(Part 1)
It had been an unusually warm day and the windows stood wide open to let in the cool evening air. It was an old fashioned room, with low ceilings and quaint furniture. Carved bookcases filled with big books lined the walls, and polished oaken boards took the place of carpets.
In strong contrast to the surroundings a little boy with golden curls and earnest gray eyes, lay full length upon the floor, one arm over a favorite dog, and the other resting on a large book opened before him, which he was intently reading.
Now and again a sigh escaped his lips, but beyond that, nothing broke the stillness that reigned over everything. Presently closing the book, he laid it down beside him on the floor, and remained very thoughtful.
The door opened softly and a tall fine-looking young man entered the room. Catching sight of the little boy curled up on the floor, he came to him.
“Cecil,” he said, “I can’t have you hiding yourself away like this. I have been searching for you everywhere. What! more fairy tales!” he said, glancing carelessly at the volume on the floor. “So much reading is not good for you, my boy.”
The little boy jumped and ran into the arms held out to him; but the look of wistful sadness still lingered on his face.
“Father,” he said, putting his arms around the young man’s neck and resting his head against his shoulder, “Are they fairy tales or true stories in that big book?”
“What is the book, my boy?” asked the father, stooping down and taking up the heavy volume. “Why, Cecil,” he said, turning over the pages, while a dark frown crossed his handsome face, “it is a—a—it is a Bible. What were you doing with this book? There is nothing in it to interest a little boy like you.”
And he arose and put it back upon the shelf, from whence it had been taken.
But Cecil was not to be silenced.
“It is about a man,” he continued, “who was beaten and spit on, and thorns put on His head, and nailed to a cross!”
“Well, Cecil, what of that?” replied his father, not knowing what answer to make, and turning his eyes uneasily away from the earnest, pleading eyes of his little son.
“Well, I want to know if it is true, and why they hanged Him on the cross. Was He a very wicked man?”
For a moment the father did not reply. A feeling of restlessness stole over him at these strange questions. It was a subject he had never allowed his mind to dwell upon, and one which filled him with hard, rebellious thoughts.
Well he knew the story of a Saviour’s love; well he knew that Christ had suffered for guilty sinners, for often had his gentle wife (whom God had taken to Himself) spoken of the Saviour, who was all in all to her.
Alas! like many others, Cecil’s father had never found out that he was a sinner before God. He was moral, respectable, upright in all his ways towards men, but he was sadly ignorant of God. He never thought of Him as holy and righteous, and that He takes account of man as a sinner. If he thought of God, it was to judge Him as a hard master. A heavy, crushing blow had fallen upon him in the early death of his beloved wife, and without definitely knowing why, he blamed his sorrow on God. He saw nothing beyond his own selfish sorrow.
To his ignorant, rebellious heart, God was not a God of love: but One who had robbed him of all he held dearest in the world, leaving nothing in its place but darkness, upon which the light would never more shine.
With a dark frown upon his brow he put the boy down. “No! it is not true, Cecil,” he said slowly— “Now run away and play, and don’t ask any more questions.”
This was easily, thoughtlessly said. In spite of apparent calmness, it left a sting in a conscience that was ill at rest. But little did that father think what a second bitter sorrow lay in his path.
ML 10/11/1953