Janet's Love and Service

by Margaret M. Robertson

That wonderful change has come to him, which the world would fain deny—the change which so many profess to have experienced, but which so few manifest in their lives. He has learned of the “meek and lowly.” He is a Christian at last. He has “experienced religion,” the neighbours say, looking on with varied feelings to see what the end may be.

Sampson Snow never did anything like anybody else, it was said. He “stood it” through “a season of interest,” when Deacons Fish and Slowcome had thought it best to call in the aid of the neighbouring ministers, to hold “a series of meetings.” Good, prudent men these ministers were, and not much harm was done, and some good. Some were gathered into the Church from the world; some falling back were restored; some weak ones were strengthened; some sorrowing ones comforted. And through all, the interested attention of Mr Snow never flagged. He attended all the meetings, listened patiently to the warnings of Deacon Fish, and the entreaties of Deacon Slowcome. He heard himself told by Mr Page that he was on dangerous ground, “within a few rods of the line of demarcation.” He was formally given up as a hopeless case, and “left to himself”, by all the tender-hearted old ladies in Merleville, and never left the stand of a spectator through it all. Then when Deacons Fish and Slowcome, and all Merleville with them, settled down into the old gloom again, his visits to the minister became more frequent, and more satisfactory, it seemed, for in a little time, to the surprise of all, it was announced in due form, that Sampson Snow desired to be admitted into fellowship with the Church of Merleville.

After that time his foes watched for his halting in vain. Different from other folks before, he was different from them still. He did not seem to think his duty for the week was done, when he had gone twice to meeting on the day time, and had spoken at conference on the Sunday evening. Indeed, it must be confessed, that he was rather remiss with regard to the latter duty. He did not seem to have the gift of speech on those occasions. He did not seem to have the power of advising or warning, or even of comforting, his neighbours. His gift lay in helping them.

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, My brethren, ye have done it unto Me,” were words that Sampson seemed to believe.

“He does folks a good turn, as though he would a little rather do it than not,” said the widow Lovejoy, and no one had a better right to know.

As for the poor, weak, nervous Rachel, who could only show her love for her husband, by casting all the burden of her troubles, real and imaginary, upon him, she could hardly love and trust him more than she had always done, but he had a greater power of comforting her now, and soon the peace that reigned in his heart influenced hers a little, and as the years went on, she grew content, at last, to bear the burdens God had laid upon her, and being made content to live and suffer on, God took her burden from her and laid her to rest, where never burden presses more.

If his mother had ever really believed that no part of her son’s happiness was made by his peevish, sickly wife, she must have acknowledged her mistake when poor Rachel was borne away forever. She must have known it by the long hours spent in her silent room, by the lingering step with which he left it, by the tenderness lavished on every trifle she had ever cared for.

“Sampson seemed kind o’ lost,” she said; and her motherly heart, with all its worldliness, had a spot in it which ached for her son in his desolation. She did not even begrudge his turning to Emily with a tender love. She found it in her heart to rejoice that the girl had power to comfort him as she could not. And little Emily, growing every day more like the pretty Rachel who had taken captive poor Sampson’s youthful fancy, did what earnest love could do to comfort him.

But no selfishness mingled with her stepfather’s love for Emily. It cost him much to decide to send her from him for a while, but he did decide to do so. For he could not but see that Emily’s happiness was little cared for by his mother, even yet. She could not now, as in the old time, take refuge in her mother’s room. She was helpful about the house too, and could not often be spared to her friends up the hill, or in the village; for old Mrs Snow, much as she hated to own it, could no longer do all things with her own hands, as she used to do. To be sure, she could have had help any day, or every day in the year; but it was one of the old lady’s “notions” not to be able “to endure folks around her.” And, besides, “what was the use of Emily Arnold?” And so, what with one thing and another, little Emily’s cheek began to grow pale; and the wilful gaze with which she used to watch her father’s home-coming, came back to her eyes again.

“There is no kind o’ use for Emily’s being kept at work,” said her father. “She ain’t strong; and there’s Hannah Lovejoy would be glad to come and help, and I’d be glad to pay her for it. Emily may have a good time as well as not.”