THERE are still to be seen in some parts of England the low-thatched cottages of former days, built partly of clay, and often on a slip of land taken off the roadside. In one of this description has lived for some years an old woman, of whose conversion and closing days I wish to tell you.
When first we came into the neighborhood and used to pass her striding along with her spade and garden-basket over her shoulder, we used often to wonder who she could be. But when she and her husband removed into the little low-thatched cottage, with its gay flowers, so lovingly tended by her hands, our acquaintance began. Others besides ourselves sometimes dropped in to have a word with her, for she was unlike any one else, seeming to belong to a former generation, with its old-time habits and manners. Yet, over her and her dwelling there was one shadow! She never could speak with any certainty as to her soul’s safety, and though confessing God’s goodness and care over her in temporal matters, there was no clear answer with regard to eternity.
So the years passed on, the last four somewhat sad and lonely; for she had laid in the grave her “old man,” as she called him, and age and infirmity were lessening her former activity.
Then came the day—only a few weeks ago—when someone said, “Do you know Mrs.—is very ill, and we fear she may not be about here again?”. We found her indeed weak, so weak that we feared she would not be able to tell us what was in her heart. After a time a relative, sitting by her side, said: “It’s a good thing aunt is in the right way.” Hearing her assent, we said, “And when, Mrs.—, did you get into the right way?” “Only a few weeks since,” she said, “perhaps five or six. I had striven and struggled for years for the peace I had not found, and when this illness laid hold on me, I thought, ‘Who can help me, but God Himself?’ so I said―
‘Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidst me come to Thee,
O Lamb of God, I come!’
These lines were repeated so slowly, so feelingly, just as he had said them when they went straight from her weary heart into the ear and heart of the Lord Jesus. She went on: “And when I had said it, peace and joy came to me at once.” Then she added in the quaint language she always used, “I only rue that I did not come to Him long before, but we’re so hard-hearted with Him.”
As we stooped to pass out of that low doorway and down the garden path between the overgrown autumn flowers, we thought of the exceeding nearness of the Lord Jesus to the sinner, we thought of the wonderful reality of His promise, “Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out,” and of His immediate response to her venture on Him.
All the long, weary years of doubt, distrust, and seeking in herself for peace might have been ended long before, and I relate it to you, dear reader, that whether young or old, rich and unsatisfied now, or burdened with sin, you may be encouraged to venture on Jesus now, as dear old Mrs.—did only a few weeks ago, and find Him as near as she found Him, and as true to His promise, “Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.”
We went in again before the end came, and spoke together of the will of the Lord, for she said she would “like to be taken, but the will of the Lord be done, He will do the best.” We said, “He sometimes tries faith.” “I think we try Him!” was the emphatic reply.
G. S. B.