Janet's Love and Service

by Margaret M. Robertson

Graeme never ceased to remember those happy drives with her father, on his gentle ministrations to the sick and sorrowful of his flock, in those days. She never thought of the cottage at the foot of the hill, but she seemed to see the suffering face of the widow Lovejoy, and her father’s voice repeating,—

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Long afterwards, when the laughter of little children rose where the widow’s groans had risen, Graeme could shut her eyes and see again the suffering face—the dooryard flowers, the gleaming of the sunlight on the pond—the very shadows of the maples on the grass. Then it was her sorrowful delight to recall those happy hours of quiet converse, the half sad, half joyful memories which her father loved to dwell upon—the firm and entire trust for the future, of which his words assured her.

Afterwards it came to her, that through all this pleasant time, her father was looking at a possibility to which her eyes were shut. He had spoke of her mother as he had seldom spoken even to Graeme, of the early days of their married-life—of all she had been to him, of all she had helped him to be and to do. And more than once he said,—

“You are like your mother, Graeme, in some things, but you have not her hopeful nature. You must be more hopeful and courageous, my child.”

He spoke of Marian, Graeme remembered afterward. Not as one speaks of the dead, of those who are hidden from the sight, but as of one near at hand, whom he was sure to meet again. Of the lads far-away, he always spoke as “your brothers, Graeme.” He spoke hopefully, but a little anxiously, too.

“For many a gallant bark goes down when its voyage is well nigh over; and there is but one safe place of anchorage, and I know not whether they have all found it yet. Not that I am afraid of them. I believe it will be well with them at last. But in all the changes that may be before you, you will have need of patience. You must be patient with your brothers, Graeme; and be faithful to them, love, and never let them wander unchecked from what is right, for your mother’s sake and mine.”

He spoke of their leaving home, and very thankfully of the blessings that had followed them since then; of the kindness of the people, and his love to them; and of the health and happiness of all the bairns, “of whom one has got home before me, safely and soon.”

“We might have come here, love, had your mother lived. And yet, I do not know. The ties of home and country are strong, and there was much to keep us there. Her departure made all the rest easy for me, and I am quite convinced our coming was for the best. There is only one thing that I have wished, and I know it is a vain thing.” He paused a moment.

“Of late I have sometimes thought—I mean the thought has sometimes come to me unbidden—that I would like to rest beside her at last. But it is only a fancy. I know it will make no difference in the end.”

If Graeme grew pale and trembled as she listened, it was with no dread that she could name. If it was forced upon her that the time must come when her father must leave them, it lay in her thoughts, far-away. She saw his grave dimly as a place of rest, when the labours of a long life should be ended; she had no thought of change, or separation, or of the blank that such a blessed departure must leave. The peace, which had taken possession of his mind had its influence on hers, and she “feared no evil.”