“Now, what do you think of that?” he asks, with sparkling eyes. Hers are sparkling too, and she thinks just as he does, you may be sure, whatever that may be. Not that she has a very clear idea of what has been read, as how could she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles, and the energetic announcement of the conductor that “the cars have got to Boston.”
“See here, Elliott, my son. Ain’t you tired riding?” asks papa, gently.
“Ain’t you afraid you’ll wake sister?” says mamma. “I wouldn’t make quite so much noise, dear.”
“Why, mother, I’m the cars,” says Elliott.
“But hadn’t you better go out into the yard? Carlo! Where’s Carlo? I haven’t seen Carlo for a long time. Where’s Carlo?”
It is evident Solomon is not in the confidence of these good people. Moral suasion is the order of the day. They often talk very wisely to each other, about the training of their children, and gravely discuss the prescriptions given long ago, for the curing of evils which come into the world with us all. They would fain persuade themselves that there is not so much need for them in the present enlightened age. They do not quite succeed, however, and fully intend to commence the training process soon. Celestia, especially, has some misgivings, as she looks into the face of her bold, beautiful boy, but she shrinks from the thought of severe measures, and hopes that it will all come out right with him, without the wise king’s medicine; and if mother’s love and unfailing patience will bring things out right, there need be no fear for little Elliott.
It is a happy home, the Greenleaf’s. There are ease and comfort without luxury; there is necessity for exertion, without fear of want. There are many good and pretty things in the house, for use and ornament. There are pictures, books and magazines in plenty, and everything within and without goes to prove the truth of Mr Snow’s declaration, that “the Greenleafs take their comfort as they go along.”
But no change has come to anyone in Merleville, so great as the change that has come to Mr Snow himself. Death has been in his dwelling once—twice. His wife and his mother have both found rest, the one from her weary waiting, the other from her cares. The house to which Sampson returns with lagging footsteps, is more silent than ever now.
But a change greater than death can make, had come to Sampson first, preparing him for all changes. It came to him as the sight of rushing water comes to the traveller who has been long mocked with the sound of it. It came, cleansing from his heart and from his life the dust and dimness of the world’s petty cares, and vain pursuits. It found him weary of gains-getting, weary of toiling and moiling amid the dross of earth for that which could not satisfy, and it gave him for his own, the pearl which is above all price. Weary of tossing to and fro, it gave him a sure resting-place, “a refuge whereunto he may continually resort,” a peace that is abiding. With its coming the darkness passed away, and light to cheer and guide was his for evermore. Behind the closed blinds of his deserted house, he was not alone. The promise, made good to so many in all ages, was made good to him.
“He that loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and We will come and make our abode with him.”