The Story of Geraldine
Unknown Author
Table of Contents
The Work Girl: Chapter 1
CLICK! click! went the sharp, bright little needle, and that was the only sound heard in the room, save the occasional falling together of burning logs across the glowing embers in the deep grate. Outside, the wind was sighing round the house, but warm, heavy curtains shut out the noise of the storm, and everything seemed bright and cheerful in that old-fashioned housekeeper's room.
It was easy to see that this was the worthy dame's special apartment; the corner cupboard, with its cups and saucers, and queer Chinese teapots; the chiffonier with its tea-caddy and row of cookery books on the top; the linen presses and store closets which flanked one side of the room, all bespoke her peculiar domain; and in the center stood a quaintly carved oak table.
Work of every kind lay scattered on it, and the huge work box, which was standing open, was evidently intended more for use than ornament. It was a pleasant room to be sitting in on that cold December night, at least so thought Mary Keats, the poor work girl, as she sat at the table intent on finishing her appointed task.
But though her busy fingers plied so diligently, her thoughts had wandered off to the two small and poorly furnished rooms which she called "Home." A picture rose vividly before her of an infirm and anxious mother sitting watching for her return, and from Mary's heart came a prayer that God would shield and comfort the aged one, but praises and thanksgivings rose to her lips as she thought of the unlooked for blessings which had been showered on them lately.
“The Lord is mindful of His own," was the beautiful thought that came into her mind, and its sweetness caused her pale, wan face to light up with a sunny smile.
The door of the room stood partly open, and the crimson carpeted corridor outside was brilliantly lighted.
Mary knew that the room exactly opposite was the nursery, though she had never ventured in. But as she looked across, she could see the fire behind the high green fender, and the bath and rocking chair standing before it. All was silent on that upper landing, but from the great hall below ascended sounds of mirth and revelry.
Footsteps were hurrying to and fro, amid the din of voices, and rattle of glass and china, while every now and then a strain of gay music would burst on the ear as doors opened and closed again.,
The finishing stitches were being put into the work, when a slight noise caused Mary to look up.
In the doorway stood a golden-haired child of about five years old, her large brown eyes fixed on Mary.
Her natural curls fell in loose disorder over her snowy nightdress, and she was pushing back the stray locks from her face with both her hands.
Half reluctantly the tiny bare feet advanced into the room, but something in Mary's face seemed to give encouragement, and she drew nearer and nearer. Now, Mary loved children dearly, and during the few days she had been working in the house had often heard of little Geraldine, and had longed to see the one of whom all spoke so lovingly.
One day, when Lady L'Estrange entered the room to speak about some work, Mary caught a glimpse of that rosy baby face, peeping from the folds of her mother's dress, too shy to venture further. This evening she had seen the little beauty, in white frock and blue sash, carried past the door in nurse's arms, on the way down to dessert; so, with a smile of recognition, the work-girl rose gently to meet the little one, who, trembling, sprang into her arms.
“I'm so frightened," said the child. "Nurse has gone downstairs and left me all alone. Don't tell any one I came in here.”
“And why are you frightened, my darling? Don't you know God is able to take care of you in the dark as well as in the light?” answered Mary.
But tear-drops were shining in the bright eyes, so Mary added, "Have you heard about Jesus, the Good Shepherd, Who watches over His little lambs?”
A wondering look and shake of the head were the only response to this, so Mary went on:“Would you like to hear about Jesus, and be one of His little lambs?”
“Yes," said the child, eagerly, "tell me about Him.”
So the poor work girl told the sweet story of old to the little one on her knee, in simple, homely words, but all the more easily understood; how Jesus, the Lord of Glory, came down to earth, and was laid in a manger a helpless babe; and how, after His wondrous childhood, He grew up, and was crucified, that He might wash all His little lambs in His own blood, and so make them fit to live with Him forever in heaven.
Then she repeated this text over and over again: "Jesus said, Suffer little children to come unto me," adding the following verse:
"Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
Bless Thy little lamb to-night;
Through the darkness be Thou near me-
Keep me safe till morning light.”
Geraldine listened, and then, as she tried to repeat the words after Mary, a feeling of rest and safety crept over her.
The lamp had died out and left the room in dreamy darkness; shadows from the fire-light flickered up and down the wall, and Mary's voice had a lulling effect. Soon the little head drooped heavily, and the child had drifted away into dreamland.
A few more glances at the dear little face, and an earnest prayer on her behalf, then Mary carried her burden across to the nursery, and depositing it in the blue-canopied cot, stole back to her work.
The clock soon striking nine warned her that she had already stayed long beyond her time; so, folding up the finished work, and putting everything neatly away, she prepared to depart.
While she was tying on her bonnet, Mrs. Gordon, the housekeeper, entered the room, saying, “Oh! Keats, I thought you had gone long ago, but I have been too busy downstairs to come up and see how you were getting on. But I see you have done a good day's work," added she, glancing at the folded pile on the table; "and I suppose you will be glad of your money for the four days you have been working here.”
So saying, she drew from her pocket a strong-looking leather purse, and counted out the shillings, adding, “I shall be glad if you can come again next week, as my lady has a great deal more work to be done.”
“I am very pleased, ma'am," answered Mary, "to have given satisfaction, and shall be most thankful to come again as often as you require me." And courtesying a respectful good-night, she took her leave.
No one noticed her quiet form as it glided noiselessly through the servants' hall, which was filled with strangers belonging to the guests upstairs, but a shudder came across her as she recognized Geraldine's nurse amongst the foremost in the revelry.
Unheeding their noisy mirth, she passed on through the passages, and the great door closed heavily upon her as she stepped out into the cold and almost deserted street.
Raw and keen was the wind that drove the chilling rain-drops against her face, but she drew her shawl round her and hurried bravely on. The flare of the gas lamps was reflected in every puddle, and each footfall sounded cheerless on the hard and shining pavement.
The stately and sombre-looking squares of the rich were soon passed, and she emerged into the more crowded thoroughfare, with its gay and well-lighted shops.
The grocers' windows had an especial attraction for her, and she stopped irresistibly before one in which were arrayed tempting piles of goods.
“Mother shall have a nice cup of tea for her supper," thought Mary; and, taking one of the hardly-earned shillings from her pocket, in another instant she was standing before the counter, watching with satisfaction the fragrant tea being tied up into a neat packet.
A few more turnings and windings through narrow streets and alleys brought her to the little court in which her humble dwelling stood. A cheerful light gleamed from the casement, while a child's voice rang out a welcome as she reached the door, and Willie, the little orphan nephew, who shared her home, ran out to meet her.
With a kiss for the child and a smile for her mother, Mary entered the room.
The small, round deal table was already set for the simple supper, and Mary, having laid aside her wet cloak, applied herself, with the aid of the bellows, to surround the kettle with a flame.
“Why, Willie, you are almost asleep," said she, as the curly-headed boy leant wearily on her shoulder.
“Yes, I am late," she answered to her mother's queries; "but I was obliged to finish some work.”
And then, over the cheering cup of tea, she told them of little Geraldine, for the child had already twined herself so closely round her heart that she felt the other members of her home must share her interest.
Let us now go back, and take another peep into Geraldine's nursery.
The great house in Albert Square is comparatively quiet now, for all the guests have rolled away in their grand carriages, and Lady L'Estrange has found her way into the quiet nursery. Tall, stately and beautiful, she stood by the little cot in sweeping folds of black velvet and rich lace.
The diamonds on her neck and arms flashed in the firelight, and gleamed from the coronet in her dark hair.
It was a sad, sweet face to look upon, though the light of youth still dwelt on her brow.
To the world she only appeared as a gay and bright votary of fashion, and people envied her beauty and winning ways.
But within each heart there is a hidden cell, the veil of which is seldom raised; the inner life which none outside may look into; it is a sealed book, full of thoughts and motives and dear recollections, lying sacred and apart.
Drawing aside the blue curtain, she stooped to kiss her child, its cheeks flushed with childhood's rosy slumber, the parted lips pressing the pillow, while on the satin coverlid lay one little hand.
The look, the kiss, brought tears into the mother's eyes, for while she watched the little sleeper a tide of thought and mingled memories rose up and filled her heart.
Bright pictures of a home left long ago, and early childhood stood out in sunny outline, and she again saw herself a little child at her mother's knee, and recalling her sweet parting words.
And now a void is in her heart, which she feels no earthly pleasure, however dearly bought, can ever fill.
Geraldine half opened her eyes, but did not awake. Lady L'Estrange caught the sound of words, and bent eagerly to listen.
“Jesus-Shepherd-bless thy little lamb," murmured the child, and then all was quiet again.
At this moment the nurse entered, heartily vexed that her mistress should have found her absent from the nursery.
“Nurse," said Lady L'Estrange, "the child looks feverish, and seems restless.”
“Oh! I think not, my lady," replied she, without the slightest hesitation; "she has been sleeping quietly ever since I put her to bed. I only left her two minutes ago to fetch something.”
But only half satisfied, the mother quitted the room.
Glory, Glory, Glory
THERE was a little, lovely child,
As merry as the birds,
And bounding gaily o'er the ground,
She loved to sing the words,
“I'm glad I ever saw the day-
Sing glory, glory, glory-
When first I learned to read and pray,
And sing of glory, glory.”
The Savior said, "Let little ones
Come, and my blessing claim;”
And He will in His bosom bear
The tender little lamb.
“I'm glad I ever saw the day-
Sing glory, glory, glory-
When first I learned to read and pray,
And sing of glory, glory.”
That babe had heard the tale of love,
Which Jesus came to tell;
She knew that He had died on earth,
To save from sin and hell,
And 'twas this love that made her sing
Of glory, glory, glory,
And to the Savior praises bring
In glory, glory, glory.
Ere long upon her dying bed
She lay in feverish pain;
In broken accents sweetly still
She raised the joyous strain:
“I hope to praise Him when I die,
In glory, glory, glory,
And shout salvation as I fly
To glory, glory, glory.
Her little, burning hands were clasped,
Unconsciously she smiled,
And looking upward to the sky,
Renewed her measure wild
“'Tis glory's foretaste makes me sing
Of glory, glory, glory,
And praise Him who is King of kings,
Like those that sing in glory.”
And when the fever's rage was spent
Upon her helpless frame,
She smiled upon her weeping friends,
Who round her pillow came,
And softly lisped her fav'rite lay,
And murmured, "Glory, glory;
I'm glad I ever saw the day,
Sing glory, glory, glory.
“The Savior said, ‘Let little ones
Come, and My blessing claim!'
And He will in His bosom bear
The tender little lamb"-
She spoke, and closed her eyes in night;
The soul had fled to glory!
Forever in that world of light
To sing of glory, glory.
And now, what lesson should be learned
From this sweet infant's story?
To follow in her steps along
The narrow path to glory.
There's room enough in that blest place
Where Jesus dwells in glory,
For God has freely offered grace,
And glory, glory, glory.
Katie: Chapter 2
LONG before the first ray of the winter's sun had found its way into the narrow street, Mary Keats was dressed, and at her needle, and a good hour's work was done before it was time to set out for the labor of the day.
Then, after leaving the fire lighted, and everything ready and comfortable for her mother, she stepped forth into the cold morning air.
Her spirits rose as she looked up beyond the smoky roofs to a bright piece of blue sky, and its purity and calm seemed to breathe a deeper peace into her heart, lifting it towards "things above." The sparrows twittering on the eaves told her of God's care. "Not one of them is forgotten before Him," thought she; "and His own children are of more value than many sparrows." Thus musing, the way did not seem long, though she had to walk a considerable distance before reaching her destination.
Street after street was passed, until gay villas with gardens began to appear on either hand, and then a stretch of turnpike, road, with many a turn and bend.
From the top of the steep hill Mary could see the flash of the river, and the leafless woods beyond, merging into the blue of the distant horizon.
She soon reached a house that stood quite alone, in small, but prettily laid out grounds, and entering the well-known gate, she was soon at the door.
Mary liked working in this house better than in any other, for its inmates were all old and kind friends of hers.
“Dr. Gray" was inscribed on the shining brass door-plate, but the good man's profession had no need to be proclaimed, for his fame had spread far and wide, and he was universally beloved by rich and poor.
After a warm welcome and a good breakfast in the kitchen, Mary ascended the staircase to the nursery, which still kept its name, though there was not so much use for it now-a-days, as the children were nearly all grown up.
One little girl, however, the youngest of the household, still slept there, and it was the sanctum for all her toys and treasures.
Little Katie was just seven years old, and the very fact of her being the youngest made her a lonely child.
The sister nearest in age to her had died, and also the eldest, the firstborn son, whose picture she loved to climb up and look at in papa's study, though not able to remember him.
George, Arthur, and Freddie were at school, and Edith, the eldest daughter, was always with mamma.
So that Katie was much alone, at the same time being the pet and darling of every one in the house.
Her extreme delicacy made it impossible for her to enjoy much intercourse with other children, but accustomed to solitude, she did not feel it so much as many others would.
Edith taught her to read and spell, and greatly assisted Mrs. Gray in the careful and loving training of her little sister, who, in return, loved her dearly, and would run to her every evening to claim the promised story on her knee.
Mrs. Gray occasionally took Katie with her to visit the poor people around, and in the town; thus an early sympathy for poverty and suffering was awakened in her little heart.
Indeed, she was so extremely sensitive that her mother had to guard her carefully against any sort of excitement connected with this kind of thing.
No one in the house welcomed Mary Keats more eagerly than did little Katie. In her the child found an unwearied listener to all her plans and stories; she it was who taught her how to dress her dolls, and brought her pretty scraps to work upon; and if the day were ever so dull and cold outside, it was always bright to Katie when Mary spent the day in the little girl's nursery. The child's chief pleasure lay in reading aloud to Mary, and teaching her the hymns and texts taught by mamma and sister on Sundays.
Mary could not read very well herself, and therefore it was a mutual delight.
Katie knew all about Mary's aged mother and the little boy, and many an apple and orange were saved from dessert, and found their way into Mary's pocket for Willie, and if she were in trouble or sorrow, Katie was the first to find it out.
Often would tears of joy and gratitude fill the eyes of the poor girl, as she thought of the kindness she had received from these true friends of hers.
From the very first day that Dr. Gray had treated her so tenderly in the dull hospital ward, where she had lain for months in helpless suffering, she had ceased to feel friendless and forlorn.
He it was who had first directed her to the good Physician, and the healing Balm of Gilead, and ever since that time her home had been blessed by their bounty; so it was no wonder this house was a sunny spot to which she would return again and again with joyful steps.
“There is my little song-bird," thought she, as, having arranged her materials and just begun to work, she heard the child's sweet voice and merry laugh on the stairs.
In another minute the bright blue eyes were looking up into her face.
“Oh, Keats, I have so much to tell you," cried the eager little prattler. "I have a kitten of my own, and two new rabbits, and the boys are coming home for the holidays next week, and Edith had a letter from grand-mamma, and she says I am to go and stay with her by the sea in the summer time. Won't that be nice? Oh, I'm so happy, I don't know how to stand still for you to try on my frock, only 1 suppose I must, or you will have to undo your work again.”
And, assuming a mock gravity, the little face tried to look serious, and Katie was soon seated at Mary's feet, listening to all that had passed since last they met.
“I have been working for another little lady since I was here," said Mary, in the course of conversation.
“Oh, have you?" said Katie. “Tell me where she lives, and what she is like, and all about her.”
“I must thank your mamma directly I see her," answered Mary, "for kindly recommending me to the housekeeper at 6, Albert Square, who has kept me fully employed this week.
“I was just beginning to be down-hearted again, for rent-day was coming on, and I was afraid we should not have enough to pay the rent. But only last Sunday, as I was sitting reading to mother and Willie about the storm at sea, and Jesus being in the ship, those blessed words went straight to my heart: 'Why are ye so fearful? how is it ye have no faith?' And the same evening there was a message left at our door desiring me to go to work on Monday; and now I wish I had trusted more, forever since my eyes were opened to know God as my Father, and Jesus as my Savior, I have never known what it is to want.”
Katie rose up quickly, and, going to her treasure drawer, took out a pretty card with the words, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want," illuminated on it, saying, "I have been keeping this for you a great many days, and you must nail it on your wall, and then you will never feel afraid again, will you?”
“Thank you, darling," said Mary; "it will indeed be a treasure to me; and I will teach the beautiful words to little Geraldine. I said the pretty hymn you taught me to her last evening.”
“Is that the little girl you have been working for?" asked Katie. "What a pretty name! Oh, do tell me all about her.”
So Mary described the happy, stolen interview at full length, and in a very short time the name of the interesting little stranger was invested with all the charm which surrounds a new character in a story book, and Katie's pleasure in teaching Mary a new hymn was doubled by knowing that it would be for Geraldine also.
How little do we know, when trying to do good even to one person, how far the blessing may extend.
The tiny seed looks a hard, brown, insignificant thing, but foliage and fruit follow after many days.
The small pebble drops into a pool of water, but circle after circle appears, until we can scarcely discern the last.
So even a little child may exercise an influence for good, and a word in season may prove to have been precious grain, bearing fruit ten or a hundredfold; and "what we know not now we shall know hereafter.”
Katie
“The sunny hours of childhood!”
How pleasant, fresh, and bright!
But, like the morning sunbeams,
They quickly take their flight.
O'er hearts that now are lightest
A cloud may soon arise,
And faces that are brightest
Be dimmed by tearful eyes.
If we would glow with gladness,
The path of pleasure trace,
Then we, to banish sadness,
Must gaze on Jesus' face.
'Tis sunshine to be dwelling
Where all is Light and Love:
And bliss, all thought excelling,
To rest in Christ above.
He is the Sun and Center
Of heaven's delightsome land;
And blest are they who enter
And in His presence stand.
The Lamb adoring, praising,
Who once on earth was slain
To God the Father raising
The ever joyous strain.
Christmas Time: Chapter 3
IT is Christmas Day, and the old town glistens and sparkles in morning. Ragged children run merrily up and down the bridge, watching the barges on the river, heedless of the piercing wind that blows through their scanty garments.
They know little or nothing of the true import of the day, yet they are glad it is Christmas Day, because it is a holiday, and hold up their little blue hands to clap them in the sunshine.
The bright rays try hard to struggle through each chink and crevice of the blackened and dingy buildings, no matter though windows are cracked and dirty, and rooms dismal and cheerless.
Down they slant into narrow, ill-paved, and loathsome courts and alleys, lighting up each dark corner with a golden radiance.
The sick and the wretched experience a thrill of gladness, and have an indistinct feeling that it is a general holiday.
The snow had been falling silently all night, giving to each house a fair and dazzling roof, with smooth, unbroken edges, bearing the impress here and there of the tiny claws of robins and sparrows that had been hopping about.
The frost had covered each window-pane with all kinds of pretty pictures in tracery-trees, flowers, and fountains, which would have made it rather dark for those inside had not the sun been brightly shining this morning.
Drip, drip, came the drops of water from the evenly-trimmed snow roofs, until they began to wear a jagged appearance, and the icicles, all rainbow-tinted, were fast losing their sharp, hard points.
The court in which Mary lived could not stay clean and white very long, for too many feet hurried up and down it, and the dirty, black, crumbling lumps into which the snow was soon trodden, quite changed the appearance of things.
As Mary came in and sat down by the fire, "It was a happy Christmas-eve," she said, half aloud; and then fell to thinking over the events of the past day.
Yesterday her mother and Willie were sitting watching her make the currant dumpling that was to serve for a pudding, and she was planning a secret expedition to the market to buy a bit of beef, when suddenly carriage-wheels were heard, and in another minute Mrs. Gray and Katie were standing on the threshold.
The child's eyes beamed with delight as she entered, warm and rosy, in her little furred tippet and blue frock.
She held a covered basket tightly and carefully, and going up to Mary, said“A happy Christmas to you, Mary! See what we've brought you," continued she, as mamma helped to unpack the basket. "Six eggs, and a real little plum-pudding, and half-a-crown to buy some meat. There, Willie, you will have a nice dinner to-morrow, and an apple into the bargain," said she, as, with a great deal of pulling and squeezing, a rosy cheeked apple was extracted from a tiny pocket, and given to the shy, laughing little fellow.
Mary's look of glad surprise greatly delighted Katie, who, without waiting to listen to all the thanks, run off to catch pussy, who was sitting on the hearth stone, quietly purring.
Then Mrs. Gray sat down beside the old woman, and taking the well-worn Bible from the table, read a few verses.
She spoke sweetly of the love of Jesus in leaving the Father's home of glory to sojourn in a world like this, and of the time when His children should all be gathered in, their glorious home above forever, and have a welcome to the place prepared for those who love Him-a home where they shall go no more out and know neither pain nor weariness again.
And thus a ray of light and a living fragrance were left behind in that humble cottage.
No wonder, then, it was a happy holiday! But how did Katie spend her Christmas? Would you like to know?
The day before Christmas-eve, mamma and Edith might have been seen in the study, surrounded by bright sheets of colored paper and cardboard, and gay little knickknacks of every description to please the children.
In vain did Katie long for one peep through the closed door; she must wait, and to-morrow seemed a long way off.
The boys, at home for the holidays, were in the garden, building a huge snow throne close to the summer-house.
They were in the full enjoyment and delight of being at home again; “It is so jolly," Arthur would say.
“Now we must make the steps," cried George; "and then we will fetch Katie.”
So the steps were finished, and then all three boys scampered away to the house, and leave being obtained, Katie was wrapped in her mamma's long fur cloak and carried off in triumph.
They seated her on her sparkling throne, and called the happy child their little queen.
The night before Mrs. Gray paid the usual round of visits to the poor, and, as we have already seen, took Katie with her.
Then in the evening, when papa had come home from his hard day's work, and doors and windows were shut, and fires burnt brightly, the study door was thrown open, and the children invited to enter.
After the servants had been called in, Dr. Gray, taking Katie on his knee, talked to them all about another Christmas night, more than eighteen hundred years ago of the sinless Babe, who was born then; and how in the midst of our happiness this thought should be the center of our gladness, for if Jesus had not come into the world, there could never have been any true joy for sinners.
Katie was fast asleep in her little cot when the waits awoke the inmates of the house with their singing, but the boys heard them, and crept out of bed to peep at the frosty group, barely distinguishable by the pale light that fell on their faces from the flickering lanterns.
But we must not forget our little Geraldine, for I want you to tell me in which of the three homes Christmas holiday was the happiest.
You would not have recognized the great drawing room in Albert Square on the night of Christmas-eve.
Despoiled of furniture and carpet, its brilliant gasaliers shone on a vast number of guests of every age, who spent the night in dancing and merriment, having no fear of God before their eyes. Rom. 3:18.
How many children say,
“I'd like to go to heaven;”
Yet never think that they
Must have their sins forgiven,
Before they can in glory be,
Or Jesus Christ in glory see.
None can to glory go,
Or dwell with God above,
Save they who Jesus know,
And taste a Savior's love;
The holy words of truth declare
No other grounds of entrance there.
But now this “living way”
To all is open free;
And ruined sinners may
Go in and happy be-
May have their sins through Christ forgiven,
The only way to enter heaven.
Caged Birds: Chapter 4
LORD L'Estrange was pacing up and down the great hall with impatient strides and a troubled brow, waiting for his carriage.
Stern and silent, deeply immersed in politics, and partaking to the full of the pleasures of the world, he knew not the meaning of the word "Home." He spent most of his time in London, and as he would often take Lady L'Estrange with him, their child chiefly spent her time with the housekeeper and nurse, and her papa looked upon her more as his wife's doll than his own child. Consequently Geraldine was afraid of him, and shrank shyly from him whenever he took her in his arms.
Lady L'Estrange saw this, and wept over it in lonely silence.
One day she ventured to tell him her fears that Geraldine was very delicate, but though it awakened for a moment a passing concern, it was soon forgotten in the pressing occupations of business that followed.
So that this morning, soon after Christmas, he was utterly astonished and wholly unprepared to hear that his child was lying dangerously ill.
He had just left Lady L'Estrange sitting pale and anxious by the little cot, watching the restless fever-tossings of her unconscious darling.
Each tender moan cut more deeply into her heart as she vainly attempted to soothe the little sufferer.
“Fetch Dr. Gray at once," she said, pleadingly, to her husband; "I hear he is the first physician in the town.”
So Dr. Gray came, and his firm and gentle manner gave comfort and assurance round the little bed.
Each order was promptly obeyed, and ere long the child was sleeping in a calm slumber.
Day by day he returned, until Geraldine began to long for his coming, and would stretch out her tiny arms by way of welcome as he entered the door.
“You are Katie's papa," she said, one day; "Keats told me about you. How is Katie? I want to see her.”
“You shall see her some day, I hope," said he; "if your mamma has no objection I will bring her one morning in the carriage.”
Lady L'Estrange eagerly caught the words, and begged he would fulfill his promise, for the proposal had awakened a bright smile on the wan little face.
Keats was at work in the house many of the days during Geraldine's illness and the child would ask so eagerly for her, that she was often allowed to come and sit with her needle by her cot, and tell her pretty stories, and sing sweet hymns.
But the poor work-girl would weep bitter tears as she walked home at night, thinking of the change that illness had wrought in the bright face of the lovely child.
But Geraldine got better every day, though her mother had to hear with sorrow that she was a fragile blossom, which would need every care, and might even but too soon fade from her grasp.
Extreme delicacy of the chest was already manifesting itself, as the short, constant cough too plainly told; yet Dr. Gray held out every hope, and under his watchful eye the little life gained strength as weeks rolled on.
He did not forget his promise, and one fine clear day Katie came.
Geraldine was dressed and sitting on her mamma's lap. The two children looked at each other shyly, as Dr. Gray led his little girl in.
“I am going to pay one or two other visits in this direction," he said, "and I will leave Katie, and call for her again.”
So saying, he drew her towards the little invalid, and Lady L'Estrange following him out of the room, the children were left alone.
“I have often heard about you," said wee Katie, in her winning voice.
“And Keats told me about you," said Geraldine, putting up her mouth to kiss Katie.
Keats had heard the arrival as she was at work in the housekeeper's room, and now stole quietly across the passage, and peeped in.
A joyful recognition followed, and the children felt their bond of union had come, and were soon chattering away as if they had known each other all their lives.
Katie had never seen so many beautiful toys, and was quite sorry when papa returned to fetch her; and when the children reluctantly parted it was with the promise of another meeting very soon.
They did not, however, meet again for many weeks, for east winds came, with piercing, icy breath, searching through every nook and cranny in the house.
Katie would stand at her nursery window watching the dreary sleet hurrying past, and wondering if the golden crocuses and drooping snowdrops liked it, as their pretty heads came peeping up.
Geraldine had no green meadow country to look out on like Katie. The great garden belonging to the square presented no variety; nothing but smoothly trimmed grass, and gravel walks, with here and there a tree, bare and leafless, and a few evergreen shrubs.
But even this garden looked pretty when the snow floated down and covered the branches, and the child fancied all kinds of figures out of their fantastic forms, and would laugh merrily and clap her tiny hands, as the wind came by with playful toss, and her snowy minarets vanished one by one.
How she envied the little girls running races with their hoops, as joyous shouts reached her ear, and longed for Katie to come back again. During this time of imprisonment Keats became dearer than ever to the children.
She would carry their messages to each other, and sometimes a loving pencil note from Katie, which Geraldine managed to spell out on mamma's knee, so that, what with picture books and stories and kind friends, the little girls, although sometimes lonely, were not unhappy.
But springtime came at last; warm, bright, happy springtime, and the river in sight of Katie's home flashed brightly in the sunlight, while young lambs gamboled on its green banks, and trees burst forth into yellow-green on every hand.
The garden in Albert Square looked even gay now, for laburnums budded and the blushing sprays of the hawthorn bloomed in rich profusion, and merry children played with the daisies on the grass.
The time had come for our little winter prisoners to be set free, and those long, sunny spring days were full of pleasure to Katie and Geraldine.
The London season had begun, and Lord and Lady L'Estrange left as usual for town.
They would have taken Geraldine with them, but Dr. Gray strongly advised her being kept at home until she was stronger, when he recommended a change to the seaside. Dr. and Mrs. Gray promised to look after her, and Geraldine and Katie met almost every day. Sometimes it was for a long drive into the country in the doctor's carriage, and while he was visiting at some house or cottage, the little ones would jump out and fill their baskets with primroses, cowslips, mosses and ferns, which were treasured and planted, with and without roots, in Katie's garden.
Great were the preparations in her nursery when Geraldine was expected to spend the day there.
The doll's house was set in order, its carpets and furniture dusted and the numerous dolly family arranged on the sofas and chairs, while the best china tea set was unpacked and spread on a little table at one end of the nursery.
Miss Melina, Katie's big doll, was decidedly the worse for wear; her face was cracked and her nose disappearing altogether, nevertheless Katie loved it a great deal more than Geraldine did her grand waxen ladies in their silks and satins.
Katie liked going to Albert Square very much, to ride on the prancing rocking-horse and play with toys she had never seen or heard of before. But it never made her envious or discontented with her own nursery, and the two children at last seemed to consider each other's things as joint property.
It was a very pretty sight to see them together at play, Geraldine's long golden curls mingling Katie's chestnut locks, as they sat side by side intent upon some game or plan.
One morning the postman came, and brought a letter for Katie.
A real letter all to myself," said the joyful child, as she read her name on the envelope. "It is from grandmamma, I know," and the eager little fingers having broken the seal, Katie read as follows: “Silversands Farm, “Wednesday.
“MY DEAR LITTLE KATIE,
“Your papa and mamma have kindly consented to lend you to us for a little visit, and as we are expecting you on Tuesday next, you must begin to get ready to come.
“Nurse will accompany you, and Aunt Barbara will be at the station to meet you.
“I do not think you need bring Dolly, as we have plenty of toys here; your little sand spade and bucket are quite safe. I need not tell you anything about the pets, as you will see them all soon for yourself.
"From your affectionate grandmamma,
"FRANCES RUTHERFORD.”
Katie's face was one glow of pleasure as she read; but after the first outburst of joy she suddenly recollected she must leave Geraldine behind, and a cloud overshadowed the bright brow.
“It will be a great deal worse for her than for me," thought the unselfish child, "so I must make the best of it when we meet," and running upstairs to her nursery she found Keats waiting to try on the pretty new frock she was making for her.
Two days after, while standing at her nursery window, Katie watched a carriage and pair drive in at the gate, and instantly recognizing it, she ran down just in time to see Lady L'Estrange enter the door leading in her little Geraldine.
While the two mammas were having their long talk in the drawing room, the two children, having scampered upstairs, spent a happy hour with Keats.
After the visit was over, and Katie was disconsolately retracing her steps upstairs, Mrs. Gray called her into the dining room, and taking her on her lap, said she had something to tell her.
“Oh, mamma, what is it?" said Katie, putting both arms around her neck, and looking up into her face.
Mrs. Gray smiled, and said, "Lady L'Estrange is going to lend you a real live doll to take to grandmamma.”
“A real live doll, mamma," repeated Katie, with a puzzled face; "what does it mean? Oh, I guess," said she, after a moment's pause, "it is Geraldine; say it is Geraldine, mamma!”
“Well, yes, it is Geraldine," answered Mrs. Gray; but you must not get too excited about it. We did not tell you of the plan before, as it was not settled until to-day. Your papa wrote to London and proposed it, saying the air of Silversands would do wonders for your little friend, and Lady L'Estrange came home at once to see about it, and propose going herself and finding lodgings there, but we have persuaded her to let her go to the Farm instead, and grandmamma is delighted at the idea; Geraldine's nurse has just been sent away, so Keats is going in her place to help your nurse to take care of you both.
“Oh, mamma, mamma!" cried Katie; "how very, very nice! Does Geraldine know about it?”
“Not yet," said Mrs. Gray; "her mamma will tell her to-day after she gets home; and now run upstairs and hear what Keats has to say about it.”
Very joyful were the days of preparation that followed, and at last the long wished for Tuesday morning dawned, and the happy children found themselves in the train on their way to Silversands.
From the glorious heaven,
Where the angels are,
God looks down on children,
Seeth them afar;
Heareth all they ask for,
All the night and day;
Watcheth like a Father
All that work and play.
(Matt. 18:14)
As a father giveth,
So He gives them bread;
Saves them out of danger,
Watches by their bed.
(Matthew 23:14)
Tell all little children
Of God's constant care-
That he loves and pities
Children everywhere.
Silversands: Chapter 5
SILVERSANDS is one of the prettiest spots in all England; so pretty, that I fear I cannot give you half an idea of what it is like.
Can you imagine some beautiful red cliffs against which the sea is ever dashing; in summer days lapping round them in shining ripples and curling wavelets; in winter nights rising higher and higher in tempest tossed fury? But the foaming billows can never come near the old gray stone house, snugly nestled at the top in a sort of cleft, and it stands from year to year in perfect safety.
Its gables and oriel windows are clasped in the warm ivy's close embrace; so completely are they enfolded that it is only here and there that the gray stone peeps out.
A wooded hill rises suddenly behind it, and a belt of Scotch pines stand close to the house and sturdily resist all the rude attempts of northern blasts to shake the dwelling they guard; though their branches creak sometimes in the contest.
In the front of the house there is a terrace and small lawn, with a few flower-beds that are almost always gay; then nearer the edge of the cliff are rock-work and tempting winding paths.
To the right, going towards the road, are grassy slopes, and a beech avenue through which the carriage-drive winds; while to the left is the high cliff with its steep descent, its rocky sides cut with paths and steps leading down to the sea.
The pretty pink thrift shows its bright tufts in every available crevice among the rocks, as we now descend to the beach, which gives the village its name.
The sand is so white and fine that it sparkles like silver.
There the sunbeams dance and tremble in the clear pools among the bright green seaweed, and sea-anemones wave their feathery tufts on the sides of the rocky basins.
There also are wonderful caves and natural arches, through which at high tide the sea gurgles with a hollow sound.
Come with me to the beech avenue, and peep through that glade.
There, close at hand, gleam the white cottages of the village.
It is a long day's journey for our little travelers, and while they are being carried towards Silversands, we will call on our friends.
I don't know how many times grandmamma has been upstairs to look at the pretty room, containing two cots shaded with dimity.
Every arrangement speaks of her loving forethought, and now, after one final glance, she stands at the open window watching the boats skimming across the blue surface of the water.
A bunch of bright spring flowers gives a look of expectation to the dressing-table, and there is a restless quivering of light on the ceiling, caused by the reflection of the ever moving sea as its waves crest and shimmer in the sun.
Grandmamma Rutherford is a perfect picture of an old lady, with her sunny smile.
A cluster of silvery curls steal from under the closely plaited cap on her broad, smooth brow, and the rosy bloom of youth still lingers on her cheek.
With a light, active step she descends the staircase. We will enter the library with her and see Mr. Rutherford.
He is seated in the sunny bay-window, spectacles in hand, looking through the beech glade towards the village.
His gray hair and furrowed brow tell of a life of toil and care in his Master's service, but the deep calm resting on his face indicates "a mind at perfect peace with God." The open volume on the table beside him lies unheeded, as the voices of spring birds float in through the open window, for as he looks at the bright foliage and countless opening buds, he is thinking of another springtime, when all nature's resurrection will be everlasting, and there will be no more death.
“Barbara's thoughts seem to be in the same strain as mine to-day, Frances," he said, as a sweet, clear voice from the next room was heard singing, "I know that my Redeemer liveth." "Yet in my flesh shall I see God," he softly repeated, as each sweet cadence rose and fell.
The singing ceased, and a few minutes after Mr. Rutherford's youngest daughter came in with her bonnet on, saying, "Now, dear papa, I am going to meet our little ones.”
And giving a kiss to father and mother, she was presently seen gliding through the avenue.
Little children ran out from cottage doors to greet her, while their mothers looked up for the passing smile as she walked through their midst.
By the sick-bed she had often stood, bringing comfort with her presence; and the blind and aged listened for her coming as flowers wait for sunshine.
People often wondered what made her so full of quiet happiness; for to some it seemed a dull lot to be placed in a small country village, away from all town bustle.
But Barbara Rutherford lived in the enjoyment of that which the world can neither give nor take away.
It is five o'clock in the afternoon, and the train moves slowly into the little station at Silversands.
Katie's eager eyes soon caught sight of Aunt Barbara standing on the platform, and in another moment, with a joyful spring, the little arms are round her neck.
Timid little Geraldine clung tightly to Keats at the sight of the stranger; but there was something in Barbara's face that made the child's dark eyes seek it again and again, and when, with a loving smile and kiss, her new friend quietly drew the little hand within her own, the shyness all vanished, and by the time they reached the Farm, Geraldine was chattering almost as fast as Katie.
“There is grandmamma," said Katie, as they came in sight of the hall door, and breaking loose from the others as she ran on to get the first kiss.
What a welcoming there was, and how delightful to Katie to run through each well-known room explaining everything to Geraldine; so charming to watch the things being unpacked and when the bell rang for tea, to go down and sit one on each side of Aunt Barbara, while grandmamma poured out the tea behind the hissing silver kettle.
Mr. Rutherford smiled as he drew his chair in to join the happy group, saying, as he patted Geraldine's head, "We will soon put some roses into these pale little cheeks, I hope.”
A long time did the happy children lie awake after they were laid to rest; and all the remonstrances of nurse and Keats could not at first prevail to hush them into silence; they watched the stars peep out one by one, until the blue sky was spangled all over and the moon rose bright and clear.
After Geraldine had fallen asleep, Katie crept to the foot of her cot to look at the beautiful golden bridge the moonbeams had made across the bay, and thought how much she would like to be in one of the little boats that lay rocking to and fro in that pathway of light.
How charming to wake next morning, when the great bell sounded at seven o'clock, and hear the cows lowing in the distance, and the roll and murmur of the waves on the shore; everything feeling so delightfully strange and new.
Katie opened her eyes first, and then covered them with both hands, to shield them from the sunbeams which were streaming in, in a dazzling flood of light.
“Oh, Geraldine, wake up!" she said, slipping out of one cot and pattering across with bare feet to climb up into the other; "wake up, and look at the pretty blue sea and the boats and the flowers. Look! the roses are climbing right into our window.”
Katie ran on at such a rate that Geraldine, who was only half awake, felt quite bewildered. Then nurse came, and soon, fresh and rosy from their bath, they were dressed and ready to join Aunt Barbara, who was busy among her flower-beds, tying up and weeding, and filling her basket with flowers.
“I know you would like to have a peep into the dairy," she said, and giving Katie the basket to carry, and taking Geraldine's hand in hers, she led them along a narrow path from the avenue through the grass to the farm buildings at the back of the house.
Little Geraldine had never seen a dairy before, and looked wonderingly at the row of bright tin cans covered with rich cream.
The cook gave them some new milk, and then they stepped across the yard to look at the cows, three beautiful Guernseys: Cowslip, Meadow Queen, and Beauty, and two dear little calves called Dove and Daisy.
At eight o'clock the bell again sounded.
Grandmamma came out to meet them, and all went in to prayers, which were followed by breakfast.
When that was over, grandpapa took Katie on his knee and asked her what she was going to do all day.
“Oh, play on the beach first, please, grand-papa, because I want to show Geraldine my cave houses, and we can take our spades and buckets and dig on the sands.”
Lessons and Play: Chapter 6
KATIE always liked what she called Aunt Barbara's play lessons; and both children soon tired of running about all day long doing nothing, and were glad to sit quiet for awhile with their kind friend, imagining, at least, that they were growing very wise and good.
So each morning in the cool summer house under the trees looking towards the sea, Barbara sat with her work, while the little ones together read and spelled from an easy story book with charming pictures, or learned a verse or two of poetry.
Then came the nicest part of all, when she told them one of the pretty stories of which her store seemed boundless and which were a constant source of delight to her young hearers.
It would take me too long to tell you of all these children did while at Silversands; of walks in the pretty lanes near the house, from whence they would return laden with wild flowers; of pleasant visits to the village with Barbara to the sick and poor; of drives with grandmamma in the little pony carriage; and countless long plays and shell hunts on the beach, when each newly-found treasure was brought for Keats and nurse to take care of, as they sat with their work among the rocks.
There was a bathing machine in one corner of the cove, and Katie would often go down with Aunt Barbara to have a dip in the sea, "and learn to swim like the fishes.”
One morning nurse persuaded Geraldine to go with them into the funny wooden house on wheels and be undressed, but when Barbara held out her arms to take her she cried, and said "The water is all soapy, I won't go in, and the sharks will bite me.”
“No, Geraldine, darling," said Katie, laughing, "there are no sharks; do come, do!”
But Geraldine shrank back so terrified that nurse soon dressed her again, and sent her back to Keats on the beach.
The first Sunday was quite a new day to Geraldine.
Mr. Rutherford preached on the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
There was something for each one in the sermon; much that the youngest child could understand, yet full of comfort and hope for those who had learned what it was to be indeed heavy laden.
The little Sunday scholars looked at each other in the afternoon when Barbara entered the schoolroom with Katie and Geraldine and took her seat at the head of her class, placing one on each side.
Little Geraldine felt quite ashamed to hear some of the children who were younger than herself answering questions she felt she did not know, but she listened attentively all the time, and Katie answered with the others.
Keats stayed at home and interested the children with Bible stories until bed time.
Barbara returned before they fell asleep and told them what grandpapa had been preaching about, and then kissed them and said goodnight.
Thus the happy days and weeks sped swiftly by and a shade of color became visible in Geraldine's pale cheeks.
Mrs. Rutherford was delighted with the improvement and noticed the increase in her appetite as a sure sign of returning health.
But Barbara, who was more constantly with the child, marked a langour and depression steal over her at times which was not natural, and the short, irritating cough smote sadly on her ear, though she tried hard to banish her fears and believe her really better.
She was going upstairs one evening after the little ones were in bed, and just looked into the nursery to have a peep at them.
Katie was fast asleep, but on drawing aside the curtain of the other cot she saw Geraldine's face buried in the pillow, and heard a suppressed sob.
“What is it, darling?" said Barbara, stooping down and gently lifting back the silken hair.
In another instant the tiny arms were round her neck, and a burning little cheek touched hers. "Oh, I was so cross to Katie to-day," sobbed Geraldine, "because she picked up some shells I wanted; she gave them to me directly, and kissed me, and told me not to cry. Will Jesus make me good? Because I do so want to be one of His own little lambs and go and live with Him.”
A thrill of mingled joy and grief shot through Barbara's heart as she pressed the sweet child to her heart sand sought to comfort her.
She felt the Holy Spirit was indeed working in the heart of the child by showing her the evil there, and knew that He who had begun the good work would continue it.
Barbara had often thought how different the two children were.
Darling, warm-hearted Katie, impulsive and generous, would sometimes give way to a small fit of passion, over in a minute and forgotten the next; while Geraldine, timid and retiring, was so extremely sensitive that her childish sorrows were felt much more keenly; and here was an instance of it.
Barbara's sweet and quiet manner soon soothed away the sobs and restored sunshine to the little heart, and Geraldine, with her arms still round her kind friend, fell asleep.
Barbara gently disengaged herself and stole away to her own room.
There she fell on her knees and prayed, amidst fast falling tears, that if it was God's will, He would restore that little one to health.
And a deep peace stole into her heart as she thought of the words, "He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom." "Living or dying, she is safe there," thought she, as she went downstairs.
A month had already passed, when one morning a letter arrived to say Lady L'Estrange had accepted Mrs. Rutherford's invitation to come down for a few days to see how Geraldine was getting on.
She wished to avail herself of Dr. Gray's escort for the journey down, and Lord L'Estrange had promised afterward to fetch her.
Katie danced about in the highest glee at the thought of seeing her papa again, and both children wished eagerly all day for the arrival of the train.
It came at last, and Geraldine was once more in her mother's arms.
“Well, how is my little patient?" asked Dr. Gray, “Oh, better I see; eh, grand-mamma? I thought Silversands would set her up.”
It was indeed a happy family gathering, and Geraldine had so much to tell her mamma, that it was late before the little ones could be coaxed off to bed.
The next few days were very bright ones.
Lady L'Estrange and Barbara took a mutual fancy to each other, and the quiet of the Farm was a most refreshing change to the former after a round of London gaiety and bustle.
One beautiful moonlight night, as they were standing together on the terrace in front of the house, Lady L'Estrange said, "Geraldine's papa will be delighted to see her looking so well; I really think there is no doubt now of her getting quite well and strong again, but I have not said much to Dr. Gray about her yet. What do you think of her?
Barbara turned away her face, and knew not how to answer.
“She is certainly better now," said she; "but-”
Here the bright moonlight betrayed the tears that were fast gathering in her eyes.
Then for the first time the mother experienced "the nameless agony," and Barbara felt powerless to comfort her.
But an unseen Hand was guiding Lady L'Estrange, and had led her to one who was possessed of hidden strength, and Barbara, the quiet, humble village maiden, was destined to be the mighty instrument in God's hand of showing her the source of that strength.
Dr. Gray's opinion was decidedly hopeful, though he said the child had not gained strength as rapidly as he anticipated, but he begged Lady L'Estrange to leave her for another month at the Farm, as during the hot weather the town would not suit her so well; to which she reluctantly consented.
Lord L'Estrange arrived the following day to fetch his wife, and when he saw Geraldine's pink cheeks, made light of her fears: and with heart-felt expressions of gratitude to their kind host and hostess, the guests departed with Dr. Gray.
A Sunset Talk: Chapter 7
“OH! what pretty pink waves!" cried Katie, as one evening, tired with play, the children were seated on the low rocks, watching the setting sun that was flooding the cove with rosy light, tingeing the rippling water with crimson and purple and gold.
“I like looking at the clouds best," said Geraldine.
Aunt Barbara had been to the village, and was now returning. "Ah! there she is," said Geraldine, first opening the little gate at the top of the steps; and away the children ran to meet her.
“Where have you been, Aunt Barbara?" cried Katie.
“To the village, to take some fruit to a poor sick girl," answered Barbara.
And walking towards the rocks she sat down and took Geraldine on her lap.
“I'm so glad you have come," said Katie, "because we want to ask you about the stars. What are the stars, Aunt Barbara? They look so very wee; I think I could hold a great number of them in my hand.”
“You will be greatly surprised, then," replied Barbara, "when I tell you they are in shape like the world we live on, and some of them are a great deal larger.”
Katie looked still more astonished as Barbara went on to explain very simply some of the wonders of astronomy.
“Then, Aunt Barbara," said Katie, after a moment's pause, "if the stars are so big, how very large the moon must be.”
“You are mistaken again, Katie; it is smaller than the stars you can see, but as it is a great deal nearer to us it looks larger.”
“How funny! Is there a fire in the moon, that it looks so bright?”
“No," replied Barbara, "the moon is a dark body like our earth, but it is by reflecting the sun's light that it looks golden. I wonder if Katie can tell me why that is like Christ and His people?”
Katie thought for a minute, and then, looking up brightly, said, "I think I can guess; in my text I said to you this morning, Jesus is called 'the Sun of righteousness,' and His people ought to be like the moon, shining by His light.
“You are quite right, darling," said Barbara, kissing her, "and we must try to shine brightly for Christ in the midst of a dark world, by making our lives as nearly like His as we can, and in this way we may perhaps show others the path to heaven, as the moon guides the traveler by her bright rays.”
“Oh! what beautiful thoughts about the dear moon," exclaimed Katie; "I shall think about it all over again in bed to-night, when it shines into our nursery.”
Geraldine lay quite still in Barbara's lap, listening to every word, though she seemed all absorbed in watching the bright clouds.
The waves were creeping to their feet in peaceful ripples, the hum of insects was in the still summer air, and the dreamy song of the sailors came floating indistinctly across the water.
Barbara looked at Geraldine, and thought of Wordsworth's lines,
"That beauty, born of murmuring sound,
Had passed into her face.”
“I'm so sorry it's nearly our last evening," said Katie, after awhile.
“Yes, darling, we have had a happy time, have we not?" answered Barbara; "and I hope you will both come again next year.”
Barbara's heart smote her as she said the words, but she could not bear to cast a shadow over the sunshine of Katie's life, and only added, "We must be going in now, as the sun has set, and I see Keats coming to meet us.”
The morning for returning home arrived at last, in spite of all the wishing for one more day.
Boxes stood corded in the hall, and while the final packing arrangements were being concluded, grandmamma bustled about, stowing away mysterious-looking parcels into a hamper, and Katie fancied she saw tears standing in the loving eyes, as she stooped to kiss her.
“Bonnie" looked perfectly miserable, with his head enquiringly placed on one side, and his round, bright eyes glinting out through a shaggy fringe.
Now and then he would give a gentle pat with one of his paws, as if to say, "Please, somebody speak to me," but everyone was too busy.
Geraldine slipped away unnoticed by anyone, down to the beach, and climbed up to her favorite pinnacle on a bit of red rock and sat down.
Katie soon missed her companion and after hunting in the summer house, caught sight of Geraldine's white frock far below, and following her down the steep path, was soon by her side.
“Now we must make haste," cried Katie, "and say good-bye to all our favorite places, for Aunt Barbara is coming in five minutes to fetch us; all our shells are packed, but we must take some thrift roots home to plant in my garden. Good-bye, beautiful sea! Goodbye, dear rocks, until next summer; then we will come back again.”
And so the children departed, and many a wistful glance was directed towards Silversands as the train bore them back to their inland homes.
Aunt Barbara, too, turned sadly away from the little station, after looking at the last faint streak of curly smoke as it vanished into the air, and wondered when those bright little faces would shine on her again.
Shadows Falling: Chapter 8
THE long blue and gold drawing-room in Albert Square lay in the deep and dreary shadow of a winter's twilight.
The blinds were not drawn down, and branches of trees in the garden opposite looked bare and desolate, distinctly penciled against the leaden sky.
Coming in from the clearer light outside, you would at first hardly distinguish the figures in the room, but after a minute the firelight reveals them.
Lady L'Estrange is seated at the piano with Geraldine on her lap, and Lord L'Estrange has drawn his chair to the fire and sits moodily watching the quivering flame.
“Play that again, mamma," said the child, as the last chord was struck of one of Beethoven's beautiful andantes; "and the song you sang last night-I like that best of all.”
No one spoke, and the full, clear note, though trembling at first, rose and filled the room.
Lord L'Estrange got up with a troubled face, and taking Geraldine in his arms, paced up and down the room.
“Dear papa," she whispered, "how good of you to carry me so much. I am so tired now. Am I very heavy?”
He tried to think she was not lighter since the return home from the seaside six months ago, and answered hurriedly, "No, dear; hush! listen to mamma!”
But he felt his little daughter had grown strangely dear to him of late, and hardly dared ask himself why.
And long, long afterward he remembered the evening when they were all together in that room for the last time; for after this, Geraldine was well content to lie in her little cot, weary and quiet, too weak to care to be dressed or be brought downstairs.
She would look up with a quiet smile when her father came into the room; and often, wrapped in a warm shawl, she would lie in his arms while he paced the room with her, till Geraldine thought papa must be tired; or sometimes, when hot and feverish, she would rest in her mother's lap till the rich, soft tones lulled her into slumber.
Katie came every fine day, and moved about very softly, speaking gentle, loving words.
But Geraldine had become worse so very gradually that Katie did not realize that her little friend was slipping away from earth, though Mrs. Gray would try by gentle hints to awaken her to the sad reality.
Sometimes Geraldine would brighten up and ask to play with Katie; the dolls were produced and little scales to weigh dried fruit in, but the game did not last long, and poor Katie, with a puzzled face, would watch her push away the toys as the weary little head again sought the pillow.
The days rolled on, and the pink flush deepened on Geraldine's cheeks, greatly adding to her natural loveliness, but it was a brightness that foretold much.
Dr. Gray looked graver each time he saw her, and at last was obliged to acknowledge that nothing more could be done.
One day, some weeks later, Geraldine opened her eyes and saw Barbara sitting by her side. The child did not seem surprised, but raised her head and nestled it close to her friend, saying, "Tell me about Silversands. Where is Bonnie?”
As Barbara answered her different questions, Geraldine looked earnestly at her with such a longing gaze that Barbara bent over her to hide the feelings that were mastering her at the sight of the change in the lovely face since she had seen it last.
Geraldine saw the movement and looking up quickly, said, "I'm very tired now; I cannot run about as I did at Silversands." Then after pausing for a moment, she added, “Do you think I shall die, Barbara?”
Barbara commanded her voice with an effort and then softly said, "The Good Shepherd is watching over you, darling. Is my little Geraldine afraid to go and live with Jesus? He wants all His children to go and live with Him, and says ‘Suffer little children to come unto Me.'”
There was a silence for two or three minutes, and Barbara lifted up her heart to God; then Geraldine spoke again: “I asked Jesus to make me one of His own lambs. Do you think He heard when I told Him that?”
“Yes, dear," answered Barbara, "for He never turns anyone away, but says to each, ‘Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.' Do you remember that verse in one of your favorite hymns, beginning
"‘Teach us, O God, to fix our eyes
On Christ, the spotless Lamb?'
“Who is the Lamb of God, darling?”
“Jesus," said the child. "Has He forgiven my sins?”
“If you believe in Him, dear," replied Barbara.
“I believe in Him, because I love Him," said the child, simply.
“Come unto Me, and I will give thee rest," was all Barbara could murmur through her tears; then she repeated softly
"How came they to that world above-
That heaven so bright and fair,
Where all is peace, and joy, and love;
How came those children there,
Singing glory, glory, glory?
“Because the Savior gave His blood,
To wash away their sins;
Bathed in that pure and precious flood,
Behold them white and clean
Singing glory, glory, glory.
Barbara could see by the movement of the child's lips that she was following every word and when the verses were concluded, Geraldine said, "All the children that belong to Jesus have their names written in His book.”
“Oh yes! in the Lamb's book of life; and yours is there, my darling," replied Barbara.
A sweet, restful look stole over the little face, as if with that word eternal peace descended on it forever.
Barbara opened her small Testament, saying, "I am going to read you something about heaven and those ‘who have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb.' ‘Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve Him day and night in His temple and He that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes. And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon to shine in it, for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.'”
“That is like my hymn," said Geraldine-
"There is a happy land,
Far, far away;
Where saints in glory stand,
Bright, bright as day.”
And as if pondering what she had heard, the child lay perfectly still and looked at Barbara.
Then all was quiet in the room, for Geraldine sank gently to sleep.
Barbara, afraid of waking her, did not move, but lifted up her heart in thankfulness to God. For it was thankfulness she felt as well as grief; she knew now that though her darling was passing away from her, it was to rest forever on the Savior's breast.
Lady L'Estrange had written to Silversands, begging Barbara to come; for every day Geraldine would talk of the happy visit there, and seemed to be longing to see her friend again.
Deep and impressive was the calm that Barbara, the gentle comforter, brought into that house; it was felt wherever her presence was.
Unto Perfect Day: Chapter 9
ONCE more it was springtime.
Golden sprays of laburnum wave in the sunny garden of the great square.
May breezes are fanning the opening buds and waking them to life; wafting the sweet scents all around, and bearing them in through the open windows of the houses near. It is nature's resurrection; birds and flowers all feel it, and an anthem of praise fills the air.
Stray sunbeams find their way, one by one, into Geraldine's nursery, and play about her head as she lies, pale as a lily, in her little cot.
It is early and the morn breaks in gladness; Lady L'Estrange has stood for a long time at the window before sunrise watching the cold gray of early morn turn to silver, as chill mists rolled away with the increasing light.
And now her eyes, heavy with watching and weeping, are fixed on those bright morning clouds, and she gazes beyond them; up above the mists of earth to the blaze of the sun that is fast spreading all around.
A morning song is filling her heart; a song to hush the night of weeping; "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth give I unto you.”
We may only partially raise the veil to reveal the conflict that has been raging in that mother's heart; that once proud heart which had risen up in its rebellion, and said, "Not Thy will, but mine," when softened and broken by loneliness and grief had been drawn bleeding and wounded to the Savior's feet; there it had found shelter, rest and peace; and now, knowing "in whom she had believed," the mother was supported in the midst of those terrible waves of sorrow that threatened to engulf her.
She had come out of the darkness into the light of life, and there was a great calm in her soul notwithstanding all her grief.
Many a song had there been in those nights of watching; sweet talks about the home above, and the children in glory; blessed hours were they both to mother and child; hours, which to the mother afterward seemed like years, so rapidly had she then grown in spiritual experience.
Her God had been merciful and gracious in so gradually loosening her hold of her treasure; the bud had lingered so long in its fading beauty, that a glimmer of hope would force itself upon the mind that it might not so soon be gathered home; therefore when the closing scene came at last it seemed to come suddenly, even though they had so long been watching the tide of life ebbing slowly, but oh! so surely, away.
The last night of loving watching had come, but the mother knew it not.
Lady L'Estrange sat down again beside the bed, and presently the sweet brown eyes opened and Geraldine said, "I'm going very soon to Jesus, now, mamma; you will come, too, some day; don't cry, mamma; think how happy we shall be.”
Another pause and then“Where is Katie? I am so tired, mamma. Is Barbara here?" and the little head sought an easier position on her mother's arm.
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L'Estrange, drawing her away from the bed, led her out of the room.
Barbara fell on her knees beside the cot, and wept. The doctor turned towards home with a sad heart.
How should he tell Katie, his little, warmhearted, impulsive, sensitive Katie, whose life was wrapped up in her companion and friend; the only child friend she had on earth?
With a slow, reluctant step he entered the door.
Mrs. Gray caught sight of his grave, sad face and guessed what had happened.
Katie ran down stairs at the sound of his well-known footstep.
“Oh! papa, how is darling Geraldine? Say she is better.”
Dr. Gray lifted his little girl in his arms, and carrying her into his study, sat down in the great arm-chair. "Katie, your little friend Geraldine will never be ill any more now; she is gone to Jesus.”
“Oh! papa, papa!" sobbed Katie, "oh don't say she is dead; she looked so rosy and pretty the other day when you took me to see her;" and the child put her arms round his neck and sobbed so passionately that her father trembled for her.
“Come to mamma," said Mrs. Gray, and she lifted her in her arms and carried her up stairs into her own room.
They passed Edith on the stairs, who was going to papa to hear all about it.
Mary Keats heard the sobbing and saw Katie carried past, and turning back into the nursery, she hid her face in her hands and wept; while she thanked the Good Shepherd who had released the lamb from its sufferings, and had taken her to Himself.
But the hours dragged heavily to Mary after that, and in the afternoon Mrs. Gray told her she might leave her work and go to her mother; so, after taking a peep at Katie, who had cried herself to sleep on her mamma's bed, she went home.
“I said she was only made for heaven, mother!" she kept repeating after she reached home. "She spoke so sweetly to me last Tuesday, and told me she was very happy I knew by her look she would not be long here, and tried to prepare Miss Katie, but she did not understand.”
Two days later Katie stood with Mrs. Gray, Barbara, Lady L'Estrange and Keats, to lay some pure white lilies on the sleeping little form, which seemed to rebuke the sobs which broke the silence of that deserted nursery.
There was mourning at Silversands, for who, in all that quiet village, had not loved little Geraldine, with her sweet, winning ways?
“I thought we should never see her again," said an old cottager; "she looked too lovely for earth the day she went away.”
And on Sunday, Mr. Rutherford spoke touchingly to them on the words, "It is well with the child." (2 Kings 4)
The Shunammite's Son
“IT IS WELL."-2 Kings 4
THERE'S beauty above in the bright blue sky
On earth is the reaper's glee;
'Tis harvest time in Jehovah's land,
And the corn by the breeze is gently fann'd
Like the waves of a golden sea.
But sorrow shall wait on the reaper's mirth,
The lord of those fields shall sigh;
One only boy
Is his father's joy:
This day that boy must die.
The sun has looked forth in his morning pride,
On the child with a scorching ray;
“My head I my head”
Was all he said-
'Twas all the child could say.
And, see, one is come that has borne him home,
And he sits on his mother's knee;
But who can tell
How her countenance fell,
Her alter'd boy to see?
He knows her not, with his dull, fixed eye,
On her bosom he pillows his head;
When the sun shines bright
From his noontide height,
The boy on her knee is dead.
But faith within the mother's breast
Shall calm her agony;
“The God who gave
Is the God who shall save,
And give hack my boy to me.”
Though sad be her heart, the lamp of hope
Shall light up its innermost cell
The son lies dead
On the prophet's bed,
But the mother can say, "IT IS WELL.”
'Tis well with the mother, 'tis well with the boy,
His breath and his life are restored;
The child is awake;
Let her hasten and take
To her arms this new gift from the Lord.
And I know it is well with the servants of God,
Naught them from their stronghold shall sever;
Whether Christ shall soon come
Or they be laid in the tomb,
'Twill be well with His people forever.
They fear not the "arrow that flieth by day,”
Nor the plague that walks forth in the dark;
“The sun shall not smite,
Nor the moon by night.”
One who's hid in Christ Jesus, the Ark.
They fear not to die, for the deep, dark grave
Is a bed where their Savior has lain;
They sink not to hell,
But with Him they shall dwell,
For Jesus can raise them again.
And can I, too, hope to arise from the dead,
And Christ as my Savior to see?
If I trust in His Word,
And own Him as Lord.
'Twill be well then forever with me.
Conclusion: Chapter 10
KATIE is seated at the open window of the old nursery at Silversands. You will almost need an introduction to her now, for she is no longer the little girl who played with Geraldine. All her curls are gone, and instead of them dark coils adorn her head; yet it is the same bright face.
Ten years make a great difference in us all.
“I am eighteen to-day," she is saying to herself; "nothing is Changed here; waves and rocks and flowers all the same; only I am different, and somehow many things are different," added she, shading her eyes with her hand.
And the face grows graver, and thoughts flit back through long years into the buried past. She stands in spirit beside a well-known and oft-visited little grave, in a sheltered corner of the cemetery at home.
She sees the green grass, and the white marble cross, with it's beautiful device of a dove nestling on it, and the golden words beneath the still cherished name, "He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom.”
The scent of the roses planted on the grave seems to come over her, unlocking all "the dear recollections pressed in her heart like flowers within a book;" recollections of sunlight rippling over floating golden curls; of the shell-strewn beach and daisied meadows where they had played together beside the tiny stream which had gradually widened into the river of death, and they were divided.
I must ask my readers to peep over Katie's shoulder into the garden below, and then they will be able to supply for themselves the broken links in my story.
On the rustic seat looking towards the sea are seated old Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford. Time has aged them both, and they have come to the eventide of life. The burden and heat of the day are over for them; they are waiting an entrance into the everlasting kingdom of their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. (2 Peter 1:2)
Four children cluster round their knees, making the garden resound with their silvery laughter and merry words; they are calling Barbara "Mamma," but she looks the least changed of any, as she stands, not far off, talking to a lady in deep mourning, whose half averted face is surrounded by a widow's cap, which will not, however, prevent your recognizing Lady L'Estrange. Her face is not much changed, but the calm that follows conflict is written there; the sad and restless expression of former days is now succeeded by a chastened look of joy and peace, true of those only who have Christ in them, the hope of glory. (Col. 1:27.)
The home in the little court is broken up now, for Mary Keats' mother is dead, and Willie is footman at Dr. Gray's.
One, however, stands there, a stranger to us though evidently not so to the well-known group; a son, indeed, to the aged couple, who have the satisfaction of seeing their work for Christ in the village thoroughly carried on through his unwearied efforts, and in perfect trust and love they have resigned their beloved daughter to his care.
“I wish papa and mamma, and Edith and the brothers were there," thought Katie; "but I shall see them all again soon," and then she glanced again at the bright, moving group below.
“How happy they all look!" she said, half aloud; if it were not for myself I could fancy those two dear little namesakes were the Katie and Geraldine of long ago; we must have looked like that then.”
And with a sigh she turned from the open window, and unlocked a drawer. One by one all the treasures are unfolded and touched; a box of shells, some sea weed, a few little pencil notes, a bunch of withered flowers, and a long, bright, golden curl.
And now dear children, my story is ended, but I hope when you close this book you will not forget what I have been telling you.
This is a true story, and I want you to learn a great many things from it.
You may be very young, but you are not too young to die. I should like you to be as happy as Katie and Geraldine, so that if Jesus calls you away early, it may be to take you to Himself; or if left here, it may be to spend your life in His service.
He has promised a crown of life to all who love Him, and those who wear it “shall shine as the stars forever and ever.”
The same Savior that called these dear children and made them His own, now calls you; oh, come to Him, and He will cleanse you from all your sins in His own precious blood, and make you whiter than snow. He will come soon and take all that are made white by His precious blood to dwell with Him in glory forever.
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