And when he became first mate, then captain, and lastly owner of a goodly ship, the village people remembered how they had always felt sure he would do great things, and congratulated themselves on their foresight.
Many a prayer had been offered for Frank, too, by the dwellers in his native village, and for seven years, his path in life had been very smooth, though it lay across the trackless waters. At length his prosperity seemed to have reached a climax, for Frank bought and furnished the pretty cottage at Deerhurst, and brought thither his stranger bride.
A few short months of wedded happiness fled swiftly by, and then Frank went away to sea. Alas for the poor young wife, he never returned. A brief newspaper paragraph brought the first sad intelligence that the captain of the brig "Middlesex" had been washed overboard and drowned, in the terrible Bay of Biscay, during a gale.
This was woeful news for the whole village; but what was the grief of all the rest compared with that which Margaret Henderson felt when she heard of the loss of her gallant young husband? She was like one turned to stone. Hers was unforgiving grief. She could moan out, "'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,'" but when a Christian friend would fain have persuaded her to add, "'Blessed be the name of the Lord,'" she shook her head.
"I cannot, I cannot," she said, despairingly. "It would be just a mockery; for my heart is always rebelling and calling for Frank. Oh, we were so happy; and to think he should be taken from me in such a shocking way. What had I done to deserve such a blow?"
Even the advent of little Effie failed to subdue that stubborn spirit which could not consent to say, "Thy will be done." And during eight long years, Margaret never learned to bow in submission to Him who had seen fit to chasten her.
As far as worldly matters went, Mrs. Henderson lacked no comfort, for the sale of the ship brought her a large sum of money. But she never looked on the bright side of her lot, or compared her blessings with the wants of many who might have pleaded that they were at least as deserving as she was, and yet scarcely knew how to find rest and shelter for their little ones, or food to satisfy their hunger, while she possessed all in abundance.
For eight long years, then, Margaret Henderson fought against God; only she spoke not of her mental conflict, but hid her murmurings in her heart, where they rather increased; like the seed which, though buried in the ground, dies not entirely, but brings forth more fruit.
Sunny-haired, blue-eyed Effie Henderson, found home but a cold place of refuge for her little warm heart. Petted by young and old at Deerhurst, she could hardly understand why her mother's brow should wear a constant cloud, her face be the gravest, and her voice sound more harshly than any other.
When dear little Effie came bounding into the house, ready to tell some new tale of kindnesses received from their friendly neighbours, her mother would coldly bid her "be quiet, for the noise made her head ache." Or when the little girl, emboldened by seeing a softer expression on her mother's face, threw her arms round her neck and kissed her cheek lovingly, Mrs. Henderson would resolutely turn aside without returning the caress, and bid Effie "go sit on her own chair and not tease."