She repeated it two or three times after him, and then stood quietly until the sound of voices reached her; and then, with one quick glance in the direction from which they came, she sprang through the door, out across the yard toward the back of the house. Up through the front gate in the opposite direction came the great load, and Tom received the hay, standing in the upper loft of the barn.
And so it was that, after thinking over the interview, and sorrowing that the religion he loved was to some hedged about with so many difficulties, when he gathered his class about him that night, and looked around upon them, feeling that he need not be afraid to speak for Jesus here, he felt most devoutly thankful in his heart for the liberty which is ours when Christ has made us free.
The interest manifested by his pupils was wonderful. Old gray-headed men bent over their spelling-books and tried hard to decipher the words, looking up into the youthful face that watched them as to one above themselves, because to him had been granted a privilege which was not theirs. As the days advanced this did not lessen in the least; if anything, it seemed to increase. It was a beautiful thing to see, and to any one who felt an interest in the welfare of these neglected souls a peep into this tiny school-room was worth going far to see. Tom often wished Miss Mason could be there. He tried to say as little in his home letters about his own connection with it as he well could, but he knew not what a happy sense of duty done they contained in those days. His teacher used to read them over, and say it was sweet refreshment in her weary work—this boy’s good service for his Lord, and the utter simplicity and yet full gladness with which he wrote of it.
It was joy, yet the letters home were the best part of it. There were hours abroad and at home when the work was all done—house, field, and school tasks all completed—when the pressure on Tom’s mind seemed more than he could bear. That which lay heaviest was the care he felt over these souls who for five or six hours every week were committed to his care. Teach them he did, well and faithfully, but it was the work for Jesus which he was in constant fear that he should neglect. He grew so morbid over it that whenever he heard a man in the field swear or speak wrongly, he always questioned whether if he, Tom, had done his duty this would have happened. His success was far beyond his knowledge. He was so constantly in the habit of dropping a word for Jesus, because “out of the abundance of his heart his mouth spake,” that the people learned to expect that when they came to him in odd minutes for assistance in their tasks, there would be a word of holy cheer given them before they went away. They learned to have a strange reverence for this boy. It was some little time before Tom discovered that Mr. Sutherland knew of all this, but the master had heard the boy’s name in so many directions that at length he became interested to know how far his popularity extended. A few inquiries gave him all he wanted—enough to astonish him at any rate—and then Tom heard of it.
One day at noon Tom stood in the field, leaning against the branch of a tree, resting himself and softly singing, when up came one of his evening scholars with an appeal for help.
“I knowed you knowed,” he said, apologetically, “so I brought it to find out.”
Tom took it with a little weary sigh, which he did not allow to reach his lips, and gave the required help. As he handed back the book he asked, with a smile,
“How are you getting on now, Uncle Gilbert?”
“Only toler’ble, Tom,” he returned; “old feller’s aches and pains right smart bad sometimes.”
“The Lord Jesus will take the pain away, because you will not feel it when you are bearing it for him. Have you asked him, uncle?”