And what will you say when I tell you that there are seventy-five here now, with a prospect for a much larger number after the holidays?
WORK IN THE SOUTH.
During my visit North last summer a friend asked: “Haven’t you had enough of life and work in the South? Aren’t you ready to come back and take hold of the Home Missionary work again?” The friend looked so incredulous at my expressions of satisfaction, and even of desire to get back into the work again as soon as the extreme heat was over, it occurs to me that a little glimpse of the past few days of life and labor in this especial corner of the great field might convince a good many that the work is not only very hopeful, but also exceedingly interesting. Previous to my restful vacation North, I had not been able to visit our people in their homes, but now, with renewed strength, I ventured a long, rough walk, leaning on my husband’s arm, to the home of one of our women, who was very sick. Down a steep, long hill, over deep ravines worn by swift-running brooks, with slender poles thrown over to serve for bridges, up the long hill beyond, and we had reached the little house where the sick one lay. We cheered her as best we could with sympathy and comforting words, spreading out the little delicacies we had brought to tempt her appetite, admired the new baby, and won the hearts of the other little people standing shyly back with the gingersnaps we had brought for their special comfort.
Just as we were leaving we noticed a young girl crouching near the door. “My sister Mag,” said the sick one. We shook hands cordially, said a few pleasant words to her, then came back to our home tired, so very tired, that the rest of that day and the next, which was the Sabbath, was full of weariness and pain.
Did it pay? Yes, a hundred-fold! Early Monday morning there was a tap at the door, and there stood “Mag,” neatly dressed, with a smiling face, and a basket of vegetables for me. It flashed instantly over my mind what I had heard concerning her. She had once been a Christian, was still a member of our little church, but for a long time past had seemed possessed with every evil spirit of sin and mischief that could possibly find lodgment in her heart. Nothing could induce her to set her foot inside the church door. She invariably vanished whenever the minister tried to see her, and she had long ago been given up as an utterly hopeless case.
With a swift thought of prayer to Heaven for wisdom, I greeted her most cordially, made her feel quite at ease, then led her on carefully step by step, until, before she knew it, she was actually confessing her sins to me, and I was talking kindly but most faithfully to her. Still she stayed on, with a wistful look in her eyes, and the thought came: “God surely sent her to me! I’ll do all I can for her!”
Rising suddenly I closed the door, went directly to her and said, “Mag, I want to pray with you.” I put my arm around her, drew her to her knees beside me, and poured out my whole soul in prayer for that poor child of sin.
When we rose from our knees her eyes were tender and full of tears. She clasped my hand tightly for a moment and was gone.
I sought out other homes that very day, where God permitted me to carry little gleams of comfort and strength to sad hearts.