Alfred then gave a full detail of his adventure.
"So then," said the old lady who had decided the question about the money, "while we were indulging in foolish conjectures, and idly jesting about this worthy man, he was engaged in the pious task of teaching young boys to read God's holy Word, and the eye of that God was upon us all. My dear young friends, this is a lesson which I trust you will never forget. I see by your looks that it has produced its effect, and given birth to serious thoughts in your hearts. God has caused your inconsiderate frolic to turn out well, and I suspect that this will be a happy day for the pupils of Gervais. The orphans will not want protectors. Now let us go to supper. Our friend Alfred must be hungry after his ride, and he has well earned his meal."
These words, together with the circumstances that gave rise to them, made a deep and salutary impression upon the hearers. The supper passed cheerfully, and the conversation turned upon what could best be done for the charcoal burner and the poor orphans. Many plans were proposed, and at last one was suggested which met with general approbation.
The young men, in consequence, all visited the mountain forest and the hut, which, under their exertions and superintendence, soon disappeared, and a comfortable châlet rose in its place, in which Gervais continued for many summers to pursue his useful labours, and more than one or two successive generations of boys owed their teaching to him, and their establishment in the world to the care of the patrons whom Alfred's visit had, by God's mercy, raised up for them.
FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT.
In a conversation with the late Richard de Courcy, John Berridge observed that he had, for many years, been preaching up self, but not Christ Jesus the Lord:—
I was a length of time in Arminian fetters. John and Charles Wesley got me into their cradle, and the devil kept rocking; but the Holy Spirit, in a most remarkable manner, delivered me from the sleep of sin by slaying the legality of my heart. I used to lament the unprofitableness of my preaching, and though I was a dealer in fire and brimstone, I could make no impression on my hearers.
One day, my man Thomas was sawing a sturdy piece of oak, and, as I was standing by him, he threw down his saw, and turning to me, said, "Master, I must give this job up; it is so knotty." I took up the saw, and said, "Tom, let me try"; and to work I went, and, being of muscular strength, I soon overcame the difficulty.
It occurred to me, when leaving the field, that my preaching resembled Tom's sawing, and these words were impressed on my mind—"Who art thou, O great mountain? before Zerubbabel thou shalt become a plain." I returned to my chamber, and poured out my heart to the Lord. A conviction arose in my mind that the work that God alone can perform I looked for the creature to produce. On reflection, I found the drift of my preaching for twenty years had been to tell the sinner to put the key into the lock of the door, so as to open it. I never thought of my Beloved putting His hand by the hole of the door, nor of applying to Him who has the keys of David, who "openeth, and no man shutteth; and shutteth, and no man openeth."