THE writer one day received a message asking him to go and see a young woman who had been suddenly taken very ill at a village inn. He was very ill himself at the time, and hardly able to walk, but as the message was urgent he felt he must go, more especially because he was told that the young person had been urged to see the Puseyite minister, and had flatly refused to do so, earnestly asking whether there was not someone in the place who would show her the truth. On reaching the old-fashioned country inn, he was shown up a wide draughty staircase, where the cold wind rushed in from both the back and front doors, into a large, but comfortless, chamber. There, on the bed, lay a young Scotchwoman. She had come all the way from Scotland, in broken health, in the hope of finding in a warmer climate and change of air that benefit which she needed. It turned out that she was consumptive, and before she had been many days in the village she was taken worse, and, instead of the improved health and lengthened life which she had thought to get by her long and toilsome journey, she was now suddenly found to be dying. Brought up a Presbyterian, she despised the mummeries of Puseyism and every other form of Romish error, and so, although conscious that she was now near death, she had made up her mind that she would rather die as she was than allow a Puseyite to visit her. How anxiously she looked at the writer as he approached, lest those who attended on her should have deceived her by bringing the one she had refused to see! But, although she perhaps knew enough of doctrines to know that Romanism is a huge falsehood, I am sorry to say she did not know Christ. The doctrines she did know pointed her to Christ, but she had never gone to Him — she had never really believed in Him, though she believed a good many things about Him. What a difference this makes! Her religion might quiet the conscience for a time, while health and strength rained, but could give no comfort now that death suddenly stared her in the face. All was uncertainty; the awful future was dark, and oft-heard doctrines had lost all power to comfort. She felt she lacked something, but what it was she knew not until the difference between having knowledge and having Christ was pointed out to her. Then her anxiety became intense. Death was approaching with rapid strides, and she, who had probably thought herself a good Christian till then, suddenly discovered that she was a lost sinner! What a solemn state to be in at such a moment! Life was ebbing fast away, and all past opportunities having been wasted, all she had was a little knowledge of truth, which now only added to her condemnation and dread.
Dear reader, are you in this condition? Have you contented yourself hitherto with knowing the way, yet never taking it? If you could have seen this young woman in her anguish as she fixed her startled gaze upon the writer when the truth of her condition burst upon her mind, you would never have forgotten it. Perhaps the sight might have stirred you up to flee to Christ at once, and, in the hope that the narrative may do so, I relate it to you now. For a moment it seemed as if despair had overwhelmed her soul. She turned her face away as she lifted her arms and let them fall heavily on the bed, and, though she spoke not, her action said most expressively, “LOST!” Then, as the perspiration broke all over her pale death-stricken features, she turned again to the writer, and, though still she said not a word, her imploring agonized gaze plainly asked, “Is there no hope?”
Yes, blessed be God, there was hope, even for the dying thief, and more than hope; there was salvation for him in one look to Jesus “Today shalt thou be with me in Paradise.” Prayer was offered for her that she who had so long rested in forms and doctrines might have power given her to look to Christ Himself, and that prayer was answered. On going again the next day, the young Scotchwoman was resting in Christ, and on the third day, after pouring out her praises to the Lord in loud, triumphant, joyous tones, she raised her arms to heaven, and crying, “It is finished!” breathed her last with a smile of peace upon that face so lately wrung with anguish. A Christian who witnessed her death declared he never saw a scene so full of joy and triumph, and, as he traveled much among the villages in his trade, and talked of it everywhere, the writer was wont to be sent for to every death-bed all round the countryside as long as he remained in those parts. The young Scotchwoman was not soon forgotten. The precious blood of Christ had put away her sins; His blessed Spirit had convinced her of her fatal error, and brought her to HIMSELF; and, though she had come far from her home to die among strangers, she had found life in the very jaws of death, and health for evermore in Christ.
J. L. K.