About a fortnight after my father arrived, we were surprised one Monday morning by another visit from old Mr. Davis. His son-in-law had asked him to come to tell my grandfather that he had received a letter with regard to the little girl who was saved from the “Victory.” So he told my father and me as we stood on the pier; and all the way to the house I was wondering what the letter could be.
Timpey was running by my side, her little hand in mine, and I could not bear to think how dull we should be when she was gone.
“Why, it’s surely Mr. Davis,” said my grandfather, as he rose to meet the old gentleman.
“Yes,” said he, “it is Mr. Davis; and I suppose you can guess what I’ve come for.”
“Not to take our little sunbeam, sir,” said my grandfather, taking Timpey in his arms. “You never mean to say you’re going to take her away?”
“Wait a bit,” said the old gentleman, sitting down and fumbling in his pocket; “wait until you’ve heard this letter, and then see what you think about her going.” And he began to read as follows:
MY DEAR SIR:
I am almost overpowered with joy by the news received by telegram an hour ago. We had heard of the loss of the “Victory,” and were mourning for our little darling as being among the number of those drowned. Her mother has been quite crushed by her loss, and has been dangerously ill ever since the sad intelligence reached us.
Need I tell you what our feelings were when we suddenly heard that our dear child was alive, and well, and happy!
We shall sail by the next steamer for England to claim our little darling. My wife is hardly strong enough to travel this week, or we should come at once. A thousand thanks to the brave men who saved our little girl. I shall hope soon to be able to thank them myself. My heart is too full to write much today.
Our child was traveling home under the care of a friend, as we wished her to leave India before the hot weather set in, and I was not able to leave for two months. This accounts for the name Villiers not being on the list of passengers on board the “Victory.”
Thanking you most sincerely for all your efforts to let us know of our child’s safety, I remain, yours very truly,
EDWARD VILLIERS.
“Now,” said the old gentleman, looking at me, and laughing, though I saw a tear in his eye, “won’t you let them have her?”
“Well, to be sure,” said my grandfather, “what can one say after that? Poor things, how pleased they are!”
“Timpey,” I said, taking the little girl on my knee, “who do you think is coming to see you? Your mother is coming—coming to see little Timpey!”
The child looked earnestly at me; she evidently had not quite forgotten the name. She opened her blue eyes wider than usual and looked very thoughtful for a minute or two. Then she nodded her head very wisely, and said: “Dear mother coming to see Timpey?”
“Bless her!” said the old gentleman, stroking her fair little head; “she seems to know all about it.”
Then we sat down to breakfast; and while we were eating it, old Mr. Davis turned to me and asked if I had read the little piece of paper.
“Yes, sir,” said my grandfather, “indeed we have read it;” and he told him about Jem Millar, and what he had said to me that last morning. “And now,” said my grandfather, “I wish, if you’d be so kind, you would tell me how to get on the Rock, for I’m on sand now; there’s no doubt at all about it, and I’m afraid, as you said the last time you were here, that it won’t stand the storm.”
“It would be a sad thing,” said old Mr. Davis, “to be on the sand when the great storm comes.”
“Aye, sir, it would,” said my grandfather; “I often lie in bed at nights and think of it, when the winds and the waves are raging. I call to mind that verse where it says about the sea and the waves roaring, and men’s hearts failing them for fear. Dear me, I should be terribly frightened, that I should, if that day were to come, and I saw the Lord coming in glory.”
“But you need not be afraid if you are on the Rock,” said our old friend. “All who have come to Christ, and are resting on Him, will feel as safe in that day as you do when there is a storm raging and you are inside this house.”
“Yes,” said my grandfather, “I see that, sir; but somehow I don’t know what you mean by getting on the Rock; I don’t quite see it, sir.”
“Well,” said Mr. Davis, “what would you do if this house were built on the sand down there by the shore, and you knew that the very first storm that came would sweep it away?”
“Do, sir!” said my grandfather. “Why, I should pull it down, every stone of it, and build it up on the rock instead.”
“Exactly!” said Mr. Davis. “You have been building your hopes of Heaven on the sand—on your good deeds, on your good intentions, on all sorts of sand heaps. You know you have.”
“Yes,” said Grandfather, “I know I have.”
“Well, my friend,” said Mr. Davis, “pull them all down. Say to yourself, ‘I’m a lost man if I remain as I am; my hopes are all resting on the sand. And then, build your hopes on something better, something which will stand the storm; build them on Christ. He is the only way to Heaven. He has died that you, a poor sinner, might go there. Build your hopes on Him, my friend. Trust to what He has done for you as your only hope of Heaven—that is building on the Rock!”
“I see, sir; I understand you now.”
“Do that,” said Mr. Davis, “and then your hope will be a sure and steadfast hope, a good hope which can never be moved. And when the last great storm comes, it will not touch you; you will be as certainly and as entirely safe in that day as you are in this lighthouse when the storm is raging outside, because you will be built upon the immovable Rock.”
I cannot recollect all the conversation which Mr. Davis and my grandfather had that morning, but I do remember that before he went away he knelt down with us and prayed that we might every one of us be found on the Rock in that last great storm.
And I remember also that that night, when my grandfather said good night to me, he said, “Alick, my lad, I don’t mean to go to sleep tonight till I can say, like poor Jem Millar: ‘On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand; All other ground is sinking sand.’”
And I believe that my grandfather kept his word.