ON THE edge of a wild moor in England, lived a poor family in a little cottage. They had a big dog named Hero, who was a faithful watch dog.
One evening the father and mother were out, and Frances and Alex, the two older children, were left in charge of the two younger ones who were already sleeping in their beds.
But Hero wasn’t content to lie quietly by the fire this evening as he usually did. He kept going to the door, whining and scratching to be let out. Alex and Frances looked out into the dark but could see nothing. Presently Hero began to bark loudly and bounded with all his strength against the closed door.
“We can’t keep him in,” exclaimed Frances. “He’ll waken the children, and yet I’m so afraid, for we don’t know what may be outside.”
“I’ll risk it,” said Alex. Hero, in his delight, almost knocked down Frances as he cleared the doorstep at one bound and was soon out of sight.
About half an hour later, Hero was heard on the outside of the door, whining and scratching, and Alex opened the door to let him in.
But the dog wasn’t satisfied to come in. He caught hold of Frances’ sleeve in his mouth, and tugged and dragged at it with all his might.
“He certainly wants us to go with him, Alex. Perhaps we had better go. A sheep may have strayed away and got lost.”
So the two children locked up the house and followed the dog who now went slowly and steadily along the narrow path that led to one of the wildest parts of the moor, only turning now and then to thrust his cold nose into their hands as if to encourage them to follow him. On they went till Hero led them to the edge of a wide swamp and then he stopped.
“I see something, Frances, close to where Hero is standing. What can it be?” said Alex.
Stooping forward, they saw the figure of a boy, lying just on the edge of the soft mud. The boy heard their voices and lifted his head.
“Don’t move,” shouted Alex, “you’re in a dangerous place. Give me your hand and help you up to firm ground.”
“I’m so very tired, and my feet are very sore,” said a faint voice. “Who are you?”
“We’re friends come to help you. Come to our cottage, it’s not far,” said Alex.
So they helped the poor fellow up and led him along the narrow path to their home.
“I’m sure you’re both cold and tired,” Frances said, as she brought the boy something to eat and then he told his story.
“Cold enough,” he replied, “but not hungry now,” as he drank the hot milk Frances had given him, and spread his cold hands out to the fire. “I’ve come a long way. I left home early and walked all day. I lost myself on the moor trying to find a short cut to the village. It’s a long distance yet, I’m afraid, to reach the sea.”
“The sea, oh yes,” replied Alex. “What do you want there? Have you no father or mother to stay with, or did they send you off alone?”
“I’ve no mother, and father wanted me to do what I did not want and would not let me go to sea, so I determined to have my own way, and start out before anyone was up this morning.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Frances, “did you disobey your father and leave home without even saying good-by? Suppose you had died tonight alone, in the swamp, and had never seen him again to ask his forgiveness. No wonder God would not direct your steps in the wrong path.”
“Was I so near death?”
“One step more and nothing could have saved you. It must have been God who sent Hero to bring us to your rescue.”
Soon all in the cottage were sleeping —all but the strange boy. Frances’ words rang in his ears— “If you had died tonight!” It was a solemn thought. He had never been in such danger bore and now he shuddered at the thought. At last sleep came but brought only troubled dreams. He imagined himself lying on a narrow ledge, the boundary between time and eternity— “the edge of the shore of death.” And just as his feet were slipping over the brink, he woke with a start and a cry which brought Alex to his side.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’ve had dreadful dreams. My head is burning and I feel ill.” And he was very ill. In his illness and fever, he could not tell his name or where his home was. But at last he began to rover, and his father was soon brought to his bedside. Walter tried to tell his father how sorry he was, but tears came instead.
From their kind friends in the cottage, the boy and his father learned the story of the prodigal son who left his father and at last was made to see that the only thing left for him to do was to return home and confess his wrong in running away. They learned too of God who welcomes each one who comes to Him, truly sorry for his sins.
“Come!” The Father’s house stands open,
With its love and light and song;
And returning to that Father,
All to you may now belong.
From sin’s distant land of famine,
Toiling ‘math the midday sun,
To a Father’s house of plenty,
And a Father’s welcome, “Come!”
ML-05/08/1960