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ON his return home after these visits,
he placed Mary on Charlie's chair, beside himself, resolving, although the
other members of the class were still absent, that he would nevertheless
teach Mary as their representative,. as well as for her own sake. There
had come into his possession one of those small books of guidance and
instruction which many intellectual people—so called by men, but probably
not so recognised by the angels, who minister even to children—affect to
despise, just as they would despise any "still small voice" when compared
with the loud storm, the brilliant' fire, and the
powerful, rock-moving
earthquake. This book was but a number of texts, wisely arranged by a
bedridden Christian, for each day of the year, with one of special and
deeper import for its Sabbaths. The text for this Lord's Day was— "They
who know Thy name will put their trust in Thee;" and Adam said to Mary,
when she had repeated it as the lesson for the day, "Do ye understan' what
is meant, my deane, by trusting God?"
"I'm no' sure," she replied,
"But ye surely ken what it wad be to
trust me, Mary?" continued the Sergeant.
Mary looked up and smiled. She made no
reply, but was evidently puzzled by an attempt she was unconsciously
making to understand the possibility of want of trust in the Sergeant. So,
finding no response, he again asked, "Wad ye trust me, my wee woman?"
Mary seemed vexed, and said, "What
wrang hae I dune? Ye telt me aye to ca' you faither; I canna help it; sae
ye maunna be angry, foe I hae nae faither but you."
"Richt ! verra richt !" said the
Sergeant;' but, Mary dear, wad ye trust God as weel as me
"No!" said Mary, very decidedly.
"What for no'?" asked the Sergeant,
kindly.
"I'm awfu' frichtened for him," said
Mary.
"Why are ye frichtened for Him?"
asked Adam.
Mary seemed to be counting the buttons
on his coat.
"Tell me, bairn!" he continued.
"Because," said Mary, sorrowfully, yet
encouraged by his tone, "Mrs. Craigie aye telt me he wad sen' me to the
bad place; and when I got my fit burned she said that I wad be a' burnt
thegither some day, as I was a bad lassie; and I'm .sure I wasna' doing
her ony ill to mak' her say that."
"God will never," remarked the
Sergeant, reverently, "send ye to the bad place, unless ye gang yersel'."
"I'll never do that!" exclaimed Mary.
"I hope no', my lassie," said Adam;
"for I wish you no to be bad, but to be good; and to trust God is the way
to be good. Noo tell me, Mary, why wad ye trust me?"
"Because—jist because," said Mary,
looking up to his face, "ye're faither."
"Weel dune, Mary!" continued the
Sergeant "Noo tell me what's the beginning o' the Lords Prayer?"
"Our Faither which art in heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name. Thy—"
"That'll do, Mary," interrupted Adam.
But can ye tell me noo wha's yer Faither as weel as me?"
After a pause, Mary said, as if she had
made a discovery, "Our Faither in heaven!"
"That's a clever woman! Failher! that's
God's Name. And noo that ye ken his Name, ye maun trust Him fair mair than
me: for He lo'es ye mair than I can do, and is aye wi' ye; and never will
forsake ye, and can aye help ye; and He has said that when faither and
mither forsake you, He will tak' ye up. That will He, my lassie!"
"But," said Mary, "my mither and
faither, they tell me, dee'd wi' fever, but didna forsake me."
"That's true; but I mean, my bairn,"
said Adam, "that ye can never be an orphan lassie wi' God as yer Faither."
"But," said Mary, "for a' that, ye maun
aye be my faither as wee!. Oh! dinna sen' me back to Mrs. Craigie."
"Dinna fear, Mary," replied Adam; "but
maybe I maun hae to leave you. God may tak' me awa', and tak' yer mither
there awa' too; and then when ye're alane in the world, ye maun trust
God."
"I'll no' trust Him," replied Mary; "if
you and mither dees, I'll dee tae, and gang wi' ye." And she fairly broke
down, and clung to him as if he was about to leave her.
The Sergeant took Mary on his knee. "Be
cheerie, Mary—be cheerie!" he said. "If ye kent God, ye wad aye be cheerie,
my lassie. Mrs. Craigie has frichted ye."
"Ay, awfu'!" said Mary.
The Sergeant felt as if Mary had not
quite learned her lesson, and he continued:- "D'ye mind what I telt ye ae
nicht aboot mithers bringing their bairns to Christ?—and hoo some folk
that didna ken Him were for keeping them awa'?—and hoo Jesus was angry at
them?—and hoo the bairns gaed till Him—"
"And did they no' squeel wi' fricht?"
asked Mary.
"Did ye squeel, Mary," asked the
Sergeant, with a smile, "when I took ye into my arms?"
"No. What for should?" replied Mary.
"Aweel, my lassie," argued Adam, "why
do ye think that bairns like yersel' should be frichted to trust that same
Jesus wha was Himsel' a bairn and kens a bairn's heart? He wad be unco'
sorry, Mary, if ye didna trust Him, when He dee'd, as ye ken, on the cross
to save you and me and ilka body, and aye thinks aboot us and prays for
us."
Mary sighed, and crept closer to the
Sergeant.
Adam, taking her little hand in his,
said, "Mind what I tell ye, my bairn. Learn ye to speak aye to God and
tell Him yer heart in yer ain prayer, and never gang ony road He wadna
like; and stick till Him as ye wad to me if we were gaun ower the muir
thegither at nicht, or through a burn in a spate; and never, Mary, in the
hour o' distress think that He doesna care for you or has forgotten you.
For nae doot whan ye grow up to be big ye'll hae mony a distress, like
ither folk, ye dinna ken aboot yet."
Mary turned her face to his bosom as if
to sleep, but never was she less inclined to sleep.
The Sergeant added, with a sigh,
"Think, my wee deane, on what I tell you noo, after I'm dead and gane."
Katie, seated on the opposite side of
the fire, had been reading Boston's "Crook in the Lot." She seemed not to
have heard a word of her husband's lesson; but her ears drank in the whole
of it. The Sergeant had evidently forgotten her presence, so quiet was
she, and so absorbed was he with Mary, who was to him a new life—his own
child restored. But as Katie caught his last words, she put down her book,
and looking almost in anger at her husband—could she have felt jealous of
Mary?—said, "Tuts, Adam! what's the use o' pitting me and Mary aboot wi'
discoorsin' in that way! It's really no' fair. I declare ane wad think
that Andra Wilkie, the bederal, was diggin' yer grave! What pits deem' in
yer head e'enoo? An' you an auld sodger! Be cheerie yersel', man!:
"I daursay ye're richt, gudewife," said
Adam, with a smile, and rather a sheepish look, as if he had been caught
playing the woman with an unmanly expression of his feelings and dim
forebodings "Gie Mary her piece," he added, "and sen' her to her bed. She
has dune unco' weel." He passed into the bedroom, closing the door while
Katie was putting Mary to rest.
It was a peaceful night. He sat down
near the small window of the bedroom, from which was a pleasant peep of
trees, their underwood now hid in darkness, but their higher branches,
with every leafy twig, mingling with the blue of the starry sky, partially
illumined by a new moon. He had felt during these last days an increasing
dulness of spirits. But this evening he had been comforting himself while
comforting Mary; and remembering the lesson he had given her, he said to
himself, "Blessed are all they who put their trust in Thee." And somehow
there came into his mind pictures of the old war—times in which, amidst
the trampling of armed men and words of command, the sudden rush to the
charge or up the scaling-ladder, the roar and cries of combat, the volcano
of shot and shell bursting and filling the heavens with flame and smoke
and deadly missile, he had trusted God, and felt calm at his heart, like a
child in the arms of a loving parent. These pictures flashed on him but
for a second, yet they were sufficient to remind him of what God had ever
been to him, and to strengthen his faith in what He would ever be.
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