IT was a heavy fall of snow; I had watched it from the window for some time, as it shrouded the earth and mantled the trees and shrubs in the garden; everything outside seemed to make me thankful for the comforts-within, and I gladly drew my chair very close to the blazing fire to enjoy its cheering warmth. My thoughts turned to the many who knew no such comfort, and who could see no attraction in the fast-falling snow, or the feathery, fantastic outlines it was giving to everything outside. My reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. I went and found there a girl from the village I had known for some time. She had come to ask my husband to go and see a poor woman who was dying, and who refused to let any of the neighbors see her; “and you could not go,” said the girl, “for her room is never cleaned, and never has any air in it. She is a poacher’s wife, and her husband is a drunkard and neglects her.” “I will see her tomorrow,” I said, “if my husband has not returned home.” But I became restless and very uneasy, and it was not long before I had drawn my waterproof closely round me and was making my way through the storm, praying that the Lord would indeed give me a message from Himself, and also that I might be guided to the right door, as it was getting dark. It was a poor place I had been directed to, a dirty court surrounded by very poor houses. At the last house on the left side I stopped, and asking help from God to gain admittance, I gently knocked on the closed door and waited. Slowly the heavy wooden bolt was drawn back, and, before I had realized it, I found myself inside, and the bolt replaced.
I had to lean upon the wall for a few moments in silence to recover from the overpowering pressure of bad air that met me; and by the feeble light of a small lamp I saw the emaciated form of a young woman crouching on a low wooden stool by a few embers of a fire just dying out, and which she was vainly endeavoring to stir into life.
Poor woman, I longed after her soul; in poverty, and sickness, and sorrow, and “without Christ.” How terrible! And yet the moment seemed not to have come for me to give God’s message. I drew my stool near her, and taking one of her wasted hands in mine I asked a few questions as to “How long she had been ill?” etc. And as I pointed to little Johnnie, I said: “You can trust me, can’t you? Tell me all your troubles, for I want to help you.” “Well,” she said, “you’re kind to face the storm in sic a nicht and sit Boon here to speak to me, and there’s no’ mony cares for Mary B―, the poacher’s wife.” “Your husband is a poacher,” I said; “tell me how you came to marry him.” “Ah, weel, I was but a bairn when I married, and I thought as trade was as guid as anither, and he promised I should want for naething; but he drinks all he makes by the game, and it’s seldom a feather o’ it I see, or a penny that it brings me. And then I daurna let anybody into the house for fear they take the dog and guns, or catch himself, and mony a day the bairn and me never sees food or fire, and I’m that weak that I’m ill.”
I saw by the dim lamp-light it was a bed of shavings, with nothing over it but a cotton patch quilt and a piece of old carpet. “Well,” I said, “and what of your child who died?” I had touched a chord in that weary mother’s tearless heart; a few great tears rolled down her sallow cheeks, and she tried to steady her feeble voice and answer my question. “It is five months syne she was born; I was very ill. After the doctor and the woman that nursed me had left, vane came to see after me, and John was out all day, and often all nicht, after the game; and I lo’ed the wean, but I’d naething to gie her, and I saw her divine and dwine by my side till as day she geed a wee short breath and deed, and sync I couldna look after, or care for onhing, for my bairn deed o’ want, and I kept it weel, and it gaed sae sair to my heart that I didna greet, and I didna sleep, and I didna eat, and then the cough came, and John brought the doctor, and he said it was the decline, and I wouldna mend; and it was true, for every day I seem waur and waur, and some days I canna rise ava.”
And then the fragile form was racked by a terrible fit of coughing. I silently prayed that the Lord would now give me the right word. As the paroxysm of coughing subsided a little I took her hand, and said, “Mary, the message I bring you tonight is from the Son of God, the One Who died to save sinners like you and me, and His message to you is this, ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ (Matt. 11:2828Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28).) Dear soul, you are in great need of rest. Will you come to Him tonight?” “I would fain have the rest,” she said but I’m no’ fit to come; and I’ve no strength left to gae to the Kirk or the Mission, so I canna come.” “Well, Mary, you’re very weak and very sinful, but Christ has made prision for just such as you! Have you strength to look at me, Mary?” “Yes,” she said, raising her heavy, sad eves to mine. “Well, Mary,” I said, “the Lord bids you look unto Him and live.” “Does He? Oh, but I’m a poor, weak thing; and I know I’m a sinner, for I was taught that many years ago at the school, and I feel it every day. But there’s none to care for me now, and I’m dying, and going I don’t know where! Oh, what will become of poor Mary B―, the poacher’s wife? “And in an agony of soul she wept exceedingly, and tears rolled down her cheeks. I wept, too, for I saw she had judged herself a sinner, and that the Lord’s time for blessing had come. I opened my Bible and read from Num. 21:9: “And Moses made a serpent of brass, and put it upon a pole, and it came to pass, that if a serpent had bitten any man, when he beheld the serpent of brass, he lived.” After reading this I said nothing, but waited upon God to apply His Own word to that sin-stricken one, so near the end of her life’s journey. Her lips moved, and she whispered, “I’m just like one o’ them. I’ve spoken against God, and often said hard things of Him when I was starving, and when my baby died; and there’s naething but hell for me,” and again she wept.
I reopened my Bible and read to her John 3:14-17,14And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up: 15That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life. 16For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. 17For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. (John 3:14‑17) “Oh!” she said, clasping her hands together in intense relief,” is it true, is it true? Then I can die happy. He gave His Son for me, and I shall never perish! I know I am a sinner, but Jesus died just for the like o’ me! Oh, thank ye, thank ye, for coming to me wi’ sic a message!” and she clasped my hand and kissed it again and again.
This same great salvation is available to you reader, if you will only have it. If you have not yet accepted Christ you are a lost sinner going to endless woe; but you, too, can be saved this moment if, like poor Mary, you take God at His word and rest upon the finished work of the Lord Jesus Christ, Who loved you, gave His life for you, and rose again for your justification. K.