John Stevens had seen better days. His father was a well-to-do farmer in old England; and John and Roger, the two sons, were brought up with good clothes, good schooling, and money to spend as they liked, until they were young men.
About the lime that John was twenty-one, his father died. Then, as often happens, there was a quarrel between the brothers about the money he left behind. There were angry words between them, which led to blows, and finally Roger went off in a rage, declaring that his brother had cheated him, and that he would never speak to him or set foot on the place while he lived.
John, in an equal rage, answered: “Go, and good riddance to you!” He added that if he ever did come back, he would set the dogs on him. A foolish speech it was, which he made in haste, and repented of at leisure. But Roger took it in earnest, and was never seen or heard of at Hollybrook Farm afterward.
John, left to himself, did not get on well. His mother soon died of a broken heart. Then John married, and his troubles were made worse. He was soon in debt; he took to drink which didn’t help matters at all. His poor wife, and their dear little son and daughter were all taken away in death and John was left a wanderer.
But God’s eye followed poor John as he wandered and worked in Australia and New Zealand, and then in California. Sometimes he had lots of money, and sometimes he had none. At last he wandered east from California and found a job on a farm in Michigan.
By this time he was middle-aged, and travel and rough living made him look older than he was. Nobody would have guessed that the sturdy, gray-bearded man bending over a wood saw all day had once been the gay young master of Hollybrook Farm. John himself had almost forgotten it, and the old home life seemed like a dream to him.
But one day something took place that brought it all back. He was sawing wood as usual when a little bright-eyed girl ran across the yard, and stopped to watch him at his work. She was a tiny creature, five or six years old at the most, but had what people call an old-fashioned look, wise and earnest, in her sweet face. It was a look that went to John’s heart, for it made him think of the little girl he had buried twenty years before. She had just such curly brown hair, and blue eyes that looked up at you in the same bright, wiome way.
“What’s your name, man?” she asd him sociably. “My name’s Nannie; but my mother calls me her precious baby.”
“My name’s John,” answered the “man” smiling at her. “Do you think I look like anybody’s precious baby?”
“You’re too big,” shaking her head wisely. “You’re ‘most as big as my daddy. I guess you’ve got some little babies of your own, haven’t you?”
“Not now; but I had a little girl once, just about your size. She’s dead and gone, many a year ago.”
“Then she’s up in heaven,” said Nannie, cheerfully. “I’m going there too, one of these days, to see my little brother that’s dead and to see Jesus. I want to see Jesus most of anybody in the world.”
“What for?” asked John. “What does such a little thing as you know about Jesus?”
“Oh, my mother telled me all about Him. He died on the cross to save sinners. Don’t you know? Is you a sinner, John?” looking up at him with innocent earnest eyes, that seemed to see right through his heart.
ML 05/09/1954