William Dixon was an infidel. Even if there were a God, which he doubted, he would not forgive Him for taking away his young wife about two years after they were married, and his little boy. Dixon felt very desolate and bitter.
Ten years after Mary Dixon’s death a stirring event occurred in the little village of Brackenthwaite. Old Peggy Winslow’s cottage caught fire, and was burnt to the ground. The poor old woman was pulled out alive, though nearly suffocated by smoke, when the bystanders were horrified to hear a child’s pitiful voice. It was that of little Dickey Winslow — Peggy’s orphan grandchild. He was shrieking from the attic window.
Onlookers were much distressed to see the child’s plight, but felt it was too late to save him, as the stair had already fallen in. Suddenly, William Dixon rushed to the burning cottage, climbed up the iron piping, and took the trembling boy in his arms. Down he came again, holding the child in his right arm, and, supporting himself by his left, the two reached the ground in safety, amid the cheers, just as the smoking wall fell.
Dickey was not hurt, but the hand with which Dixon held on to the hot piping was terribly burnt. The burn healed, but left a deep scar that he would carry to his grave.
Poor old Peggy could not rally from the shock, and died soon after. Then the question was: What is to become of Dickey? James Lovatt, a most respectable person, begged that Dickey be given to him to adopt, as he and his wife longed for a little lad, having lost one of their own. To every one’s surprise, William Dixon made a similar request. It was difficult to decide between the two. So a meeting was called, composed of the minister, miller, and others.
Mr. Haywood, the miller, said: “It is very kind of both Lovatt and Dixon to offer to adopt the orphan boy, but I am in a great perplexity as to which of them ought to have him. Dixon, having saved his life, has the first claim; but, on the other hand, Lovatt has a wife, and the care of a woman is necessary to a child.”
Mr. Lipton, the, minister, said: “A man of Dixon’s atheistic notions cannot be a suitable guardian for a child; whilst Lovatt and his wife are both Christian people, and would train up the child in the way he should go. Dixon saved the child’s body, but it would be a sorry thing for the boy’s future welfare if the one who took him from the burning cottage would be the means of leading him to his eternal ruin.”
“We will hear what the applicants themselves have to say,” said Mr. Haywood, “then put the question to the vote. Mr. Lovatt.”
Mr. Lovatt replied, “Well, gentlemen, my wife and I lost a little lad of our own not long ago, and we feel this child would fill the vacant place. We would do our best to bring up the lad in the fear of the Lord. Besides, a child so young needs a woman to look after him.”
“Good, Mr. Lovatt; and now, Mr. Dixon.”
“I have only one argument, sir, and it is this,” answered Dixon quietly as he took the bandage off his left hand, and held up the sadly scarred and injured member.
For a few moments there was quiet in the room and the eyes of some were dimmed. There was something in the sight of that scarred hand which appealed to their sense of justice. He had a claim on the boy by reason of what he had suffered for him. So, when the question was put to the vote, the meeting decided by a majority in favor of William Dixon.
So a new era began for Dixon. Dickey never missed a mother’s care, for William was both father and mother to the orphan boy, and lavished all the pent-up tenderness of his strong nature upon the child he had saved.
Dickey was a clever boy, and quickly responded to his adopted father’s training. He adored him with all the fervor of his loving little heart. He remembered how “daddy” had saved him from the fire, and had claimed him because of the hand so dreadfully burnt for his sake. It moved Dickey to tears, with kisses on the hand that had been scarred for him.
One summer there was a great exhibition of pictures in the town and Dixon took Dickey to see them. The boy was greatly interested in the pictures and the stories daddy told about some of them. The picture that impressed him most was one of the Lord reproving Thomas. Underneath were the words: “Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands” (John 20:2727Then saith he to Thomas, Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side: and be not faithless, but believing. (John 20:27)).
Dickey read the words and said, “Please, daddy, tell me the story of that picture.”
“No, not that one!”
“Why not that one?”
“Because it’s a story I do not believe.”
“Oh, but that’s nothing”, urged Dickey. “You don’t believe the story of Jack the Giantkiller, yet it’s one of my favorites. Do tell me the story of the picture — please, daddy.” So Dixon told the story, and it interested him greatly.
“It’s like you and me, daddy,” said the boy. “When the Lovatts wanted to get me, you showed them your hand. Perhaps when Thomas saw the scars on the Good Man’s hands he felt that he belonged to Him.”
“I suppose so,” answered Dixon.
“The Good Man looked so sad,’ said Dickey. “I ’spect He was sorry that Thomas did not believe at first. It was horrid of him not to, wasn’t it, after the Good Man had died for him?”
Dixon did not answer, and Dickey went on, “It would have been horrid of me if I’d contradicted like that when they told me about you and the fire, and said I didn’t believe you had done it; wouldn’t it, daddy?”
“I don’t want to think about Him, my boy.”
“But perhaps he loved the Good Man after that, though — like I love you. When I see your poor hand, daddy, I love you more than millions and millions.”
Tired little Dickey fell asleep before he had measured the amount of his grateful affection; but Dixon’s rest was sorely disturbed that night. He could not get out of his thoughts the picture of that tender, sorrowful face which had looked down on him from the walls of the exhibition. He dreamed of Lovatt and himself contending for the possession of Dickey; but when he showed his scarred hand the boy turned away from him. A bitter sense of injustice surged up in his heart.
He did not yield to this influence at once, but his love for Dickey had softened his heart, and the seed that was dropped in it that day did not fall upon stony ground. Dixon was an honest man, and he could not fail to see that the argument he had employed to make Dickey his own, rose up in judgment against him whilst he denied the claim of those scarred Hands which had been pierced for him. When he saw the child’s warm-hearted gratitude for the deliverance which his adopted father had wrought for him, Dixon felt that he cut a sorry figure beside his boy.
So, after a time, Dixon’s heart became as that of a little child. He found out by reading the Bible that, just as Dickey belonged to him, so he belonged to the Saviour who had been wounded for his transgressions. He gave himself up, body, soul and spirit into the keeping of those blessed hands which had once been pierced for him.
See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flowed mingled down;
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
“Who His own self bare our sins in His own body on the tree” (1 Peter 2:24).
O Christ, what burdens bowed Thy head!
Our load was laid on Thee;
Thou stoodest in the sinner’s stead,
To bear all ill for me.
A Victim led, Thy blood was shed,
Now, there’s no load for me.