“Certainly, Aunt Polly.”
“Then I’ll come, sure. Bring the chil’ens, did you say? I reckon I will if you want them. Why, do you know Polly and Becky?” for the children had given Tom a very glad greeting.
“Yes’m, I know them,” he replied; “we are quite old friends. Now I must go; good-bye.”
And so on to the next house, and the next, and the next—everywhere a warm greeting and a petition that he would stay; everywhere the children ran, for Tom had in no way neglected to make their acquaintance long ago, thinking always that he might leave with them of the sweet Bible words on which he lived. His heart grew bigger and bigger with thankful delight and pleasure as his list swelled. Two or three places he was obliged to stop to explain the evening lesson or read a few words, so that when he reached the step of Aunt Margaret’s cabin it was almost dark. To any but Tom the experience of the afternoon might have brought a little feeling of his own importance and the respect in which these people held him, but there was nothing of that—only a devout thankfulness and a longing to have Martha with him to share his joy.
But more than ever he longed for the help which he knew she could give when he called his little Sunday-school together on Sunday afternoon. His face did not show what he felt, but it was only with the help of a fervent prayer that he brought himself there at all. When he opened his little Bible to read, there were thirty faces looking toward him—men, women and children of every age. They each brought a chair or a stool with them, and sitting around the sides of the cabin, some leaning back and others erect, they all gave the most careful and fixed attention to the voice, manner and words of the reader. As for Tom, with a trembling heart, he opened his Bible and began. He had chosen one of the Psalms, and as the words of trust, and refuge, and sure strength have come home to tired hearts ever since the words were first given, so they came home to Tom’s heart, and made him “strong in the Lord of hosts.”
The prayer that followed was our Saviour’s own, and oh how much better it made Tom feel! They sang after that one of their own hymns, and the words given in their full, rich voices, with all the pathos belonging peculiarly to the race, stilled more hearts than one.
“There’s no more rain to wet you,
Oh yes! I want to go home—want to go home;
Dere’s no sun to burn you,
Oh yes! I want to go home—want to go home;