“You would not speak so of our minister here, were you to hear him,” said the Indian. “I will not ask you to do what you dislike—but here is my house—those within will give you a hearty welcome.” An Indian woman, neatly dressed, with a bright, intelligent countenance, came forth with an infant in her arms, to meet Peter, several children following her, who clung around him with affectionate glee. A few words, which Peter addressed to his wife, made her come forward, and, with gentle kindness, assist the old man into the cottage, where the elder children eagerly brought a chair and placed him on it. One boy ran off with the horse to a stable close at hand, and another assisted his mother to prepare some food, and to place it on a table before his father and their guest.
The old man’s countenance exhibited pleased surprise. “Well! well! I shouldn’t have believed it if I had heard it,” he muttered. “I remember many a cottage in the old country that did not come up to this.” Many and many a cottage very far behind it, the old hunter might have said—and why? Because in them the blessed Gospel was not the rule of life; while in that of the Indian God’s law of love was the governing principle of all. Christ’s promised gift—the gift of gifts—rested on that humble abode of His faithful followers.
Several days passed by, and, to Peter’s regret, the old hunter showed no desire to converse with the devoted missionary minister of the settlement. He came more than once, but the old man, shut up within himself, seemed not to listen to anything he said. At length he recovered sufficiently to go out, and one evening, wandering forth through the village, he passed near the church. The sound of music reached his ears as he approached the sacred edifice; young voices are raised together in singing praises to God for His bounteous gifts bestowed on mankind:—
“Glory to Thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light;
Keep me, O keep me, King of Kings!
Beneath Thine own Almighty wings.”
The old hunter stopped to listen: slowly, and as if in awe, he draws near the open porch. Again he stops, listening still more earnestly. The young Christians within are singing in the Indian tongue. Closer he draws—his lips open—his voice joins in the melody. Words long, long forgotten, come unconsciously from his lips. They are the English words of that time-honoured hymn, often sung by children in the old country. Scarcely does his voice tremble: it sounds not like that of a man, but low and hushed, as it might have been when he first learned, from his long-lost mother, to lisp those words of praise. The music ceases. The old hunter bursts into tears—tears unchecked. Now he sinks on his knees, with hands uplifted—“Our Father, which art in Heaven,”—he is following the words of the missionary within. Are a mother’s earnest, ceaseless prayers heard—prayers uttered ere she left this world of trial? Yes; undoubtedly. But God’s ways are not man’s ways: though He tarry long, yet surely He will be found—aye, “Found of them who sought Him not.”
The children’s prayer meeting is over. The old man remains on his knees, with head bent down, and hands clasped, till the shades of evening close over him.
Chapter Four.
That was the turning-point; from that day Rob Nixon was an altered man. Of course, I do not mean that he at once found all his difficulties gone, his heart full of love, his prayers full of devotion; but from this time he felt, as he had never felt before, that he was “blind, and poor, and naked,” and far away from his home. His good and faithful friend, Peter, had given him wise and good advice, and had introduced him to the excellent minister of the settlement, Archdeacon Hunter, who soon became a daily visitor at Peter’s cottage.