Margie's venture

by Mary E. Ropes

The sudden shock, the heavy blow of shame and grief, brought on a severe illness which kept her in hospital for weeks, and it was when she emerged from the sick ward, a mere shadow of her former self, that she sent, in her sorrow and despair, the pathetic telegram to her aunt, though she hardly expected such generous forgiveness, such a hearty welcome. But the pride and the haughtiness were all gone, gone with the beauty and the passion and the longing for the love of Nicholas Beach. Emptied of self, humbled in the dust at the remembrance of her sins, there had come in answer to her cry, "O Lord, I am a great sinner," the answer of that still, small voice of love, "Then for you Christ is a great Saviour."

By sorrow her heart had been broken, and breaking, made room for the Spirit to enter, whose coming means life eternal, for He alone can take of the things of Christ and show them unto us.

And so Mabel Raye came home, and now her presence did not disturb the peace of the household; indeed, it added greatly to the happiness, not only of Mrs. Beach, but also of Clara and Margie, and they blessed God for bringing back the wandering sheep to the fold again.

So passed another few months, and Margie—but for her great longing to see Harry, a longing which grew stronger the more its fulfilment was delayed—would have been utterly content. But the time was at hand when her reward was to be given to her, greater, fuller, sweeter than she had ever dreamed of receiving.

Margie was sitting and sewing in Mrs. Beach's room one winter evening by the light of a shaded lamp, and her mistress, who was resting on the sofa near the fire, was looking at the girl as she bent over her work. What a grave, sweet face it was, the old lady was saying to herself, and how happy, how fortunate, would the man be for whom that face lighted up with love! For Mrs. Beach had come to care for this girl almost like a daughter, and depended upon her for everything.

A knock at the door was answered by Margie, who opened it.

"A gentleman to see Miss Grayling," said the servant, with much surprise in his face and voice, for gentlemen to see Miss Grayling were not common.

"What name?" inquired Mrs. Beach; but Margie did not hear her. She was out of the room and downstairs in one moment, her heart beating wildly. And there, in the morning-room, stood a stalwart man in a rough overcoat, and with hat in hand.

"Harry, dear Harry!"

He turned, and their eyes met. In Margie's, Harry saw the love-light, the thing for which he was pining, to brighten his desolate life. But in his, Margie discovered what she had not expected—such a great joy, such gladness of tender affection, that it could only mean one thing.