IT would have puzzled many of his friends to understand what possible interest Mr. Thornton could have had in the old cottage which he stood surveying. What was there in the dingy, cobwebby place to call for so much thought as he seemed to be putting upon it? He was not a real estate agent estimating its value, nor a mechanic contriving how he might make it good as new; for his cultured face had not the sharp business look of the one, neither did his elegant attire belong to the latter. The old place might have been picturesque in its day, but now the luxuriant growth of lawn and garden were all in a tangle; the maples and elms were locking arms, and that "gadding vine," the woodbine, had strayed away to the top of the tall hemlock.
It may be that Mr. Thornton was musing upon the possibilities of the forlorn little house, thinking it pitiful that even houses, trees and vines should not make the most of themselves. He had a passion for bringing up human ruins from depths of sin. It would not be strange if this divine outgoing widened and extended to inanimate things.
People said that Mr. Thornton was very peculiar. He puzzled the world in which he moved in more ways than one. It was incomprehensible to them why a man with thousands to bestow in charity, did not sit in his easy chair, and with a few flourishes of his pen make munificent gifts to public institutions, which would trumpet his praises far and near, instead of giving it out in driblets as he did, and half of the time nobody ever heard of it, except by chance; giving himself such extra trouble, too, hunting out objects of charity that nobody else would ever think of. Ah! That was just what he did accomplish; things that most people would not think of doing; little helps given here and there, tiding a discouraged man over it rough spot, saving the home to a widow, giving a month's rest to a poor sewing woman, a barrel of flour or load of coal to a family suddenly driven to straits who would starve rather than beg. And money was not all he gave; no one but God and themselves ever knew how he followed young men in and out, bringing them back from the very door of the pit to respectability and to Christ.
Among the poorest classes he was a most successful worker, because, like his Master, he brought not only the bread of life, but also the material, homely loaf for fainting bodies.
Whatever could possess one of intellectual tastes, with wealth and leisure and the wide world before him to spend time in such a strange way? People who could see no farther than the outside said that he wanted to be a sort of patron saint to the unfortunate; others explained it by that convenient word "eccentric." That which really was the true motive power of this life they could not understand or appreciate.
Every person finds his greatest pleasure in some particular way. It was natural for Mr. Thornton to find his in making others happy. As a boy, he often gave a bit of silver to a beggar or a rose to a forlorn woman, because he so loved to see the face change from dullness to glad surprise. Of late years, though, there had come into his life something stronger and purer as a controlling power. He had been taken into near companionship with the Lord Jesus. He consulted with him in every small affair of his life, and received special guidance, consequently he had no worries and anxieties; he was under orders, not as servant only,— it was more as one might carry out the least wish of a dear absent friend. The beneficence that flowed from his purse was simply dispensing another's bounty. Every flower or kind word bestowed, were the cups of cold water given in the Friend's name, for none of which he claimed merit.
After many years spent abroad Mr. Thornton had returned to his native city. This neglected cottage, along with other pieces of property, had fallen into his hands at the death of an old aunt, and with the rest had much needed his attention for some time past. It was an old-fashioned house with low ceilings, small windows, wide fireplaces and broad hearthstones. Outside, there were broad verandas, a garden full of roses, shrubs and vines; a disorderly mass now, but capable of being a delight.
True to himself, he immediately set to work—in imagination—transforming the shabby house into a thing of beauty. His artistic eye could see how charming the parlor would be with the sunlight and the roses peeping through white-curtained windows, the lawn a velvety green, cleared of all but one grand oak, and the garden with trained vines and trimmed walks. What wonders might not paper, and paint, and pruning-knife accomplish! He grew enthusiastic over it as he went on. But what of it all when it was finished? It would be easy to give it into the hands of an agent to dispose of, and so have no further trouble about it, but he had an impression that in some way this house might be used for the comfort and help of some one in the Father's family, and he resolved to dedicate it to that purpose.
He sat on the porch and thought it all out while the shadows of the vines danced over him and the morning-glories nodded approvingly. Yes, he would make the place fresh and fair, and it should be to refresh the heart of some old saint who was homeless and friendless, with nothing left but memories of the past and hopes of the future.
"She will train these vines into orderliness and sit with her knitting in this shade," he said to himself, as he turned the key in lock and went his way. So eager was he to have the work commenced that he brought out his knife and clipped disorderly branches from the sweet-brier that overhung the gateway as he passed through.