I had the wagon and men at Hasty Point landing at daylight waiting for the steamboat, which was due there at that hour. It did not come until twelve, but the church organ was on board and put at once into the wagon and brought out here, where Miss Penelope and myself superintended the unpacking and had it put into the church. Just as this was done there came a downpour of rain. I am so rejoiced that the organ has been restored to the church and is now in perfect order. This great blessing we owe to a generous friend at a distance, who this spring sent the money to pay for the repairs and freight.
Sunday.
A perfect morning. Oh, the joy of this blessed day of rest and peace! That the Almighty One, who needed no rest, whose powers are infinite, should have ordained this seventh day of repose and cessation from toil, seems too wonderful. As I sat at breakfast (a plump little summer duck) and looked out into the depths of foliage, all shades from the solemn, steady green of the great live oaks through the wild cherry's shining leaves, the Pride of India's diaphanous fronds, the walnut's dull, yellowish, palmlike branches down to the vivid apple green of the grass—all so perfect, so full of beauty and delight for the eye of man—on this His day, here in my isolation the love and mercy of God and the joy of His great gift of life intoxicate me. I feel as David must have felt when he wrote some of those glorious shouts of joy and praise. I long to give expression to my overflowing gratitude.
Monday.
A dreary day of rain, which I found it hard to get through. This is a sad season to me. I do not believe in keeping anniversaries, but they hold one in spite of every effort. Even when there is much of interest going on around, there is deep down within the heart that nag, nag, nag of memory, like the toll of a bell, every day, every hour, every moment of the agony, thirty years gone by. The maddening "Why was not this done?" "If only that had been done!" and so for the time one forgets God and His everlasting arms and centres the mind on poor human agencies and possibilities. One cannot read, one cannot sew, one cannot pray.
CHAPTER XII
August 27.
Dear old Daddy Ancrum came dressed in his Sunday best to tell me all he could remember of his past life. I had asked him some time ago to come some day when he felt quite well—but I was quite touched at his dressing in his very best for the occasion. It was most interesting to me and I wrote it all down. According to the dates he gave me he is 91 years old—with all his faculties and in good health.
Next Sunday there is to be a "funeral sarmint," preached for Chloe's aunt, a person of distinction in the colored world, and Chloe and Patty both want to go. I will keep Goliah, so as to have some one in the yard.
As we drove to-day I asked him if he could cook rice; that if he could cook I might have him do so Sunday. He said he could, but as he would answer that to any question asked as to his powers I asked him to tell me how he did it. He began:—