HAVING been asked to address a Sunday School at its yearly meeting, I occupied a place on the platform, and heard the reports read by the secretary and treasurer. In these reference was made to the slims of money collected by the various classes, and also by some of the senior scholars. One girl especially had collected an extraordinary amount, and was called forward to the platform to be seen and to be thanked by the chairman for her assiduity in collecting money for the Lord’s cause in heathen lands.
At the close of the meeting while she still remained near me on the platform, I took occasion to slip over to her and lay my hand on her shoulder.
“Annie,” I said (for her name had been often repeated during the evening, and although she was a perfect stranger to me till now, I felt I could use it for my Master’s sake), “I was gratified to hear of your having collected so much money, and I suppose it was done for the sake of the Lord Jesus, who did so much for us.”
The “yes” was somewhat awkwardly given in reply, making me feel that she was not quite sure of this, and therefore I asked her, “Will Christ be satisfied with our pence and shillings, or even with our pounds? Annie, is that all He wants from us?”
“No,” she replied.
“What more does He ask? “
“Our hearts,” was the whispered answer.
“And have you given Him your heart, my dear child,” I asked?
Down went the head, and slowly fell the tears from Annie’s eyes, the only answer she could give apparently; I knew it meant, no. And I thought it meant I wish I had, so drawing her gently to me, I whispered, “Annie, Jesus comes to you and says, ‘My daughter, give me thine heart,’ and you have been, I fear, paying Him off with money, and saying, ‘Take my coppers, my shillings, my pounds; I will give you all these, but my heart I will not give.’ All is worthless, my child, till. you yield your heart to Him; then anything, everything you do or give will be very precious, because of your love and obedience.”
The heaving of her troubled breast and the sad question depicted in her face, told me that she was deeply anxious to have the matter settled, and I said so.
“I feel sure,” I said, “that if you could see Jesus here beside you tonight, and could hear Him say, ‘Annie, will you give me your heart,’ you would instantly bid Him take it, would you not, my child?”
“Oh, yes,” she almost sobbed out, “I do so wish to love Jesus and to give Him my heart.”
And I asked, “Doesn’t He wish to have it, doesn’t He wish to put His big, loving, everlasting arms round you tonight, and rejoice that He has found the sheep that was lost. That He loved and sought and shed His precious blood for, and only found tonight?”
Little more could be said, for the meeting was dismissing and we were now among the last, so I had to say good night, and she was soon mixing with her young companions, who would have many things to speak about, but most likely nothing to help a heart which had been touched.
I feared the impression might pass away, that her heart might harden up against Christ, even after all this momentary softening, but she could not be the same again, she must from thenceforth be a Christian, or a rejector of Christ. Many a time had more been said and done without any real results, why should I hope that Annie should be saved tonight; such were my thoughts as I saw her hastily wipe away the last traces of tears and, joining her friends, pass out. I knew nothing of her but her name, and even it soon dropped out of my memory, but I trusted that it would be written in Heaven, by Jesus, who would not fail to remember it.
Five or six years after this meeting, I was walking on a Sunday evening in company with a well-known and highly respected Sunday School teacher and saperintendent to a large prayer meeting of teachers, and as we came to the door of the Hall we met a young lady. My friend turned to me and said,
“May I introduce my sister to you; she wishes to make your acquaintance.”
I replied that I would be happy to make hers, and shaking hands with her, I said,
“I have long known your brother, but have never had the pleasure of meeting you before.”
“We have met before,” she said, “although you may have forgotten it.”
“Indeed,” I asked; “when was that?”
“A few years ago,” she answered; “do you not remember speaking to a Sunday scholar about not paying Jesus off with coppers, or silver, or gold, but giving Him her heart.”
“Yes,” I said, “I do remember; it was in M —School.”
“I am Annie,” she said; “I wanted to thank you for that word.”
Then I said, “I need not ask if you are now the Lord’s.”
“I gave Jesus my heart then,” she said, “and I have loved Him and labored for Him ever since.”
The meeting was begun, and we were compelled to drop the conversation, but my heart was greatly cheered to find the scholar now a teacher, and her heart evidently the Lord’s forever.
Strangely enough Annie’s family left the city and removed to a distance, so that I was never able to enjoy a friendship which I could have desired and which I knew she would have enjoyed, but God had other work and another sphere for His beloved child.
Years passed, and I only occasionally heard of her, but was cheered to hear of her life and service for the Lord.
One day, about five years after my second meeting with her, I met a mutual friend, who mentioned to my surprise that she had been very poorly, and was advised by the country doctor to come into the city hospital, in the hope that something might be done for her. I took a note of the ward, and intended to visit her on the first opportunity.
It was Sunday afternoon; I had been visiting some sailors in the male wards, and afterwards crossed the building and ascended to Annie’s ward, which I knew well, and where I was well known, having been a not unfrequent visitor. Although I had not seen her for a lengthened period, I did not doubt but that I would be able to recognize her, and passing into the ward, I looked around at each of the occupants, but in none of the beds could I see any one whom I could fancy to be my friend. The nurse from her inner room observed me, and came forward to ask if I wanted any one.
“Yes,” I said, “I was told that Annie — was in this ward.”
“So she was,” replied the nurse; “that is her bed,” pointing to an unoccupied one, “but she is gone.”
I looked into her face, and the tears that filled her eyes gave me the rest of the unfinished sentence.
“What!” I said, “surely not dead? “
“Yes; only a little while ago she was carried down stairs.”
I could not speak, for my voice failed me, but the nurse saw that I wished to hear more about Annie, and she said, “You need not grieve for her, for she died a happy death, but we shall miss her sorely, she was so kind to all in the ward, and while she was able she read and spoke to them, so that we were all attached to her; she was indeed a thorough Christian, and has gone to her reward.”
A few more particulars of her latest moments this kind Christian nurse gave me, and I felt that I might rest assured that when the Lord Jesus returned, Annie, as one of those who slept in Him, would be with Him. J. S.