AN old lady was dying; and over her a fair, flaxen-haired girl was bending, anxious to catch her last messages. ‘After she had given what messages she could, she said, "Oh, my dear child! my greatest sorrow is leaving you—I fear for you!”
Doubtless it was the attractive face that made the mother dread that her child would have many temptations; and it might be that she had seen the confiding, simple, sweet ways of her loved child; besides which, the mother knew that Christ had never gained her heart's affections, and that to her the world was very attractive.
“I have prayed for you, and must leave you to my Lord.”
Later she ceased to speak audibly, but her lips were moving; and the girl tried to listen, but could not catch the words.
“Oh, mother!" she cried, "what is it? Can I do anything for you?”
With a great struggle, the mother whispered:
“Now none but Christ can satisfy,
No other Name for me!”
It was the last effort; and soon she passed away to be with Him who would fully satisfy her.
The daughter lived on and drank somewhat deeply of the pleasures of the world; attractive, sweet, and winsome, she had many false friends and went on in the whirl of folly.
A good many years had passed when I heard from a friend that the daughter—now the mother of several fair, flaxen-haired children—was living near me; and, for her mother's sake, I went to visit her. Referring to the mother's dying words, I asked if she had been satisfied by the life in the world which she had lived.
She said, "No." And then she owned that she was most unhappy, and that the unhappiness increased, even although she had tried various remedies—amongst others, religion. She had changed from church to church, and was now attending a very high church. She had sought counsel from clergymen, and latterly had been going to frequent early morning communion, and even to confession; but still she had no peace. She knew her mother had possessed a peace and joy to which she was, as yet, a stranger, notwithstanding all her religious services and attempts.
“How did you think of going to confession?" I asked.
“The clergyman advised it, and I went one evening to church. I had to wait an hour," she said, "in the dimly-lighted building, and I felt so cold, and it was so strange, that I never went back again; besides, I did not think I got any good from it.”
“How many sins did you confess?" I asked. "Three," she replied.
“Well," I said, "I don't want to know them, but I know one which I am sure you did not confess, and which, if you persist in, will condemn you, and land you in a lost eternity.”
“Oh," she said, "I am not so bad as you seem to think me; I am not guilty of any such sin as that. What do you mean?”
I said, "It is the sin of keeping the Lord Jesus outside your heart. He has loved you and given His life for you, and now comes with His pierced hands and with the marks of the spear-thrust in His side, and He says to you: I have died for you; I want your heart's affections—let Me in; ' and you have had a heart for anything and everything but your Savior, who still stands without, and you keep Him out at your peril, for He alone can save you. Your mother knew," I added, "that none but Christ could satisfy, and what you need is Christ. You have owned to me that you have tried everything else, and failed: try letting the Lord in.”
After a little more talk, we knelt together in prayer; and, as I parted from her, she held my hand, and said—
“I cannot tell you how happy I feel since I opened my heart to the Lord.”
“And so you have let Him in now, have you? I am indeed glad to hear you say so," I said, and left her.
We often meet now, and the smile on that once so sad face tells me that Christ has satisfied the daughter as well as the mother.