The heiress of McGregor

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Therese promised, and set out on her walk. She had a difficulty to face and question to decide, and she had a feeling that she could settle it better in that place than anywhere else. She walked quickly till she turned into the mountain-road, and then more deliberately till she came to the little farm. It was a lonely place always, and somehow seemed more lonely still for the presence of the little house with its nailed-up windows and smokeless chimney. Therese unlocked the door, and once more explored the rooms, from which the furniture had all been removed. She looked through the closets, and found and treasured up a handkerchief of her mother's. Then she made all secure again, and sat down on the steps to think.

"It is giving up a great deal—a great deal," she said to herself; "there is no use in denying that. It is giving up not only the present pleasure, but all the future gain. If I went abroad and learned French at Paris, I might always earn a good salary, as good or better than Miss Oliver's. But if it is my duty to stay, if it is a sacrifice He asks of me, then all these things go for nothing and less than nothing.

"Grand-mère told me to look to the rock from whence I was hewed. It is not a martyrdom like theirs to which I am called, and yet it is in a way laying down my life. He laid down his life for us, and we also should lay down our lives for the brethren. He laid down his life for us—for me! I can lay down mine for him. Kitty loves me, and will be sorry, but she has her cousins, and she will not want for friends. Grand-mère has nobody but me, and she has always been kind to me—always. Grandfather Beaubien says she was the best of mothers to my poor mother; he says she is a saint, though she is a Protestant. But if she were not, she is old and alone; she has no one but me belonging to her; she is not fit to stay by herself. Doctor Gates says so, and I can see it with my own eyes. If she has to take in a stranger, it will spoil all the comfort of her life, and she may live ever so many years. I believe it is a clear call," said Therese, speaking out loud in her earnestness. "I believe He will give me grace to follow it, and will be with me. He is with me."

Therese bowed her head on her hands, and sat some time without speaking. At last she raised her head, and, startled to see how low the sun was getting, she started up and walked rapidly home.

Life had been altered for Therese since the twilight talk with old Hector McGregor recorded in a past chapter. She had been more or less religiously inclined all her life, and for more than a year past she had been conscientiously and earnestly trying to live a Christian life. She believed all she had been taught, she loved to read her Bible, and prayed in full faith of being heard. But she had never been able to bring the things of eternity so near as to make them seem very real to her. It was hard for her to think that her heavenly Father cared individually for her, that he loved her personally and particularly, and desired her love in return.

Then came the time of great and awful desolation, when she was forsaken by that mother who had been her one object in life hitherto. All her supports seemed cut away. She felt herself adrift, with nothing to do and nobody to work for or to care for her. Heaven seemed very far away. She too might live to be ninety years old, but there would be nobody to care for her as his children did for Hector McGregor. She would always bear the burden of her parents' sins. She would be Tone Beaubien's daughter to the end of the chapter.

But after that evening all was changed. A new life had come to the little girl, still almost a child in years. She had consecrated herself to his service who never causes one to regret such a consecration, and she had received in return the mystical gift, the white stone with a new name written thereon which no man knows but he that hath it. She felt herself accepted. She was no more alone, for one had promised to be with her to the end of the world. He could make hard things easy, or give more grace. He could turn even disgrace and shame to his glory. He would give her work to do for him, and strength and wisdom to do it, and what did she want more?

Therese was no idle dreamer. She did not look forward to doing great things. She knew that not one in a thousand is called to a high place in the sight of men. But she had seen in her grandmother Duval, in Mrs. Tremaine and her cousin, yes, even in Kitty, young as she was, how the little cares and labours of every day may be sanctified so as to make everyday life a blessing to all around. That was what she asked for herself.

Now a greater thing was asked of her, a real taking up of the cross. It was no small sacrifice to renounce such a plan as had been made for her, such a career as had been opened for her, to nurse her grandmother's declining years, to hear all the remarks that would be made and face the misconstructions that would perhaps be put upon her change of plans. She knew there would be trials of temper and patience both at home and abroad. She feared Grandfather Beaubien would be displeased, for the Beaubiens had always felt some lurking jealousy of old Madame Duval, who was the richest of the whole French settlement and had the credit of thinking herself better than her neighbours.

Therese had come to that place where two roads met. One was fair and flowery, leading as it seemed to green pastures and beside still waters, to pleasant heights of prosperity; the other low and somewhat rugged, with few flowers or trees, and leading she could not see where. There was no stopping—no turning back. Therese made her choice. She believed that a beam from heaven shone on the narrow rugged path, that a voice said, "This is the way; walk ye in it," and after a moment's hesitation she resolutely and humbly set her feet therein.