Before the day of the burning up of the world the Lord will come and take away His own people, and they will be safe with Him while all the dreadful judgments are going on." Louie said no more; she saw plainly that there were some who would be saved, saved from earthly judgments, from all those terrible woes told of in the book of the Revelation, from all the horror of fear that would cause the wicked to call upon the mountains and the rocks to fall and hide them from the face of Him that sitteth upon the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb. Oh! how Louie's heart quailed as she lay there in bed and these scenes passed before her mind, and when she remembered that all these woes, dreadful as they were, were not the end, but that, beyond them, there would be yet that judgment which she had so long dreaded, and which her conscience told her must for her end in eternal misery, it was no wonder that, since she still stood alone, and did not come to Jesus who would have given her rest, it was a long, long time before she fell asleep.