The church clock had just chimed six. It was getting dark, and slowly a damp, hazy mist was beginning to gather over the little village of W—. In most of the cottage windows the lights were glimmering; here and there were standing groups of laboring men, laughing, chatting and discussing the news whilst the wives in the cottages hard by were preparing the evening meal. Just off the main street, lying in the shadow of a clump of trees, was a small square building, scarcely larger than a good sized room. From its windows a bright light streamed, and the sweet sound of girlish voices rose, on the still evening air. The door was closed, but just outside the threshold stood a girl, with her head bent eagerly forward and eyes, wet with tears. Suddenly the door opened," and about a dozen young girls issued from it, "O, Alice," they cried, almost in one breath, "you here"?
Instantly the tears were brushed away, and with a defiant toss of the head the girl flung herself off, mortified and thoroughly ashamed at herself having been caught in the act of listening.
"Stop a moment dear," said a gentle voice at her elbow. "I am going your way, and so we can walk home together.”
"It's no use talking to me, Mary," answered Alice with an impatient shrug of her shoulders, "it's only a waste of time; there, leave me alone!”
But it was useless to endeavor to shake the other off, so with another impatient toss of the head, the girl allowed herself to be led through the lane, until they were out of sight of the others.
"Why didn't you come in, dear?" said Mary, then stopping quite still she put her arms round her friend, "O! Alice, we have all been praying for you tonight and asking God to save you; let Him do so.”
"It's no use, Mary, I am much too wicked, so leave me alone. Good-night; and don't bother to pray for me.”
By this time they had reached the pretty little farm which belonged to Alice's father, and opening the gate, without another word, she rushed up the little footpath, leaving Mary to go on her way with a heavy heart.
Within, father, mother, and the boys were seated at the table, over their evening meal.
"I don't want anything to eat," said Alice, "so don't keep anything for me, mother.”
"In one of your tantrums again, I suppose," said the eldest of the boys, looking up for a moment, from his brown bread and butter.
Alice took no notice of this remark, but closed the door again, and went upstairs. Her heart was very heavy! no wonder, for she had begun to realize her own sinfulness, and beneath the seeming indifference, and open defiance, was a great yearning to be what she knew those girls were, who had been gathered together that evening to meet the Master they so loved.
She longed to be alone, and this would be impossible presently, for there would be cries for "Alice" to do a dozen different things.
Quick as thought she hurried into the farm yard, and there in an old broken-down shed she flung herself on her knees, and sobbed as though her heart would break.
"O, Lord Jesus, please forgive me, and make me Thine," she cried again and again.
And don't you think the Lord heard that prayer? Ah! yes, He came there in that tumble-down shed, and spoke peace to her soul.
An hour later Alice was sitting with her friend Mary, and both were rejoicing over the fact that God had heard the many prayers for this naughty, wayward girl, and had brought her that night safely into the fold.
Cannot He do the same for you? You know He can, and even now, as you read this, He is speaking to your heart. He is telling you that He died for you and that He is waiting to take you as you are. Do not disappoint Him.