“Fear not, Abraham, I am thy shield and exceeding great reward,” were the words in her little Bible, on which her eyes had that morning glanced, dim with tears—they could see but those; again and yet again she read them, till they seemed to fix themselves upon her heart, as peculiarly and strangely appropriate to herself. Like Abraham, she was leaving home and friends, to dwell in what was to her a strange land, and the same God who had been with him the God of Abraham and Israel, was her God also. “His arm was not shortened, nor his ear heavy, that he could not save.” And oh, what unspeakable comfort came in such thoughts. Century on century had passed; but the descendants of Abraham were still the favoured of the Lord, having, in the simple fact of their existence, evidence of the Bible truth. Sarah had often gloried in being a daughter of Israel, but never felt so truly, so gratefully thankful for that holy privilege as she did when thinking over the history of Abraham, and the promise made to him and his descendants, in her lonely journey, and feeling to the full the comfort of the conviction that Abraham’s God was hers.
It was a dull and dreary evening when Sarah entered the great city of London. The stage put her down about half an hour’s walk from her destination, and she proceeded on foot, followed by a boy conveying her little luggage. She struggled hard to subdue the despondency again creeping over her, as she traversed the crowded streets, in which there was not one to extend the hand of kindly greeting. She felt almost ashamed, though she could not define why, that the boy should see the low dark alleys which she was obliged to tread before she could discover where her father now lived, and when she did reach it, she stood and hesitated before the door, as if the house she sought could scarcely be there, it was such a wretched-looking place.
Her timid knock was unheard, and the impatient porter volunteered a tap, loud enough to bring many a curious head to the other doors in the alley, and hastily to open the one wanted. A long curious stare greeted Sarah, from an old woman, repulsive in feature and slovenly and dirty in dress, who to Sarah’s faltering question if Mr. Levison lived there, somewhat harshly replied—
“Yes, to be sure he does; and who may you be that wants him? He is not at home, whatever your business is.”
“Did he not expect me, then? I wrote to say I should be with him to-night,” answered Sarah, trying to conquer the painful choking in her throat. “I thought he was too ill to go out.”
“Why, sure now, you cannot be his daughter!” was the reply, in a softened tone, and the woman looked at her with something very like pity. “Come in with you, then, if you really are Sarah Levison; send the boy away and come in.”
Trembling from a variety of feelings, Sarah mechanically obeyed, giving the boy the customary fee ere she discharged him; a proceeding which caused the woman to look at her with increasing astonishment, and to exclaim, when Sarah was fairly in the dirty miserable room called a parlour, “She can do that too, and yet she comes here. Sarah Levison, are you not a great fool?”
The poor girl started, fairly bewildered by the question, and looked at her companion very much as if she thought she had lost her wits. “A fool!” she repeated.
“My good girl, yes. What have you left a comfortable house and kind friends, and perhaps a good business, for?”
“To obey my father,” replied Sarah, simply. “Did he not send to tell me he was ill, and wanted me; that he was no longer the wealthy, prosperous man that he was, and I must labour for him now? or have I been deceived, and is it all false,” she added, in accents of terror, as she grasped old Esther’s arm, “and has some one only decoyed me here?”