“Ah’s still gannin’ on i’ t’ aud rooad, an’ ah bless the Lord ’at ah’s nearer salvation noo then when fost ah beleeaved. Ah finnd ’at t’ way dizn’t get ’arder bud eeasier as ah gan’ on. Ah used te hev monny a tussle wi’ me’ neeamsake, t’ ‘Aud Adam,’ an’ he’s offens throan ma’, but t’ Strangger then he’s aboot tonnd him oot, an’ ah feel ’at the Lord’s will’s mah will mair then ivver it was afoore. Ah’s cummin’ fast te d’ end o’ my jonna, an’ ah’s just waitin’ at t’ Beautiful Gayt o’ t’ temple, till the Lord cums an’ lifts ma’ up, then ah sall gan in as t’ leeam man did, loupin’ an’ singin’ an’ praisin’ God.—Noo, Brother Hepton, hoo is it wi’ your sowl te-neet?”
Jabez Hepton, as we have seen, is the village carpenter. He is rather a reticent and thoughtful man, troubled now and then with mental doubts—a kind of Nicodemus, who is given to asking “How can these things be?”
“Well,” he says, “I’m not quite up to the mark, somehow. I have no trust but in Jesus, an’ I don’t want to have. But I’ve a good many doubts an’ fears,—why, not fears exactly, but questionings an’ uncertainties, an’ they disturb me at times a good bit. I pray for grace to overcome ’em. May the Lord help me!”
“Help yo’,” said Adam, “te be seear He will. But you mun help yersen. If a fellow cums inte my hoose o’ purpose te mak’ ma’ miserable, an’ begins te pull t’ winder cottain doon, an’ rake t’ fire oot, tellin’ ma’ ’at darkness an’ gloom ’s best fo’ ma’; ah sudn’t begin to arguy wiv him. Ah sud say, ‘Cum, hod thee noise an’ bundle oot. Ah knoa better then that, an’ ah’ll hev as mitch dayleet as ah can get.’ Noo, theease doots o’ yours, they cum for neea good, and they shutt t’ sunleet o’ faith oot o’ yer heart. Noo, deean’t ax ’em te sit doon an’ hev a crack o’ talk aboot it, an’ lissen tiv ’em till you’re hoaf oot o’ yer wits. Say ‘Get oot, ah deean’t want yo,’ an’ ah weean’t hae yo’!’ an’ oppen t’ deear an’ expect ’em te gan. Meeastly you’ll finnd ’at they’ll tak t’ hint an’ vanish like a dreeam. Brother Hepton, doots is neea trubble, if yo’ weean’t giv ’em hooseroom. Questionin’s weean’t bother yo’ if yo’ deeant give ’em a answer. An’ whativver yo’ deea, fill your heead wi’ t’ Wod ov God. ‘It’s written!’ ‘It’s written!’ that’s the way te settle ’em.—Sister Petch, hoo are you gettin’ on?”
Sister Petch is an aged widow, poor amongst the poorest, an infirm and weakly woman, living a solitary life, but ever upborne by a cheerful Christian content which is beautiful to see.
“Why, I’ve nothing but what’s good to say of my gracious Lord and Saviour. Sometimes ah gets a bit low-spirited an’ dowly, especially when my rheumatism keeps me from sleeping. But I go straight to the cross, and when I cry, ‘Lord, help me!’ I get abundant strength. The Lord won’t lay on me more than ah’m able to bear, an’ sometimes He makes my peace to flow like a river. My Saviour’s love makes up for all my sorrows.”
“Hey, mah deear sister, ah’ll warrant it diz. You an’ me’s gettin’ aud an’ creaky, an’ the Lord’s lowsin’ t’ pins o’ wer tabernacle riddy for t’ flittin.’ Bud if t’ hoose o’ this tabernacle be dissolved, we knoa ’at we’ve a buildin’ ov God. Till that day cums, ‘Lord, help me!’ is a stoot crutch te walk wi’, an’ a sharp swoord te fight wi’, an’ a soft pillo’ te lig wer heeads on, an’ a capital glass te get a leeak at heaven through. The Lord knoas all aboot it, Peggy, an’ He says te yo’, ‘ah knoa thi patience an’ thi povvaty,’ but thoo’s rich, an’ bless His neeame you’ll be a good deal richer yit.
‘On all the kings of ’arth,
Wi’ pity we leeak doon;
An’ clayme i’ vartue o’ wer berth,