Of no account

by Ruth Lamb

Taking all things together, Adam began to doubt whether, whilst the bit of money might have added to their bodily comfort, it had increased the happiness of his little household. After six months' experience, he came to the conclusion that things had gone rather the other way, and Margaret and he hardly pulled as comfortably together as of old.

Adam, poor fellow, thought he and his wife only needed to meet again, and then he would be able to commune with her of all that was in his heart. He tried to tell her about that first night at the Mission Room, when he learned some of the value of his soul, and of the price paid for its redemption. He was full of his subject, but he soon found it hard to speak to one who seemed neither to understand nor to sympathise with him.

He almost doubted whether she heard him, for she made short answers that did not mean anything, she yawned, looked about her, and finally started up before he had finished with the question, "Is that baby crying?" And though Adam could hear no childish voice, she went to see if all were right, and did not come back until long afterwards. He was thankful that she allowed all the children who were old enough to go to the Sunday school.

"It gets them nicely out of the way, Adam, and saves their clothes too, which is another good thing."

The best thing of all, the teaching and training, the feeding of those whom the risen Saviour called "My lambs," was entirely overlooked.

Once or twice Margaret accompanied Adam to church. But she seemed to take little interest in the service, and felt, as she said, "quite strange now." So, after having exhibited herself and her husband in their new apparel, and derived but little satisfaction therefrom, she decided to stay at home, as a regular thing, and rest on Sundays.

"I've got out of the way of going to church," she said. "I'm most comfortable at home, as a good wife should be, Adam," And Margaret laughed as if she had said something clever.

In her younger days, Margaret lived for some years in a country place, and in speaking of it she said: "There was some pleasure in going to church where you knew everybody. In a great place like Millborough you go and see only strange faces. Nobody speaks to you, or takes a bit of notice. I'm more comfortable at home. I've got into another rut now, and I mean to keep in. We've done very well for years without so much church or chapel going, and why need we bother our heads now? We're sober and honest, we pay our way and meddle with nobody. I've a quiet conscience, and I think you might have one, too, Adam, for any harm you do."

Adam could understand Margaret's feelings. They were just what his own had been a few short weeks before. But how was she to be awakened to her need of forgiveness, or the preciousness of the Saviour he had found, if she had no disturbing consciousness of sin?

The truth was, that Margaret felt very insignificant as one of a city congregation. What were her new garments to the strangers she saw there? Who noticed them or her? Why, in the country every second person would have had a word with her. Where was the good of going when there was nobody to meet?