Wikkey / A Scrap

by Henrietta Vaders

"That has to do with a very sad story, which I have not told you yet. You know, Wikkey, though he was so good and kind, the men of that country hated Him, and would not have him for their King, and at last they took Him prisoner, and treated Him very badly, and they put that crown of sharp, pricking thorns on His Head, because He said He was a King."

"Was it to make game of Him?" asked Wikkey, in a tone of mingled awe and distress.

Lawrence nodded gravely, and feeling that this was perhaps as good a moment as any for completing the history, he took the Book, and in low, reverent tones, began the sad story of the betrayal, captivity, and Death. Wikkey listened in absorbed attention, every now and then commenting on the narrative in a way which showed its intense reality to himself, and gave a marvellous vividness to the details of which Lawrence had before scarcely realized the terrible force. As he read on, his voice became husky, and the child's eyes were fixed on him with devouring eagerness, till the awful end came, and Wikkey broke into an agony of weeping. Lawrence hastily put down the Book, and taking the little worn frame into his arms tried to soothe the shaking sobs, feeling the while as though he had been guilty of cruelty to the tender, sensitive heart.

"I thought some one would have saved Him," Wikkey gasped. "I didn't know as He was killed; you never told me He was killed."

"Wikkey, little lad—hush—look here! it was all right at the end. Listen while I read the end; it is beautiful." And as the sobs subsided he began to read again, still holding the boy close, and inwardly wondering whether something like this might have been the despair of the disciples on that Friday evening—read of the sadness of that waiting time, of the angel's visit to the silent tomb, of the loving women at the sepulchre, and the joyful message, "He is not here, He is risen;" and lastly, of the parting blessing, the separating cloud and the tidings of the coming again. A look of great relief was on Wikkey's face as Lawrence ceased reading, and he lay for some time with closed eyes, resting after his outburst. At last he opened them with sudden wonder.

"Lawrence, why did He let them do it? If He could do anything, why didn't He save Himself from the enemies?"

The old wonder—the old question—which must be answered; and Lawrence, after thinking a moment, said—

"It had to be, Wikkey. He had to die—to die for us. It was like this:—People were very wicked, always doing bad things, and nobody that was bad could go to Heaven, but they must be punished instead. But God was very sorry that none of the people He had made could come and be happy with Him, so His Son, Jesus Christ, our King, became a Man, and came down on earth that He might be punished instead of us, so that we might be forgiven and allowed to come into Heaven. He bore all that for each of us, so that now, if we believe in Him and try to please Him, we shall go to be with Him in Heaven when we die."

Lawrence was very far from guessing that his teaching had become "doctrinal." He had spoken out of the fulness of his own conviction, quickened into fresh life by the intensity of Wikkey's realization of the facts he had heard.

"It was good of Him—it was good," the child repeated again and again, with a world of love shining in his eyes, till, worn out with his emotion, he fell asleep, and was gently laid by Lawrence in his bed. But in the middle of the night sounds of stifled weeping aroused Lawrence.