I KNOW but little of her history, my reader, and can tell you still less; but this much I will tell you, that once she was young and beautiful and beloved, and now she was old and unlovely and desolate. Without a friend and without a home, poor Peggy went to spend her few remaining years in the Union Workhouse. There were many others in that dreary place who, lonely like herself, would have been glad to sometimes speak a kindly word to her, but by her violent temper and unloving ways she soon drove them all away from her.
I well remember the trim little figure in its gown of blue cotton, and the once comely face, now disfigured with lines of pride and ill-temper, as she walked all by herself about the Workhouse grounds. But God loved her, and His heart pitied her, so He raised her up one friend in the person of the kind doctor who attended the institution. He was a Christian, and, like his blessed Master, had a pitying heart for those who were sorrowful and lonely. He longed that this poor sinner should know the Lord Jesus, the “Sinner’s Friend,” and so he took advantage of every opportunity to tell her of His love. At first he told her the story which little children love to hear, of how the
“Holy Jesus, meek and mild,
Once was born a little child.
In a manger He was laid;
With no pillow for His head,”
because His place was amongst the poor of the world. Then he told her of His life as a Man amongst men, how He cleansed the lepers, fed the hungry, raised the dead, and received every poor sinner (the very vilest) who came to Him. Then came the story of that last dread moment when the Son of God hung upon the cross between two thieves bearing the weight of the sin of the world, when the holy God hid His face from His own Son, so that He cried out in the bitterness of His anguished soul, “My God, my God why hast thou forsaken me?” Then, when the work of atonement had been fully done, how the Victor’s cry, “It is finished,” rang out so that heaven and earth could hear it.
You know the story, my reader, do you not? You have often heard it, but perhaps it has never yet touched your heart. Do you not remember how the very sun in the heavens refused to shine for shame when God’s holy Son was bearing our sins, nailed to a malefactor’s cross? Have you ever hidden your face for one moment because you were ashamed to think that it was for your sins He suffered there?
Peggy listened quietly, interestedly, because she saw it pleased her friend to tell her, but as yet she felt not her need of a Saviour, so the blessed story of His love found no echo in her heart. But the Good Shepherd had gone out over the dark mountains of sin to seek His poor lost sheep, and was soon to bring her home on His shoulder rejoicing. The time went by, and Peggy grew older and more feeble. At last she became very ill, and was taken from “the old women’s ward” to the Workhouse hospital, and soon the terrible truth dawned upon her that she must die. Her terrified soul quailed at the prospect. To meet God, the God she had so sinned against, she dared not, with the weight of sin now pressing upon her. Her thoughts went back to the days of her wasted youth, of her sin-blighted womanhood, until thought was an agony too great to bear.
The hospital nurse, who was, like herself, a Roman Catholic, sent for the priest in the hope that his being with her would bring her comfort and help her to die. He came to her, and, having anointed her, told her that now she need not fear.
Peggy thanked him for what he had done, but still cried out in her agony, “Oh! that is not enough. I am a great sinner, I am afraid to die. My sins I my awful sins! how can I meet God? I dare not die.” But the gentle Shepherd had tracked her footsteps all the way, and now upon the brink of the precipice He saw her stand. I have told you that He loved her, for He had given His life to save her and could not do without her; so He drew near to her, called her by her name, whispered sweet words of love to her, set her upon His shoulder, and bore her away rejoicing.
“Then all through the mountains thunder-riven,
And up from the rocky steep,
There arose a cry to the gates of heaven,
Rejoice, I have found My sheep.
And the angels echoed around the throne,
‘Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own.’”
She lived for a few more days, and all around her could see the change. No more oaths and curses, no more angry words, but quietly, peacefully she lay awaiting the end.
At last the glad moment came, the nurse watching by her bed, when suddenly the half-closed eyes opened, her face shone as if a glory-beam had touched it, and stretching out her withered arms she clasped her hands and said softly, “Ma seacht mile gra” (my seven thousand times beloved), “it was Yourself that did it all!” Then she lay quietly back on her pillow, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
W.