Then between sobs the story of a child's grief was laid before Miss Latimer, and told with such a depth of pathos that the listener's soft womanly heart ached in response to the plaintive tale.
"And your mother does not know you are here to-day, Winnie?" she inquired when the sad little voice had ceased. "You had no permission from her to come?"
The girl shook her head. "I suppose I am very disobedient," was the simple answer; "but, Aunt Judith, the temptation was too hard to resist. I felt I must see you all again, even though it was only to say good-bye."
Miss Latimer sighed. "You must not come any more, dear, never after to-night—at least not until your mother gives her full, free consent. You think all this very hard, little Winnie, but you do not know how deeply I feel about it also. You had stolen into my heart, child, and I was beginning to find your love very sweet and precious—not that I shall love you less or cease to care for you, but all this pleasant social intercourse must end now. Nay, do not grieve so, darling. It is all very dark and perplexing to you at present perhaps; but rest assured God has some beautiful lessons for us to learn—lessons that will give us a glimpse of, and may yet prove as stepping-stones to, that higher life which is the only life worth living."
Winnie sighed despairingly. "Aunt Judith," she said, raising a pair of wet eyes full of a child's agony to the listener's face, "I shall never be good now. You do not know the pleasure it has been to me to come here, or the strange thoughts that fill my heart when I see how happy you all are in this dear little home. Somehow God seems very near here, Aunt Judith, and the Christ-life you talk about so beautiful, I go away determined to try to lead it too—to be good, brave, and true. But that is all over now; for oh! no one in my home speaks of God and heaven, or talks softly of Jesus and his love, and I can't be good if none will stretch out a helping hand and show me the way."
Miss Latimer drew the little quivering figure closer in her embrace as she answered, "Don't say that, child, don't say that. A human friend often leads astray—God never. We must not rest our entire confidence on human guides, or lean altogether on earthly props, but, holding out our hands to the great Father above, with all the simplicity of little children, leave ourselves unreservedly in his keeping. Sometimes the way is dark—so dark, dear" (and the gentle voice faltered for a moment), "sometimes the path proves rugged and steep; but, little Winnie,—
'The easy path in the lowlands hath little of grand or new,
But a toilsome ascent leads on to a wide and glorious view;
Peopled and warm is the valley, lonely and chill the height,
But the peak that is nearer the storm cloud is nearer
the stars of light.'
And so, dear, in the time of shadow rest in the hollow of God's hand, and Christ himself will help you to lead his own perfect life."
The conversation at this point being interrupted by the arrival of Dick, Miss Latimer found no opportunity of renewing it that evening; but while Winnie, who had once more dashed the tears from her eyes with a child's abandonment of grief, was busily engaged with Miss Deborah and Nellie, she drew the boy aside, and with his aid was able to gather together the scattered threads of his sister's disconnected story.
Dick could not very well understand how, but there was something about Aunt Judith which seemed to inspire confidence; and although Miss Latimer with delicate tact retrained from asking more than was absolutely necessary, the boy found himself laying bare his heart quite unintentionally, and ended by confessing his determination to run away to sea. "I must go," he finished doggedly; "I can't stand this kind of life any longer, and—I won't."