IN one of the suburbs of a great manufacturing city stood an old-fashioned but comfortable looking house, the beloved home of a happy family. Its narrow, graveled paths were often marked by little footsteps, while merry shouts of childhood mingled with the joyous notes of sundry feathered songsters in the old apple tree of its garden.
Let me introduce my young readers to one of the sunny rooms of this peaceful home in the stillness of an early summer’s Sunday afternoon. The children are within, and a proud and happy child is little Edie May on that bright June afternoon, when leaning, with flushed cheek and eager eye, over the large old family Bible she succeeds for the first time in reading a whole verse by herself. Nor was the young pupil’s gratification at her own performance more evident than that of the kind and patient sister, who had taught her infant lips to pronounce the sweet sayings of Him who bade His disciples, “Suffer be little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Very good, thought Edie, must the Saviour be, who had left such gentle words for her to spell; and it was with new delight that she took he wonted place in Mary’s lap for their Sunday talk about the Lord Jesus.
This was little Edie’s peculiar joy. She never tired of Bible stories told in her dear sister’s winning way, and every now and then enlivened by a peep at the pictures in the big Bible, which was, as yet, to her an unexplored mine of precious things. And these happy hours were shared by her beloved playmate and companion Sophie, at this time about eight years old, while on Edie’s head only four summers had shed their joyous sunshine.
A happy group were these three loving sisters. The eldest—whose gentle dignity well supplied the absence of their invalid mother; the little ones whose joy was to strive who should catch tin first expression of their elder sister’s wish, am be foremost in rendering the willing obedience of love. And thus was formed a bond so strong and lasting that when in after years Sophie am Edie looked back in search of one, long parted from their clasp, the thought of that dear sister was ever linked with sunny memories, and lent a brighter glow to their onward way, as they talked together of “our Mary in heaven.”
But this was the last day of such joy for little Edie. Ere the next Lord’s Day dawned, hex gentle teacher had been stricken with sudden illness, and for many weeks only the nurse’s softly-treading feet might cross the quiet chamber in which the sick one lay. And now the sorrowing children spoke their grief in whispers and wept together, as the hours returned when Mary had been wont to read, and sing, and talk with them, and they learned to tread so gently past the door of her room that at length permission was given for a brief entrance there.
Very pale and thin dear Mary looked, but it was her own old smile which rested so lovingly on the weeping children, and her own sweet tones which said, “Sophie, Edie, I am going to Jesus—you must try to follow me.” And so glad were the little girls to see and hear her again, that they did not understand what she meant by going to Jesus, nor dream, that she whom they fondly loved was leaving them. So they listened while she talked once more of Him who gathers the lambs with His arm, and readily promised to love Jesus very much, and try to be obedient while sister could not teach them. But they thought she would soon be with them again, and waited day after day for the news that Mary was better. That welcome news never came, and the visits to the sick room were shorter and less frequent, until one morning their eager inquiry was tearfully answered, “Mary is gone to Jesus.”
A deep impression was made on Edie’s infant mind by her first glance at the reality of death. Mary’s simple teaching had now a new meaning, and the child, connecting with the thought of dying that of going to be with Jesus, the very Friend whom she had so often vainly longed to see, came at length to look upon the departure of her sister as a pledge that there really was a happy, holy heaven, and a living, loving Saviour there. And so Mary’s death, the first great sorrow the little one had known, became, as it were, an open gateway through which her childish faith passed to where the Lord now is.
Not long after this great sorrow Sophie was sent to school, and Edie in her loneliness turned to the old Bible to read once more the dearly-loved stories which she had heard from Mary. There, she knew, was the source of all the sweet words she had learned, and she spelled them again to herself, word by word. The lessons of Mary were not forgotten.
Time passed on. Sophie was at home for a time, and one morning she and Edie were surprised by a letter from Aunt Lucy, inviting them to pay a visit to her at the farm. Little Edie was considered too young to leave her mother, and so it was decided that Sophie should go alone. The child was greatly disappointed, but she was promised a pleasure instead, which was to go to the sea side with her mamma. She little knew that she was going there to hear and learn of the Lord Jesus, and to love His name.
It happened one day that Edie was amusing herself alone on the sands, building castles. Her labor for the time completed, she sat down to rest and admire the sand castles, thinking meanwhile how much nicer it would be if Sophie could but come and help. Just then an elderly lady, who had been for some time walking up and down, and watching the progress of the lonely little builder, drew near, and appeared to be looking with interest at the sandy fortress.
“Well, little maiden,” at length she said, “and how comes it that you are alone at your work this sunny morning?”
Poor Edie was naturally shy, and little accustomed to converse with strangers; her first thought, therefore, on being thus accosted was of instant flight. But (as she afterward told her mother) she could not run away from such a kind voice and smiling face, so she answered: “Because mamma is not well enough to come out today, and Sophie is gone to Aunt Lucy’s.”
And tears were gathering fast in Edie’s eyes, as she thus named her absent playmate. But they were not allowed to fall, for her new friend at once offered herself as her companion “for that morning, at least,” and asked her to build a monument in memory of their meeting.
In great glee Edie set to work, the kind old lady talking all the while so pleasantly that Edie felt as much at ease with her as if she had known her all her life, lending her help to the building, which soon rose high and grand.
By this time the stranger was in possession of all that Edie had to say of her childish griefs and pleasures. She had told her of that dear sister, Mary, who used to teach her about Jesus; of the happy home at Lyle Cottage, and this brought up the recollection of how Sophie’s pet canary had died, and been buried under the laburnum tree; all the story ending, “But that was when I was a little girl, you know.”
“I cried so,” said Edie, “when our bird died because Sophie said it had not any soul, and was dead quite, and had not gone to sing where Sister Mary is, as I thought it would.”
“Sophie was right,” replied her friend; “thy bird had not a soul, but Edie has. What will become of that, when her body is laid in the grave?”
The child’s face grew very serious.
“I hope it will go to Sister Mary,” she said softly. “But she used to say that would not be unless I loved Jesus.”
“And do you not love Jesus?” inquired thy lady, in a tone so tender that it went quite into Edie’s heart, and could never be forgotten.
“Sometimes I hope I do,” she replied, her eye filling with tears; then, hiding her face on thy arm of her friend, she sobbed out, “I am no good, though, and that makes me afraid I do no love Him after all.”
Tenderly the lady lifted her to her knee, and held her there till the little heart grew calm again Then she began to tell her how God had so loved the world as to send Jesus to die on the cross it the place of sinners, and that though she was sinful child, she might come to Jesus just as she was, and, believing in Him, know all her sin: to be washed away in His blood.
“Do you ever pray, Edie?” inquired her new friend.
“Oh, yes! I always pray when I go to bed and when I get up in the morning. I like best to say the verses Sister Mary taught me.”
“And what are they?”
Folding her hands reverently, and in a very loll voice, she repeated: “I will both lay me down in peace and sleep: for Thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.” “I laid me down and slept I awaked; for the Lord sustained me.”
“And will you learn another prayer, and pray it whenever you can, Edie?” asked her friend.
The little face beamed with pleasure at the proposal, and slowly repeating word by word, the lady taught the child to pray: “Blessed Jesus fill my soul with love to Thee.”
Edie returned to her mother that morning with a new feeling in her heart. “Mamma, it is just what I want,” said she. “Mrs. Murray says when my soul is full of love to Jesus, then I shall be happy. I mean to pray very often, as I promised her.”
And Edie was in earnest. From that day the little prayer, learned on the beach, was uttered morning by morning, and night by night, growing ever more dear to the child as she spoke its simple words from the depth of her heart into the ear of her listening Saviour. It was the child’s first real prayer, and it became the prayer of her whole life.
Great was her desire to learn again from her kind stranger friend. But the daily renewed hope of seeing her on the beach was as often disappointed; and, to her lasting sorrow, she had to return home without so much as one more word or look from her. It mattered not, however; good Mrs. Murray’s care for the little child, during one brief hour, had left a memory so bright and dear that it needed no refreshing; and she will know her in heaven.
Little Edie had learned her own sinfulness and distance from God; but she learned, too, of the love of Christ, and with joy she accepted Him as her Saviour. She grew up to be a woman, and an earnest worker for God. The little prayer she learned on the beach, which she called her “first real prayer,” the prayer of her life time, was the last her sorrowing friends heard her utter while watching for her departure. T.