Craven’s skill was not very great, but he was gentle and patient, and contributed to relieve the sufferings of the injured man. Many hours passed before the surgeon, who had been sent for, arrived. In the mean time, Craven was as assiduous in his attention as he could have been had Mark been his dearest friend. The surgeon would not pronounce a decided opinion as to the case. Though the injuries were severe, if the man’s constitution was good he might recover, but if not, they would probably prove fatal. James, as a true friend, felt that it was his duty to tell Mark the truth.
The injured man groaned and muttered, “Yes, it was good; but I have done my best to destroy it.”
James spoke to him earnestly, and urged him, without delay, to make his peace with God, through the only means open to sinful man—the blood of His dear Son.
Mark listened, but a veil seemed on his understanding. “The fact is, old fellow, I haven’t thought about the matter, and I would rather not now,” he replied. “I don’t intend to die just yet, if I can help it; and who knows but what I may take up your notions of things, and become as good as you are? You mean me well, I know you do; but just let me alone.”
But a faithful man is faithful in all things. Arthur persevered, and at length a perceptible change took place in Mark’s manner when he spoke of sacred matters. The fear of death in him became great. More than once Arthur heard him muttering to himself those awful words: Hereafter! Eternity! At length the surgeon began to speak more favourably of Mark’s condition. He thought he would recover, he said, but would be a cripple to the end of his life. It was a heavy blow to Mark, and caused him many bitter tears, although it was evident that it was a wonderful relief to his mind to be told that God had given him time for repentance, and not cut him off in the midst of his sins. Arthur was by his bedside continually, and it filled him with deep joy to be able to believe that Mark was a changed man. He spoke penitently, sorrowfully, of the past, but cheerfully and hopefully of the future. One day, as he was lying on a sofa, to which he had been lifted from his bed, he said to Arthur, “I remember long ago, in the old country, Arthur, when you and I were discussing what was the object in life most worthy of our aim, I thought wealth, for the sake of spending it on pleasure—on myself. I could not make out exactly what your aim was; but you and your brothers seem to me to have got all you can desire to make life pleasant, while I have lost all I had, and gained nothing.”
“I held, I believe, that all we should aim at is to do our duty, and that openings for the employment of our energies will always be found for us,” answered Arthur. “We certainly have found this to be true in our own case.”
“Yes, that you have,” said Mark, without, however, any bitterness in his tone. “I should have called it luck once, but I won’t now. I will try, by God’s mercy, poor helpless creature that I am, to find some means of usefulness, that so I may not be a mere cumberer of the earth, but may repay in any way that may offer itself some little portion of the kindness of my benefactors.”
The Gilpins had truly been fruitful fig trees. All they undertook prospered.
Far and wide they were a blessing to their neighbours, for as such they looked upon all those—rich or poor—whom they could reach.
Through their efforts and instrumentality the glad tidings of great joy were carried to all around them, many of whom would never otherwise have heard the Gospel sound.