Had John Morgan the least idea of going? He told himself that he had not. He told himself that he did not believe in these things, that they were not for him, and even while he said so his heart said back to him, "That is not true." How came he to leave his station away back by the door, and to follow the throng who were moving up the aisle, and to kneel down there before that gray-haired man? Neither then nor afterward did John Morgan understand it. He had not intended to go—at least he supposed he had not; and yet he went. He did not believe that he had any feeling on the subject; he believed that he hated religion and all religionists. No, not all; there was Louise—he had tried to hate her, and failed. There was that fair girl who gave him the card, and that wrinkled old woman who had given him the card. What was the use in hating them? He did not believe that he did. Then this gray-haired, earnest, clear-brained preacher. No, he found nothing like hatred in his heart for him. But what was the use of going up there? He did not want to be prayed for. Yes he did, or at least he was not sure but he did. He wanted something; he could not be certain what it was; and before it was reasoned out, or before he understood what motive impelled him or quite what he meant, he had been slowly impelled—he could almost have said "pushed forward"—by a something, or by some one, stronger than himself, to whom he felt impelled to yield.
It was just as the city clocks were striking the hour of nine. He did not know that at that hour four people, in three separate rooms, were kneeling and presenting his name before the King, begging for him the wedding garment—Louise and Lewis in the quiet of their own room, Dorothy in John's own hall chamber, Carey Martyn in his own room over the kitchen, each, according to the covenant into which they had entered, breathing the same name, united in the same desire. "While they are yet speaking, I will hear." Did the King say that of them that night? Did a message go from the palace that night, "Clothe John Morgan in the wedding garment, and write his name among the guests who have accepted the invitation"? There are those, even in the so-called Christian world, who would fail to see the connecting link between this conference held nightly with the King and these strange leadings which John Morgan had called chance.
Yet is it not blessed, after all, to remember that the witnesses are daily increasing who can testify to just such claims as these—chains reaching even to the Infinite Arm, and moving that Arm to reach down and pluck some stranded, sin-surrounded soul, lifting its feet from the mire and setting them firmly on the Rock, even the Rock of Ages?
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
"FORBID THEM NOT."
To the Morgan family the long golden summer months moved slowly. The first actual break in the household had come to them; none of the family had realized how hard it would be until it was met. I suppose it is a fact, many times proved by experience, that trial either softens or hardens the human heart. Certainly Mrs. Morgan's heart was not undergoing the softening process; she brooded over her first great anxiety until at times it seemed to her that no sorrow was like unto her sorrow, and she chafed under it as a cruel thing.
Farmer Morgan, though saying little, had aged under the trouble, and seemed at times like a broken-down man; yet he steadily resisted any effort at comfort, and sternly forbade any attempts to make search for the missing boy. "He has chosen to cut himself off from us," he would say coldly; "let him get the full benefit of it." Yet there were times when he hinted, in the presence of the mother, that had the home atmosphere been less hard and cold John might have been kept; and she more than hinted, in the coldest of voices, that if his father had not treated John like a little boy, and made him work like a slave, there need have been no trouble: so of course these two could not help each other, and only grew further apart in their common sorrow. Taken altogether, the summer was one full of bitterness to the new bud that had been grafted on to the gnarled old tree.
There were times when Louise's brave heart sunk within her, and she cried in tears to the Lord for relief. It was not that she was not willing to bear the heat and burden of the day, but the poor heart so longed for fruitage. Was her Christian effort in vain she questioned. Then her thoughts went away from the old farmhouse, back to her own lovely home and her lovely sister Estelle; how long she had prayed for her! How earnestly she had striven to bring her as a trophy to the Master! Yet the bright, winsome girl was fast blushing into womanhood, her life still uncrowned by this consecration. Thinking of her and of John, and of the steadily aging father and the hard mother in this new home, could Louise be other than sad sometimes? "If ye had faith as a grain of mustard seed." Yes, I know; it was true, her faith was weak. But whose is strong?
There were bright spots. It was strange that with the illustration ever before her she should so often forget it.
Dorothy moved steadily on her upward way. She had given herself entirely to the Master's service, and he was daily showing her that he accepted the gift. Occasionally Louise found heart for admiration over the rapid strides that Dorothy had taken and the avenues for work opening on every hand. There had been, during the summer months, a Sabbath school organized in the little brown school-house just above them. No one quite remembered how it started into growth, save Louise, who knew it was born of Dorothy's sudden, startled, "What a pity that those children are not being taught anything!" as she watched half-a-dozen playing together in an uproarious manner one Sunday afternoon. Now the school had been in progress three months, and was flourishing. Lewis was superintendent, much to his own astonishment; and Louise, and Dorothy, and Carey Martyn, and the young lady whose father employed him, were the teachers. Louise had organized a Bible class composed of some of the mothers, and was working faithfully among them, yet not seeing the fruit that she longed for. Mr. Butler had of late fallen into the habit of walking out on Sabbath afternoon and talking a few minutes to the children. Once he overheard a remark of Dorothy's not by any means intended for his ears.