Left at Home / or, The Heart's Resting Place

by Mary L. Code

EDGAR NORTH; OR, A HEART WITHOUT A RESTING-PLACE.

BOUT two weeks after his arrival in his new home, when Arthur came down one morning to breakfast, something in his aunt’s face made him think of pleasant things; so that his “Good morning, auntie,” seemed rather like a question.

“I think you had better have breakfast,” said Mrs. Estcourt, smiling, but holding something in her hand towards him, at the same time.

“A letter!” Arthur exclaimed, or rather shouted, as he seized the envelope. “A letter for me! It could be only from one person. But, oh, surely they are not in India yet! Mamma said they would be weeks and weeks going.”

“They must have passed some vessel returning to England. You see what a mother you have, to write to you the very first opportunity.”

“I should think I knew that, auntie. I don’t believe there ever was, or will be, any one like my mother in the whole world.” Then he began to read his mother’s letter:

“My own Child,—For this is the sweetest name I can call you. You are my own, my Arthur, my darling little child—just as much mine now, as when we used to sit together by the fireside in the old home, and your head was on my lap, and my arms were around you. And although miles and miles of deep blue sea are lying between us, and the stars that look down on you in your peaceful English home may see me here on the broad, wide ocean, you are here safe in my heart, just the same as ever, and my watchful love, that cannot take care of you as I once did, pours itself out in prayers to the God who loves us both; for He is my Father and yours, Arthur. We are both in His hands. He will take care of us now, as we walk on this changing world, and He will take care of us for ever, in that land where there are no partings, or sighs, or tears—where the blessed God will joy to bless us for ever.

“And now I must tell you something about ourselves, about your father and me. For a little while after we started we had very rough weather; and as the steamer tossed up and down, and rolled with great heaving swells on the waves, I was glad that my little boy had a bed to lie on, that did not heave from side to side. I was glad that the sounds he heard, were the sweet summer winds rustling, and the birds that sang in the trees, instead of the creaking and straining noises that I now hear, and that he was safe, and comfortable, and well; instead of sighing out his poor little heart with trouble; for sea-sickness is a reality, my little Arthur, as you would soon find out, if, like me, you had spent some days on the sea, when the winds had made the waves rough.

“Now the water is calm, and all around us it lies blue and bright, and the sun makes pleasant sparkles on it, which I look at now and again, as I sit here on the deck; writing the letter that you will read, and think of me on my way to the land where you were born.