CHAPTER XIX.
AFTERWARD.
The soft, sweet summer-time had quite passed away. Bright autumn had
followed, with its glory of gorgeous leaves and piles of golden fruit.
November's fierce blast had begun to toss the leafless branches, and
Thanksgiving day was at hand.
Nearly three months had passed since our young friends had stood forth to receive the seal of their discipleship. Three months of testing time they had proved to be—months in which the true attitude of the souls of those who had then presented their bodies as a living sacrifice might become plain both to themselves and their friends.
No greater mistake can be made than for young people to suppose that the recommendation of their Sunday-school teachers, their pastor, or even their parents, is an assurance that they are really fit subjects for a confession of Christ. All these, it is true, are watching them, both in their actions and in the tempers which they thus exhibit, as those that must give an account for their souls; but only God can see the heart—only themselves can know whether they are sincere in their purpose to love and serve him.
Young girls are very easily influenced. Often they come forward in the church because a good many of their companions are coming and they do not want to be left behind; sometimes because it makes them of temporary importance; and sometimes simply because of the transient excitement, without any thought of the solemn vows they are going to assume and the new life which in the future they are to be expected to lead. And this in spite of all the instructions given and the watchful care exercised by pastor and friends. No wonder, then, that the first few months after a public profession are anxious ones to all those who have had any part in smoothing the way thereto for their young friends.
And yet, let no girl or boy be discouraged from taking a stand which is both duty and privilege by these remarks. All that God demands of those who confess Christ—or, as it is popularly incorrectly called, "make a profession of religion"—is sincerity of heart and purpose; sincere sorrow, no matter how slight, for past sin; sincere faith in the sacrifice of Christ, to atone for and forgive sin; sincere purpose of obeying God's commandments for the future, with sincere consciousness of weakness added to sincere trust in the all-sufficient strength of the Holy Ghost. Every boy or girl old enough to think is capable of this sincerity; and thus every one is bound to obey the express command of his Saviour and confess him before men.
But, of course, if the confession be not sincere, in a very short time, when the novelty and excitement have worn away, the interest in sacred things will wear away also, and very soon something will be said or done that will be a dreadful disgrace to the confession thus carelessly or wickedly made.
Still another mistake is often made by young people, and this is one calculated to do great mischief, as it is often made by those who are sincerely desirous of serving God. For weeks preceding the open step they have devoted a great deal of time to meetings, prayer, and Bible-reading, and their interest in these things has almost put secular ones out of their heads. But when that long-anticipated day is over, they feel somehow that the end is reached, instead of looking on this end as only the first step in a newer and better life. Other duties and interests resume their relative importance. There are not so many meetings to go to, Bible-reading becomes more hurried, prayers are less fervent, and all at once the young communicant falls into some open sin and is filled with grief and remorse.
Oh, if every boy and girl, every man and woman, who has been brought into outward and inward communion with Christ, would only realize that he or she is to go onward, never ceasing to pray and strive against evil; ever pressing on for more and more of the Holy Spirit; striving each day to be more and more like Christ,—then would be realized what is meant by the words of the wise king: "The path of the just is as the shining light that shineth more and more unto the perfect day."
"Don't you think it would be nice to have a Harvest Home Festival for the Sunday-school on Thanksgiving?" said Etta Mountjoy to her brother and sister one autumn afternoon.
"I never saw one," said Eunice, whose duties as housekeeper had kept her rather closely confined at home for some years.
"Oh, I have. When I was at Altona last fall, the church was decorated with grain and grasses and fruits, and even vegetables. It was just lovely!"
"I should think it might be," said James; "and I don't see why we should not have one if Mr. Morven has no objection. But it will be a good deal of work to carry it through successfully, and I hate that sort of thing when it's a failure."
"I don't mind work," said Etta. "I want something to do—something for the church, I mean; and the girls do, too—something to take the place of our readings and talks. Sometimes I wish it were not all over, but there were something still to look forward to."
"Do you mean that you are sorry that you are really admitted to the communion of the Church, and have openly placed yourself on the Lord's side?"
"No! Of course not," said the girl, blushing. "But things are getting flat. I want something new; you know I always did."
"Yes," said her brother; "we all know, Etta. But, seriously, I trust my little sister will never be tired of the blessed service and fellowship into which she has been so recently admitted. You know what is written about those who put their hands to the plow and look back."
"Oh, I don't mean to look back; I don't want to. I'd rather belong to the church and work for Christ than anything else in the world. What I want is work. Don't you see?"
"Well, dear, if you think you can manage the work I'll find the money, though I don't suppose it will cost a great deal."
So it came to pass that those bright autumn Saturday afternoons were spent by Etta and her girls in the woods, where, with the aid of such boys as could get away from their work, a store of scarlet, golden, and variegated autumn leaves was laid in, with late ferns and hardy brackens, curious bits of moss, seed-vessels, and dried grass being added to the store. These were all taken to Mrs. Robertson's, whose large garret was offered for their reception and preservation, and after tea the girls ironed and varnished the leaves which could not be detached from the boughs, and pressed the smaller ones between the leaves of newspapers, which were collected for the purpose from neighbors, the younger Sunday scholars who were not in the mill being thus employed.
Then, on Wednesday evening, at Miss Eunice's "tea-party," which of necessity was held indoors, now that darkness came early and the nights were chill, the girls of the two classes covered pasteboard stars, crosses, crowns, and monograms with leaves and mosses neatly stitched on—bound rich yellow wheat stalks into sheaves, and made plumes and tassels of dried grasses and seeds.
Merry chatter helped the work forward. Miss Eunice did not wish her girls to look upon religion and the church's service as a thing of gloom. She knew that God has "given us all things richly to enjoy," and that the way to hallow pleasure and prevent its being hurtful is "in all our ways to acknowledge him."
Moreover, these social, familiar talks, when every one was off her guard, afforded capital opportunities of studying character with a view to affording to the young pilgrims such aid and advice as might be useful to them in their heavenward journey.
Of all the young work-women, Tessa showed the most taste and ingenuity in the grouping of leaves and arranging of ferns, and her beautiful combinations constantly called forth the admiration of both companions and teachers. The little Italian received their commendations very meekly, but did not thereby escape exciting the jealousy of Bertie Sanderson, who, on putting together some very fiery leaves without any attempt at toning down, received from Miss Eunice a few gentle suggestions concerning shadow, high lights, etc. "It's too mean," she whispered to her nearest neighbor, as she took her seat, "that beggar from the poor-house gets more notice than all the rest of us put together."
Her companion stared, for she was one of those girls who had almost made up her mind to become a Christian, but had remained undecided till too late, because she had an idea that a person could not dare to join the church till she was as holy as an angel.
"There's Katie Robertson, too," continued Bertie; "she'll be sure to be praised, if her work's hideous. That's what it is to be a favorite."
"Why, Bertie," said the other, "you're real spiteful. I think Katie's just the nicest girl. Anyway, I couldn't talk as you do if I had joined the church."
"But you ought to have joined the church because it was your duty," said
Bertie, who could very clearly see the mote in her sister's eye, in
spite of the beam in her own. "You will be a Christian soon, won't you?
It's so nice."
"Not I. If religion don't make people better than you are, I don't want anything to do with it; I'd rather stay as I am," was the sincere, if not very polite, answer. And then Bertie's conscience awoke, and she began to see what harm she was doing. She was very uneasy all the rest of the evening, and still more so when, at its close, Miss Eunice asked her to stop a few moments, as she had something to say to her.
Miss Eunice had overheard the conversation we have recorded, and had noted the cross, spiteful expression of the girl's face, and had grieved much as she saw her Saviour thus "wounded in the house of his friends." She spoke seriously to Bertie so soon as they were alone, and found the latter already repentant and quite willing to acknowledge her fault.
"But what am I to do, Miss Eunice? I am jealous, and I do feel hateful sometimes. I don't want to feel so, but I can't help it. If I didn't speak, I should feel it all the same."
"But, my dear, you have promised, in the most solemn way, to renounce 'the devil and all his works.' Pride, malice, envy, jealousy are emphatically works of the devil."
"I know, Miss Eunice; and I thought it would be all taken away. The minister in the city told us that Jesus is 'the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world.' I thought if I came to him he would take mine away."
"So he has, so he will. Try to understand me. When he hung upon the cross he bore the penalty due to the sins of the whole world, and of course to yours. In that sense he has already taken them away. But in another sense, that of your daily life, your character, he will take the evil of that away just as fast as you will let him."
"Let him? How do you mean? I am sure I want to be good."
"Yes, in a lump, altogether, you want to be good, very good; but without any trouble or self-denial. You didn't want to keep from saying those spiteful things about Tessa and Katie a little while ago, or he would have helped you do it. You didn't want the jealous, envious feelings taken out of your heart just then, or he would have taken them."
"How, Miss Eunice?"
"Whatsoever you ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive," said she.
"But do you mean I ought to have kneeled down to pray then, just that moment, before all the girls?"
"It is not necessary always to kneel down when we pray; though it is best to do so when we can. There are often times when our work would suffer, or when we are so surrounded by others that it would be impossible. But a few earnest words spoken in the silence of our own hearts will always bring our strong, loving Saviour to our help; and we may, every time, no matter what our temptations are, be 'more than conquerors through him who hath loved us.'"
"Every time? Oh, Miss Eunice!"
"Yes, every time. You know we constantly ask the Lord 'to keep us each day without sin.' How can we utter such a prayer in faith if we don't believe that it can be granted?"
"Yes; but temptations are so sudden, and take you just where you're the weakest."
"I know. And therefore we should be fully armed beforehand. Bertie, did you read your Bible and pray this morning?"
"No!" said the girl, flushing. "I always mean to; but it's so dark in the mornings now, and mill-time comes so soon. It's just as much as I can do to get there in time, any way."
"Yet you find time for your breakfast?"
"I couldn't live without eating."
"Nor can you live spiritually without feeding daily upon Christ, through the study of his Word and prayer. I would sooner go without my breakfast than without my early communion with him. Bertie, there are 'no gains without pains.' If you are really desirous, as I believe you are, to overcome your own evil habits and tendencies, and grow to be like Christ, you must begin every day with prayer for his help; you must watch yourself and your surroundings, and in the moment of temptation you must turn instantly to him who says that he is 'a very present help in trouble,' and who has promised to 'supply all our need according to his riches in glory.'"
Poor Bertie! A hard fight was before her. Fourteen years of unresisted pride, jealousy, and ill-will had formed habits that were hard to break—fourteen years of caring for no one's pleasure but her own. In brief, fourteen years of worshiping herself had helped to form a character which would need a good deal of chiseling before it should grow into an image of Christ. But he had undertaken the work. Miss Eunice had shown her how to avail herself of his offered help, and as she took her teacher's advice, we may be sure that in the end she gained the victory.