Every week a letter came to the church or the Sunday school in which the pastor spoke most hopefully of what they might together accomplish for the cause of Christ. He told them what he had seen in England and Scotland, among congregations he had visited, of united effort. He reminded them, that if they so labored and prayed, God would surely add His blessing, until there was not one in the limits of the town who did not love Christ and try to serve Him.
To the Sunday-school children he wrote of schools in London and Edinburgh, where all were wide awake with interest to gather in the poor waifs who knew nothing of Jesus except His name, which they heard mingled with the most dreadful oaths. He spoke of the reward these workers received in their own hearts, and urged them to follow so worthy an example. He mentioned at the close of this letter that he had subscribed for one of the best English Sunday-school papers, and offered it for a reward to the child who would bring into their own Sunday school the greatest number of scholars. These must be from families not connected with any other church.
For the first time in her life dear little Ethel had a secret, and it was her own Marion who told her of it.
By and by, when the new house was done, she knew that her dear Mr. Angus would bring Marion from the city and go there to live. She knew that a beautiful conservatory was to be built on the south side of the new house, and that Marion's flowers and birds would be brought there. She knew that Hepsey and Esther and James would all be in the pretty home at the new Ingleside, and that she could go to see them as often as she pleased. She knew why it was that Marion came from New York so often, and why papa spent so much time talking with her about some large charts spread out on the dining-room table, about an oriel window here, and a balcony there, and why they always waited till she was in bed before they walked over to the spot where the new house was being built.
One thing more connected with this wonderful secret she had been told later, and this came near letting the whole thing out, which would indeed have set the congregation connected with the First Church into a blaze of excitement. Marion had promised that on a certain occasion, not very far distant, she should go to New York with her papa and mamma and Annie and Gardner, and stand up with Marion as bridesmaid, while she promised to love Mr. Angus and take good can of him as long as she lived.
It was something to be remembered, the wonder and delight of the child as she came to understand all this. Her eyes grew darker, and her whole face radiant, as she glanced slowly from one to another, and her mamma added,—
"Yes, darling, cousin Marion is going to live in Grantbury and be Mr. Angus's wife."
"And I'll be his wife, too," she exclaimed, with a little hop of delight. "I'll promise to love him and take care of him. He can be the broom to both of us."
"The broom!"
"Yes, mamma, you said that she would be the bride and he the broom."