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Title: Taken or left

Author: Mrs. O. F. Walton

Release date: April 4, 2024 [eBook #73331]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Robert Carter and Brothers, 1885

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73331

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TAKEN OR LEFT ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

SALOME WOULD NOT PART WITH HER TESTAMENT.

TAKEN OR LEFT.

BY

MRS. O. F. WALTON

AUTHOR OF

"CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN," "A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES," ETC.

NEW YORK:

ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,

530 BROADWAY.

MRS. WALTON'S STORIES.

I. CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN; or, Home, Sweet Home.

18mo, cloth. 40 cents.

"One of the sweetest, simplest stories it has been our lot to read for a long time."—Vermont Chronicle.

II. SAVED AT SEA.

40 cents.

III. LITTLE FAITH; or, The Child of the Toy-Stall.

40 cents.

IV. CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN, SAVED AT SEA, and LITTLE FAITH. All in one volume, nine engravings.

$1.00.

V. A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES.

16mo. $1.00.

"A very touching and beautiful story, with a sweet and true lesson."—S. S. Times

VI. WAS I RIGHT?

16mo. $1.00.

"A capital book for the Sunday-school library, and for family or private reading."—Episcopal Methodist.

VII. OLIVE'S STORY.

16mo. 75 cents.

VIII. NOBODY LOVES ME.

18mo. 50 cents.

IX. NOBODY LOVES ME, and OLIVE'S STORY.

In one volume. 16mo. $1.00.

X. SHADOWS, SCENES AND INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AN OLD ARM-CHAIR.

$1.00.

XI. TAKEN OR LEFT.

18mo. 40 cents.

ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS

NEW YORK.

University Press:

JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. SALOME'S HOME

II. THE LOST MONEY

III. NOT TO BE TRUSTED

IV. A CHILDREN'S SERVICE

V. THE STORM IN THE NIGHT

VI. MY FIRST PLACE

VII. MASTER REGGIE

VIII. THERE IS NO TIME TO LOSE

IX. THE ROBBER'S CAVE

X. THE STORM

XI. A TERRIBLE TIME

XII. SALOME'S RECOVERY

XIII. GREAT SORROW

XIV. AFTER TWENTY YEARS

TAKEN OR LEFT.

CHAPTER I.

SALOME'S HOME.

MY mother had ten boys. It was no wonder that she often looked weary and out of spirits. It was no wonder that we seldom saw her in a cheerful and hopeful state of mind, for she was never strong, and she had to work and to toil as if she were.

I used to wish sometimes that our mother would laugh more and sigh less. I could not understand then what care and anxiety we all were to her. But I can see now that she was too tired to be very merry, and that it was not strange that she found plenty to make her sigh.

I can remember the pile of stockings which she had to mend every Saturday night—heels out, and toes out, and many a hole beside. Poor mother, she would turn them over with a sigh before she began! Then there were the endless patches to be put in trousers and knickerbockers, there was the constant struggle to keep us in clean collars, there was the heavy washing every Tuesday, and the still heavier ironing every Thursday. I can see now that our mother had a very hard life.

But I never, thought of it then. I did not know what it was to be tired; I was strong, and hearty, and happy, and I am afraid I gave my mother as much work to do as any of the rest did.

I was the third boy. John and James were older than I was, and Andrew, and Philip, and Bartholomew, and Matthew, and Thomas, and Simon, and Jude were younger. My own name was Peter. Father wished us all to be called after the Apostles.

"They had good old-fashioned names," he said.

My mother told me she was very thankful there were only ten of us; she was so much afraid he would call the next one Judas Iscariot, for he said it would be a pity to make a break, when they had kept it up so long.

Father had a large provision shop in the outskirts of the town; he sold groceries, and flour, and bacon, and cheese, and sausages, and butter, and eggs, and meat in tins, and countless other things. He was doing a good business, people said; but he did not grow rich. That was our fault more than his, I suppose. What could a man with ten boys do? Twenty pairs of new boots every year,—ten new suits,—three hundred and sixty-five breakfasts for ten hungry boys,—three hundred and sixty-five dinners for ten boys, still more hungry, at the end of three hours' schooling,—three hundred and sixty-five suppers for ten boys, perfectly ravenous with work, and play, and mischief; it would, indeed, have taken a very full till to have supplied all this, and left enough and to spare, so that our father could have reckoned himself a rich man.

Father was a very silent man; he never spoke two words where one would answer the same purpose. I think that was one reason why our mother was so careworn and depressed. She could never talk out her anxieties with him, but had to keep them all to herself. The only one in the house to whom my father talked was little Salome. She was the youngest, and the only girl, and everybody loved her. It was a wonder she was not spoiled, mother said; but I do not think any one could have spoiled Salome.

I was ten years old when she was born, and I shall never forget our excitement when father told us we had a little sister.

Father was quite talkative that day, and said to us, "Boys, you must be good to her all your lives; she ought to be well taken care of, with ten brothers to fight her battles."

I do not know what the others thought that day, but I know I made up my mind that nothing on earth should ever hurt my little sister so long as I could be near her to defend her. She was a very pretty child; she had dark brown hair, and dark eyes, with soft long eyelashes, and very rosy cheeks. She was far the best-looking of the family, every one said so. Mother told us she was like our grandmother, who had been quite a beauty, and had had her picture painted by some painter, who was lodging in the village where she lived.

When Salome was a baby, we used at first to quarrel about her a great deal. We all wanted to nurse her, and to play with her, and to carry her out; and she was like a favorite toy, which every one of us wanted at the same time. But after a few months had gone by, and Salome was no longer such a novelty to us, the other boys were not so anxious to take charge of her, and, indeed, sometimes grumbled when mother called them from their games to take care of their little sister. And so it came to pass that Salome and I became such great friends. I was never tired of her; it was never a trouble to me to nurse her and to look after her.

"Where are Peter and Salome?" mother would call out at meal-times, for she knew we were always together.

When I was at school, Salome would go into the shop to father, and stay with him while I was away. Not one of his ten boys had been allowed to go into the shop at a time when customers were expected; we were turned out directly if our heads were seen peeping in at the shop door. But Salome used to sit for hours perched on a sack of flour, looking at her picture-book, or watching the customers coming in and going out, from father's high stool behind the counter. But she was always standing at the shop door watching for me, when she knew that it was the time for me to come home, and she would run to meet me, and throw her arms round my neck with a shout of joy, and then jump on my back to be carried home again.

There was a church at the end of the street in which we lived, and my father went to it every Sunday morning. My mother very seldom went with him; she had got out of the way of going while the children were babies, and once having got out of the way, it was very hard for her to get into it again. But my father took his five eldest boys with him, and my mother got us ready, and brushed our hair, and pinned on our clean collars, and then stood on the doorstep watching us go down the street, with little Salome in her arms.

We had a pew of our own, quite at the end of the large church, and here we sat in a row, always in the same order, first James, then John, then myself, then Andrew, then Philip, then our father at the door of the pew. We sat pretty quietly while service went on; but it always seemed a very long and dull time to me. The old clergyman's voice sounded very far away, and I scarcely heard or cared to hear what he said. I was always glad when the last prayer came, and the blessing was pronounced, and the organ began to play, and we could go home again. I do not remember anything that I heard at church, until one Sunday, of which I shall soon have to write. After that Sunday, church never seemed quite the same place to me as it did in the days which went before.

But I must tell you first of another day, which came before that Sunday, for it is a day which I shall never forget as long as I live.

I think that it is the first day in my life which I can remember as being at all different from the rest. There was not much variety in our life, nor in our poor mother's work. We were always hungry, always noisy, and always wearing out our clothes. There was always some one ill, or some one naughty, or some one in mischief. There was the daily hurrying off to school, and the daily hurrying home again. There was the great getting up every morning, when all ten of us lost everything we wanted; and the great going to bed every night, when our poor mother used to look quite worn out and exhausted, long before we were all of us tucked up in bed.

But through all the weeks and months and years of Salome's babyhood, she was learning to love me more, and I was getting still more fond of her. And the day which I shall never forget, and of which I must now write, was Salome's fourth birthday.

CHAPTER II.

THE LOST MONEY.

YES, it was Salome's birthday, I remember that quite well; it was so strange that it should happen on that day, when we were all so happy and in such good spirits. It was strange that a day which began so brightly should end, at least for me, so sorrowfully.

I was awake as soon as it was light that morning, and I crept out of bed to look at Salome. She was sleeping in a little cot near me, for Bartholomew and Jude were constantly having attacks of croup, and my mother was obliged to have them in her room, lest they should be taken ill in the night, and she should not be near them. So she let me take care of Salome, and sometimes in the night she would wake, and put her little hand through the bars of her cot, that I might hold it in mine till she fell asleep again.

The bright morning sunshine was streaming through a hole in the shutter, and fell on Salome's face as she lay asleep. It made her look very pretty, I thought, and very much like the picture of a little angel which was on one of our Christmas cards. Beside her bed was my present for her, laid on a chair, that she might find it as soon as she woke. It was a wax doll. I had saved up my money for a long time to buy it, and it seemed as if Salome's birthday would never come, I had been waiting for it so long.

But it had come at last, and it was a bright beautiful day, just as I had so often hoped it might be. I was very impatient for Salome to wake; but I did not like to disturb her. However, after a time, Simon woke, and jumped out of bed, when he caught sight of the doll, and then Salome opened her eyes and saw it too. I shall never forget how pleased she was, nor how she threw her arms round my neck, and called me her own dear Peter.

SHE CALLED ME HER OWN DEAR PETER.

Then the others woke, and every one of them had a present for Salome; even little Jude had a packet of sweets for her, which he had bought with his own money.

It was hard work to leave Salome when school-time came, and we went off very reluctantly. But father would not hear of our having a holiday, and I think mother was rather glad that he would not. Our holidays were no holidays for her. Poor mother, they were her hardest days! So we kissed Salome and set off for school—Andrew, and Philip, and Bartholomew, Matthew, and Thomas, and Simon, and myself. James helped father in the shop now, for he was sixteen, and thought himself quite a man. John was apprenticed to a bookbinder in the town; but I was still at school.

I was in the first class—the sixth standard it would be called now; but there were no such things as standards in those days. I was old enough to leave school, mother said. A lad of fourteen ought to be earning his own bread, she told my father again and again, and father always nodded his head in assent; but he could not decide what was to be done with me. I sometimes wished he would make up his mind, and wondered why it was such a difficult matter to decide.

But I found out afterwards that our father's mind was never made up in a hurry. Mother told us once that father had taken five years to consider whether he should ask her to be his wife or not. So I need not have been surprised that he could not settle in a hurry what to do with his boys. Only I wondered sometimes, if the third boy's future was so hard to plan out, and took so many months to settle, what he would do, and how many years it would take him to decide what was to be done with his tenth boy, when the time arrived for little Jude to be started in life!

And so it came to pass that I was the eldest boy in the school. We did not go to the school nearest to our house, which would have been far more convenient, but we went to the same school father had attended when he was a boy, and which was about a mile farther into the town. It was a long walk for us, and on wet days we grumbled a good deal at having to go so far; but father knew the master well, and did not like us to leave. He was the son of father's old master, and was a really good teacher, and got us on well.

The lessons seemed very long and tedious that morning, for I was longing to be at home again with Salome. As soon as school was over, I caught up my cape and ran down the street. But I had not gone far, when I heard the master's voice calling me. I ran back to see what he wanted. He was holding a paper in his hand.

"Here, Peter," he said, "you're a trustworthy lad! I want you to do a bit of business for me. Isn't Trafalgar Street somewhere up your way?"

I told him it was only five minutes' walk from our house.

"I thought so," he said; "I want you to pay this bill for me. Do you know Betson's shop in Trafalgar Street? He is a seed merchant."

I knew it quite well.

"My wife owes him five shillings," he said; "here is the money and the bill. Get it receipted, and bring it back to me to-morrow. You need not go till after school this afternoon; you will be pressed for time now, and you must not lose your dinner. Thank you, Peter," he said, as I told him I would be sure to do it; "it will save me a long walk!"

I was very much pleased that he trusted me, and walked along with an important air. I carried the bill in one hand, and the five shillings in the other. I should have put it in my pocket, but I had stuffed it so full of nuts for Salome, which I had bought for her on my way to school, that it would hold nothing more. I thought I would put the money and bill safely away as soon as I got home.

But I had not gone much farther when Tom Walsh, who was in the same class I was, came softly up behind me, and, thinking he would give me a start, jumped suddenly on my back. I did not hear him coming, and the jerk he gave me sent the money out of my hand, and it rolled along the pavement. Tom ran away, laughing, and left me to pick it up, which I thought was very rude and unkind. The shillings rolled in all directions. I ran after than as quickly as I could, and picked them up but to my horror and dismay I discovered, when I came to count them, that I had only found four of them.

Where could the other shilling be? What had become of it? I hunted for it all over. I looked on the pavement, in the gutter, on the road, everywhere; but it was nowhere to be seen. There was an iron grating over the drain, close by; it must have rolled in there. If so, it was gone forever, and it was of no use hunting any more. I turned away from the place in despair.

"What shall I do?" I said to myself.

I had not a penny in the world. We did not get much pocket-money, and all my little hoard of savings had been spent on Salome's birthday present.

I knew what I ought to do. I ought to tell my father of my loss, and ask him to give me another shilling. But I felt very much afraid to do this, for the thing which made him most angry was any kind of carelessness. If we broke anything, or tore anything, or lost anything, he always punished us very severely. And yet I could not bear the thought of the disgrace and humiliation of having to go back to school, and confess my loss to my master. He would never trust me again, and I should be filled with shame and confusion if I had to acknowledge my carelessness before my companions.

What was to be done? My conscience told me that I ought to tell my mother about it when I got in; but I did not want to spoil Salome's birthday, and there she was at the shop door looking out for me.

I wrapped up the four remaining shillings in the bill, gave her the nuts out of my pocket, and put the bill and money in their place.

Salome was so merry and happy, I could not bear to make her cry on her birthday, and I knew she would cry if father was angry with me. So I resolved to say nothing about my loss to any one at least, not until the evening.

CHAPTER III.

NOT TO BE TRUSTED.

I WENT to school as usual that afternoon, and I felt very uncomfortable each time the master came to look at my sum or at my copy. I was afraid he might ask me some question about the bill; but he never mentioned it, and at length the weary school-time was done, and I was free again.

I went home very slowly, saying over and over to myself, "What shall I do?"

But I saw no way out of my trouble. There were only two ways, it seemed to me, which it was possible for me to take, either to tell father or my master; and I could not make up my mind to do either.

I resolved at last not to spoil Salome's birthday, but to forget my loss as far as I could till the next day. It would be time enough then to decide which was least hard, to tell my father or to tell my master. Meanwhile I would enjoy myself, and be as merry as a lark.

Mother had made a large cake for tea, and she let Salome cut the first slice. We all talked very loudly, and laughed a great deal; but though I joined with the others in their fun, I was thinking all the time of the lost shilling. It had been easy to say I would be merry; it was not so easy to carry it out.

After tea we helped mother to clear away the tea-things, and then she moved the table out of the way, and we played at blindman's buff. I can remember now what a noise there was, and how much Salome seemed to enjoy it. But it was a close, hot night, and when we had been playing for a long time she turned very tired, and was glad to jump on father's knee when he came in from shutting up the shop, and sit still for a little time, till mother was ready to put her to bed.

Father put his hand in his pocket, and took out a handful of money for Salome to spin on the table. He had just cleared the till, and had brought the money in with him, that he might put it in his cashbox upstairs when he went to bed. Salome laughed very much at the spinning half-crowns and shillings and pence; and she and father tried how many they could keep going at the same time. Sometimes two or three of them spun over on the floor, and then we had a great hunt for them; and once Jude, while hunting for a penny, knocked against the table, and sent at least a dozen pieces on the floor.

When mother came back for Salome, father gathered up his money, and put it in his pocket again.

"Are you sure you have got it all, John?" she said. "Hadn't you better count it?"

"I don't know how much there was," father said. "I never count it till I go upstairs; it's just what I've taken to-day; but if we've left any on the floor, it will turn up to-morrow when you are sweeping."

Mother said no more, but took Salome upstairs, and put her to bed. She was asleep when I went to bed, and so was Simon. I had time now to think of my trouble, and of what I should do. I could not now forget it. I must settle what was to be done, for the bill must be paid before school-time the next morning. I was very unhappy; I could not bear to think that the master would call me untrustworthy and careless, and I made up my mind at last to tell my father in the morning, and to beg him to give me a shilling to make up the amount.

It was a very hot night; there did not seem to be a breath of air. I tossed restlessly on my bed; but I could not sleep. Salome tossed about also, and, after a time, she woke, sat up in bed, and asked me for a drink of water. There was no water in the bedroom, so I lighted a candle, and went downstairs to get some for her.

I had to pass through the kitchen to get to the pump in the little scullery beyond. As I opened the scullery door, the light of my candle fell on something shining on the floor, and I stooped down to see what it was.

It was a shilling! It must have rolled there when Salome was spinning the money, and, having just gone under the door, we had not seen it. I picked it up, and at that moment the Tempter put a wicked thought in my mind. I know now that it came from him, though I did not know it then.

Why should I not take this shilling to make up for the one I had lost? Father would never know; he had no idea how much money he had taken that day; he kept no account of ready money taken over the counter. He would never find out that he was a shilling short. And after all, I thought he would not lose by it. If I told him in the morning of my loss, he would be obliged to give me a shilling, and if I took this one, it would come to just the same thing.

So I carried the shilling upstairs, and wrapped it up in the bill with the four shillings the master had given me. And the next morning I paid Betson, and handed the receipt to my master.

"Thank you, Peter," he said; "I knew you were a lad to be trusted!"

Oh, how those words hurt me! A lad to be trusted; so he thought; but I knew that I was a thief. Yes, a thief!

I had stolen a shilling—conscience showed me that very plainly now. It had not seemed at all like that the night before, when I was first tempted to take it; but now that the deed was done, I saw it in its true light. But Satan often treats us in that way. He wants us to sin, but he covers the sin over with a pretty covering, and tries to persuade us that he is asking us to do a very harmless thing. But when once we have done it, he takes off the covering, and we see the sin in all its ugliness. And Satan does not mind that; for once done, the deed cannot be undone.

And so for a few days I was very wretched and miserable. But as time went by, and no one said anything about the bill, but all went on just as usual, I began to forget what I had done—at least, it did not trouble me so much. I had my lessons to learn, and Salome to take care of, and plenty of things to take up my time and thoughts. Perhaps after all I had not done such a very wicked thing, I said to myself. Anyhow, I should never hear of the matter again, and what was past could not be undone.

So I argued with my conscience; but at night, if I ever happened to wake when the others were asleep, my conscience was sure to wake too, and would not be so easily silenced.

It is dreadful to have a secret sin, which will come to your mind in the dark hours; it is very terrible to have to fight away an uneasy, troubled thought, to have to drown the voice of an accusing conscience.

Yet each week the sin seemed further away, the thought of it came less into my mind, and the voice of conscience was less loud. At length the time came when it hardly ever entered my mind, and conscience was quite silent.

But all the time my sin was written down in two books, God's book and my book—the book of God's remembrance, and the book of my remembrance. God had not forgotten it, and the day was coming when He would remind me of it. I had not really forgotten it, and the day was coming when it would be brought before me as clearly as on the very night it was committed.

And that day, too, was Salome's birthday.

CHAPTER IV.

A CHILDREN'S SERVICE.

IT was Salome's fifth birthday. A whole year had passed since I had taken the shilling, and a year seemed a very, very long time to me in those days. I had left school, and had gone to be Betson's errand boy, until father could decide what trade he meant me to follow. I drove a light cart for Betson, and carried out all his parcels, and swept out his shop, and made myself generally useful to him. I was at Betson's early in the morning, and came home quite late in the evening. Betson was doing a large trade, and I had little spare time.

I was very glad that that year happened to be Leap year, and that therefore Salome's birthday was on Sunday, instead of Saturday. I could be with her the whole day.

I had bought a Testament for her birthday present, for I had taught her to read, and she was getting to read very nicely. The Testament had gilt edges, and I had bought several bright-colored markers for it. I gave it to Salome as soon as she woke, and she was very much pleased with it. She opened it at once, and read the first verse which caught her eye:

"'Then shall two be in the field; the one shall be taken, and the other left.'"

I was very proud of my scholar, and was much pleased that she could read every word of it without a mistake. But Salome looked up at me with a puzzled expression on her face.

"Taken where, Peter?" she asked.

"I don't know, Salome," I said; "I'll find you an easier piece," and I turned to the parable of the ten virgins in the next chapter.

But Salome had not forgotten the verse which I could not explain to her.

"Father," she said at breakfast, "where was the man in the field taken to?"

Father looked at her in astonishment, and mother said—

"Whatever has the child got in her head now?"

"She read it in her Testament this morning," I said.

"Oh! Then, Peter will tell you," said mother; "he has been to school since I have!"

"Peter doesn't know," said Salome, as she went on with her breakfast.

Salome's fourth birthday had been a hot day, but Salome's fifth birthday was, I think, the hottest day I have ever known. It was a close, stifling heat, and the church that morning was like an oven.

Bartholomew fell fast asleep, and snored so loudly, that an old gentleman in the pew before us turned round and poked him with his umbrella. We were all of us very sleepy, and even father nodded a good deal in the sermon. I thought every one and everything in church seemed sleepy that day. The organ played slow and sleepy tunes, the choir sang in sleepy voices, the old clergyman's voice sounded like a voice in a dream, even the flies that were going hither and thither in the church went sleepily on their way, and crawled lazily over the prayer-books and hymn-books. I remember nothing about the service, not even the text of the sermon. The only thing which caught my attention was a notice, which was given out just before the last hymn—

"A children's service will be held in this church, at five o'clock this afternoon."

"I will bring Salome," I said to myself.

So at five o'clock mother dressed Salome in her best clothes, and we set off together. She had never been to church before, and she was in high spirits.

It was a short service, with plenty of singing, and Salome enjoyed it very much.

And then came the sermon. I had never seen the preacher before, nor do I now remember what he was like. But I remember his sermon, and I shall never forget it as long as I live.

I took Salome on my knee, and told her to listen when the sermon began, and I can see now her little earnest face, as she fixed her eyes on the clergyman. She had brought her Testament with her, for she would not part with it at all that day, and I turned to the text when the clergyman gave it out—Matthew xxiv. 40.

How Salome looked up at me when she saw what it was!

"One shall be taken, and the other left."

"Taken where?" said the clergyman. "And left where?"

"That's just what we want to know!" whispered Salome to me.

"What is the greatest sight you have ever seen?" the clergyman went on. "Perhaps some of you have seen the Queen. If we knew the Queen was coming to our town, what an excitement and stir there would be in the place! What grand preparations would be made! And when she came, what a splendid sight it would be! You would all want to see the procession go by, and try to get to a good place, where you might see all that was to be seen. But, my young friends, you and I will see a far more glorious sight than that; we shall see the grandest sight that this world has ever seen; we shall see the Lord Jesus, the King of kings, coming in His glory!

"As the Lord sat on the Mount of Olives one day, He told His disciples a great deal about His second coming. He told them that on the day He shall come all will be going on just as usual; that day will be exactly like any other day.

"Half the world will be awake when Jesus comes. Trains will be starting just as usual, shops will be open, people will be buying and selling, and making money. The children will go to school just as on any other day; they will play at cricket, or marbles, or leap-frog, just as you did yesterday, and will do to-morrow. Your fathers will go to their work, your mothers will wash, or iron, or bake, and you will be talking, and laughing, and playing, and quarrelling, just as usual. In one house there will be a wedding that day, in another house there will be a funeral. People will stand at their doors and talk, and gossip, and make mischief, just as you see them every day of your life.

"The other half of the world will be asleep when Jesus comes. The children will be in their little cots, and the fathers and mothers will be sleeping too. Here and there will be a light burning, where a sick one is tossing on his bed, or a baby is keeping its mother awake. The policeman will be pacing up and down the empty street, the gamekeeper will be watching in the lonely wood, the night watchman will be keeping guard in the deserted warehouse. But nearly all in that part of the world will be fast asleep, little dreaming of what is coming.

"Jesus told His disciples also how He will come—suddenly, unexpectedly, like a flash of lightning, seen all over the world at once. The shopman will run to his door, the workman will stop with his tool in his hand, the mother will pause in her sweeping, the friends will stop in the midst of their chat, the children will make a break in their lessons, those who are in bed will wake up with the sudden light and run to their windows; all will stand gazing with wonder and astonishment into the sky.

"Jesus told His disciples, too, what will happen when He comes. Then it is that one shall be taken, and another left.

"God's holy angels will fly all over the world, to gather together His own people, all who love Him, all who have been washed in His blood. They will be brought from all countries, from the north, from the south, from the east, and from the west. They will be brought from all kinds of places, the mother from her home, the servant from her kitchen, the sailor from the ship, the collier from the mine, the farmer from his field, the tradesman from his shop. They will be found at all kinds of work, some will be asleep and some awake, some will be busy and some will be idle. Some of you, children, will be hard at work, some will be playing in the garden behind the house, some will be walking idly down the street. But all who love Jesus will be taken, taken by the angels, taken to live with Him in glory.

"There will be a great parting in that day, a great separation, for one shall be taken, and the other left.

"Two children will be in the same class that day: one shall be taken, and the other left. Two boys will be playing marbles together: one shall be taken, and the other left. Two girls will be sitting side by side sewing: one shall be taken, and the other left. Two of you, it may be, will be in this very church together, both in one pew: one shall be taken, and the other left."

"That's Salome and me," I said to myself; "she would be taken, and I should be left."

"Oh, how happy to be taken," he went on; "how terrible to be left, left to all the dreadful things coming on the earth, seeing those we know and those we love taken, and finding ourselves left behind! Which of you, my dear young friends, will be taken? Which will be left?

"Only white souls will be taken in that day—those made white in the blood of Jesus. Is your soul white, or is it covered with dirty marks, black, ugly stains?

"You know what makes our souls dirty—not mud or dust; these can only dirty our bodies. It is sin which defiles our souls.

"What about your soul?

"Ah, I know," he said, and I thought he looked at me as he said it; "I know what you are thinking of now. It happened a long time ago, but you have not forgotten it, some black sin; was it a lie, or a deceit, or a bad word? I don't know what it was; but I do know that if that sin is unforgiven, you will be left behind—left behind."

Instantly there flashed into my mind the remembrance of Salome's fourth birthday and the stolen shilling.

CHAPTER V.

THE STORM IN THE NIGHT.

I HEARD no more of the sermon; I was trembling from head to foot.

"Are you cold, Peter?" Salome said to me, as we were coming out. "You do shake so!"

"You would be left behind." Those words were ringing in my ears; I could not forget them. God's Holy Spirit whispered them to me over and over again.

"What is the matter with Peter?" said mother at tea.

"He has lost his tongue, I think," said James.

But I made no answer. I wondered how soon Jesus would come. The clergyman had said He might come at any time; perhaps it would be that very night!

I went to bed as early as possible, for I wanted to be alone. The heat, which had been very great during the day, seemed to increase as night came on. I opened the window before I went to bed; all was quite still outside, there was not a breath of air, and very few people were about in the street.

I got into bed; but for a long time I could not sleep. The one terrible thought, that I should be left behind, kept me awake, and the stolen shilling seemed like a heavy weight pressing on my heart. At last, after tossing about for a long time, I fell into a troubled sleep.

I was wakened suddenly by a loud crashing noise, and I thought at first that the roof was falling on our heads. I sat up in bed in great alarm, and at that moment there came a bright flash of light, which showed me everything in the room quite clearly. Salome was sitting up in her cot, and she called out:

"Peter, did you see it? Just as he told us at church! I thought Jesus would come to-night! How soon will the angels come for us, Peter?"

But now came another long peal of thunder, and Salome trembled.

"Is that God talking, Peter?" she whispered, in a very solemn voice.

But I was too frightened to answer her. "One shall be taken, and another left," I said to myself. "Salome taken—Peter left!"

"Oh, Salome," I said at last, as I burst into tears, "it's only a thunderstorm, I think; but if it was Jesus coming in the sky, Salome, you would be taken, and I should be left!"

"Oh! No, no," said Salome; "you mustn't be left, Peter; they must take you, too!" And she clung to me more and more tightly, as flash after flash and peal after peal made us start and tremble.

But at length it was all over, and there came a downpour of rain, which cooled the hot air, and fell on the thirsty garden and the dusty street.

"Jesus hasn't come to-night, Salome," I said; "it's only a thunderstorm."

"I am glad He hasn't come, Peter," Salome said, "if you would be left behind."

And then she laid her tired head on the pillow, and was soon fast asleep again.

But there was no more sleep for me that night. I could not rest now until I knew that my sin was taken away. I got out of bed when all the others had fallen asleep, and prayed to God to forgive me, for the sake of the Lord Jesus. I asked Him to wash each black mark of sin off my soul, and especially that sin of a year ago, which now troubled me so much.

I prayed very earnestly, and I knew that God was listening, and was answering my prayer. Now I felt I could not be happy till I had confessed my theft to my father.

I waited anxiously till it was light, and I heard him getting up. Father was always downstairs before any of us. I got out of bed, and taking, a shilling from my pocket, for I had more pocket-money than I had a year ago, I slipped quietly downstairs after him. He started when he turned round and saw me following him into the shop.

"Well?" he said, as he looked at me.

"Father," I began, "I want to tell you something."

He did not speak, but waited for me to go on.

"Do you remember spinning money with Salome on her last birthday, father?"

He nodded his head for answer.

I told him then how I had taken the shilling, what a dreadful temptation it had been to me, because I wanted so much to make up the missing shilling for the master's bill, but did not like to ask him to give me one. But I told him, too, that I saw how wrong I had been, that I had asked God to forgive me, and that I hoped he would forgive me, too, and would take the shilling I had brought for him, and put it in the till in the place of the one I had stolen.

Father stood looking at me for a long time without speaking a word. Then he put his hand on my shoulder, and said:

"Spoken like a man, Peter. Keep out of crooked paths, my lad."

Then he left me to take down the shutters, and I crept upstairs again, feeling much happier than I had done before.

It was that very Monday morning, that, as I came in from Betson's to get my dinner, I found a man whom I had never seen before talking to my father in the shop. He was a hearty man, stout and rosy, and had a pleasant, cheerful way of speaking, which had the same effect on me as a fresh, bracing wind has; it stirred me up, and made me feel in good spirits. I heard his cheerful voice before I came in at the shop door, for he spoke very loudly. He was saying to my father:

"Well, it's a good chance, this is—and I'm telling you the truth when I says so—and the missus and me will look after him, we will; so you'd better let him come."

I was passing through the shop, not daring to stay without leave, though I longed to know what all this was about, when, as I was going behind the counter, my father beckoned to me to stay, and then pointed at me, and looked at the hearty man.

The hearty man said at once, "Ah! That's him, is it? Well, he's a likely lad, he is; would you call him strong now?"

My father nodded.

"Fond of work?" asked the hearty man.

My father nodded again.

"Does what he's told?" asked the hearty man.

My father nodded a third time.

"How old is he?" asked the man.

A nod would not do this time, so my father was obliged to say the single word "Fifteen."

"All right!" said the hearty man. "Well, I tell you it's a good thing for him, this is; a capital chance; it is indeed!"

But my father did not speak; it really seemed a punishment to him to have to open his lips.

The hearty man grew impatient with him.

"Come now, John," he said at last, "you and me has known each other a many years now, and you're a silent man, you are. But I'm in a particular hurry this morning, so if your tongue can be got to speak anyways, by any extra screw up, or by any means whatsoever, as you may be accustomed to use on them rare occasions when it does do you a service, please to let a fellow know what your intentions in this same matter may be."

To which my father answered in the few words, "When shall he come?"

"Well, now," said the hearty man, "we're getting to the point, we are; let him come on Monday!"

To which my father answered by a mournful shake of the head, and the one word "Clothes."

"Oh, never bother your head about clothes," said the man, "he'll do well enough. We'll rig him up when he gets there, we will; so I'll look for the lad turning up at our place on Monday without fail. And now good-day to you, John, for I must be off!"

My father made a mighty effort as he was going, and screwed up his tongue with such effect that it spoke the three words, "Thank you, Bagot," as the hearty man went out at the door.

Where I was going on Monday, or what I was going to be, I had not the remotest idea, nor did my father seem inclined to tell me, for, as soon as the man was gone, he took up his ledger, and waved me off with his hand, and I was obliged to hurry away to my dinner.

CHAPTER VI.

MY FIRST PLACE.

I WENT back to Betson's that afternoon with no further information about what was going to happen to me; but at night, when I was getting my supper, my mother told me that I was going to be "the boy" at a Mrs. Tremayne's, somewhere in the country, at a place called Grassbourne. I was to clean the boots and shoes and knives, and make myself generally useful in the house; and I was also to work in the garden, and look after the pony. The hearty man, my mother told me, was Mrs. Tremayne's gardener, and lived in a cottage close to her house. He had been one of my father's schoolfellows; but he had not seen him for a long time. More than this my mother could not tell me.

Those last days at home were very hard ones for my poor mother. She looked more overdone and depressed than before. There was so much mending to be done to jackets and socks; there were two new shirts to be made, and a good pile of things to be washed and ironed, and everything must be finished and ready before Monday afternoon, when I was to set forth for my new home.

Salome clung to me very much that last week; she could not bear the idea of my going away, and cried so much that the boys laughed at her, and even my mother told her "she need not make that fuss; Peter would come back again some day, no doubt!"

I felt very much saying good-by to them all; they stood at the door and watched me go, and Salome waved her pocket-handkerchief, and sobbed out:

"Good-by, Peter, dear, dear Peter."

And I saw mother turning away, wiping her eyes with her apron, and I am not ashamed to say that I shed a few tears too.

But when I was in the train my spirits revived, and I began to look out for Calvington station, where my father had told me to be sure and get out.

The hearty man, or as I must now call him Mr. Bagot, was there to meet me, and I soon found myself sitting beside him in a light spring-cart, driving six miles to my new home.

"Nice pony this is!" said Bagot. "We've had her it will be three years now, and she goes like a house on fire, Bessie does! She never needs the whip, she don't. Bless her!"

After a pleasant drive down country lanes, and past country cottages, up hill and down hill, by the side of a river, through a beautiful copse wood, and over an ancient bridge, we came in sight of Mrs. Tremayne's house.

It was a tall white house, standing on the side of a hill, with a pretty little avenue of beeches and oaks leading up to it. We drove a short way up this carriage-drive, and then we turned off to the right, and stopped before a cottage, covered all over with a lovely creeper, which was a mass of bright scarlet flowers, and standing in a small garden, full of pansies, and fuchsias, and holly-hocks, and sweet-williams, and all kinds of country flowers. Here I was to live with Bagot and his wife; and I thought myself a very fortunate boy.

Mrs. Bagot gave me a warm welcome. She was a comfortable rosy woman, as cheery and hearty as her husband, though perhaps she did not talk quite so much.

"Me and Mrs. Bagot haven't got no olive-branches of our own, we haven't; so you'll have to be son and daughter all in one, you will, Peter," said Bagot, as we went into the neat, cosey kitchen. "And now come your way and get your tea; you'll be hungry, you will. Here's the missus' best ham, and the missus' freshest eggs, and the missus' primest cakes! We'll get to work at once, old wife; maybe our lady will be wanting to see the lad when she's had her dinner. So pour away, old woman; we'll waste no time, we won't."

I did full justice to Mrs. Bagot's ham and eggs and cakes, and then we drew our chairs near the fire, and Bagot smoked his pipe and talked to me, while Mrs. Bagot cleared away the tea-things, and washed them up in the little pantry opening out of the kitchen.

"Do you see that, Peter?" said Bagot, pointing to a card over the chimney-piece, in a pretty Oxford frame. "That's our motto, that is! All in this place have to try to walk after them there rules. The lady gave them to us; she has them up in her room, too. She'll give you them, I shouldn't wonder, when she sees you. Dear me! I wouldn't be without them for a sight of money, I wouldn't. You read them, and see what you think of them."

RULES FOR TO-DAY.

Do nothing that you would not like to be doing when Jesus comes.

Go to no place where you would not like to be found when Jesus comes.

Say nothing that you would not like to be saying when Jesus comes.

THE LORD IS AT HAND!

"I like them very much," I said, when I had read them, and I thought of the sermon I had heard the Sunday before, and of Salome's text.

"Ay! They're good rules, them are," he said. "The missus and me reads them every morning, for we never know, Peter," he said, in a solemn voice, "which day He may come."

"Peter, have you any sort of an idea what an angel's like?"' he said, turning round on me suddenly.

I thought of the Christmas card, and of Salome, and said I wasn't sure.

"You'll be sure to-night then," he said, "as sure as your name's Peter, you will."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Why," he said, "wait till you've seen our lady, and you'll know what an angel's like, and no mistake."

"Is she so beautiful?" I asked.

"Beautiful!" he repeated. "You never saw such a face in your life, you never did. Misses," he called out to his wife, who was busy in the pantry, "is our lady beautiful? What do you say?"

"Ay, you're right there, Jem; she's beautiful, if anybody ever was beautiful!"

"And is she good, old woman?" asked her husband.

"Ay, Jem, you're right again; she's good, sure enough!"

"And kind?" asked her husband. "Come, old woman, is she kind?"

"Ay, Jem, I wouldn't be the one to say she isn't kind," said his wife; "she's been that to you and me, Jem, and the times can't be counted!"

"Well, then!" said Bagot, with an air of triumph, as if he were collecting evidence for the county court, "if she's beautiful and good and kind, my lad, it stands to reason that she's an angel, she is, and so I always have said she was, and always will say."

"Has she any children?" I asked.

"Only one," he said, sadly; "it's a sorrowful story, hers is. She has been through deep waters, she has; but the Lord has been with her!"

I waited for him to go on, and presently he did.

"She was only a wife for one year," he said, "and then her husband died; he was only ill a few days. Poor lady, it nearly broke her heart, it did, for it was just wrapped up in him. And then, only a few weeks after that, her baby was born, and then she wrapped up her heart in him, she did. She just lived for her baby. But when Master Reggie (that's what we call him) was only a few months old, a careless servant girl let him fall, and injured his back, and he'll never be able to walk, the doctor says. Ay, but he's the dearest lamb that ever was, he is!"

"How old is he?" I asked.

"Five years old," said Bagot. "It was his birthday last Sunday, it was, and his mother gave him a Bible, and he sent for me up to see it. Bless him, he's mighty fond of me. You'll maybe see him this evening; and if you're a good lad, and careful, our lady will let you take him out in his carriage, I shouldn't wonder."

"Poor lady, she has had trouble!" I said.

"Ay, a big heap of it," he answered; "but it's the trouble that drove her to the Lord. She didn't love Him before, so she says. And folks say she was proud and cold in those days. I didn't know her then, and I don't know if I can bring myself to believe it. She isn't cold and hard now, that I know; but it makes a vast change when a body comes to the Lord, it does; so there's no saying!"

"Will she get married again, do you think?" I asked.

"Married again!" says Bagot, starting from his seat, and looking at me quite fiercely. "Married again! If our lady gets married again, Peter, I shall look for the sun to fall from the sky, and yon big hill to tumble into the valley, and my old woman to run away from me!"

Which last, of all impossible things, seemed to him the most impossible.

"She loved her husband so much, then," I said.

"Loved him," repeated Bagot, "she loves him, loves him now. She does not think of him as dead, but as living—living with the Lord, and any day the Lord may come and bring him to meet her. That's the hope she lives on, that is!"

I felt very anxious after hearing this to see my mistress and the little crippled boy, who was just the same age, and had the very same birthday, as our little Salome.

CHAPTER VII.

MASTER REGGIE.

THAT evening, about seven o'clock, my mistress sent for me. I was shown into a beautiful room, with a carpet as soft as velvet, and all round the room there were lovely pictures, and photographs, and vases of hothouse flowers, and so many pretty and charming things, that I felt as if it was a strange dream that I was there, and that it could not be true.

Mrs. Tremayne was as beautiful and as good and as kind as Bagot had described her. She was sitting by the fire with her work when I went in, and on the other side of the fire, lying on a spring sofa, was the thinnest, whitest little boy I have ever seen. He looked just like a tiny skeleton dressed up in clothes, but, though his face was so pale and worn, it was a very beautiful little face, for he had large lovely eyes, that seemed as if they saw far more than our eyes see; they seemed to be looking at something very far away.

"Dear mother," he said, in a little, thin, high-pitched voice, "what is that boy's name?"

"It is Peter," said his mother; "he has come to live in Bagot's cottage."

"Oh! Is it Peter?" said the little boy, "Peter who walked on the sea! Oh! I am glad you've come. We read about you in my new Bible yesterday. Weren't you very frightened, Peter, when you began to sink?"

"Oh! It isn't the same Peter," said his mother, smiling; "that Peter lived a long time ago."

"Oh! I'm sorry it isn't the same Peter," said the little voice; "I do wish it was the same Peter."

Mrs. Tremayne talked very kindly to me, and told me she hoped I should be very happy there, and would do my work well, not to please her, but to please God. Then she told me what my work was to be, and how she wished me to divide my time; and she said she hoped I should be very obedient to Bagot, and take his advice in everything, "for he is a good, worthy man," she said.

Then Mrs. Tremayne spoke of the wages she would give me, which were to be increased as I became more useful, and she said she would have me taught to clean the silver, and to wait at table, so that, after I had been with her about three years, she might be able to get me a situation as footman in one of the large houses in the neighborhood.

The little boy had been quite quiet all the time my mistress was talking to me, until she mentioned this, and then he said, suddenly—

"Dear mother."

"What, my darling boy?"

"You said three years."

"Yes, Reggie."

"Won't Jesus come before three years are done, dear mother?"

"I hope so, darling," said his mother, with tears in her eyes; "but we do not know how short a time or how long a time there may be before He comes."

"I hope He will come before three years," said little Reggie.

I glanced up when he said this, and I saw that the "Rules for To-day" were hung up over the chimney-piece. Mrs. Tremayne seemed to think of them at the same time, for she went to her writing-table and took out a copy of them, which she gave to me, and told me to hang it up in my bedroom.

"We are all trying to live by those rules, Peter," she said; "and I hope, by God's grace, you will do so, too; then, I am sure, neither Bagot nor I will have any fault to find with you."

As I was leaving the room, the little boy called me back.

"Peter," he said, "stop a minute, Peter! Dear mother, may Peter take me out to-morrow?"

"Will you be very careful? Can I trust you, Peter?" asked my mistress. "My little boy is very delicate, and needs the greatest care."

"Yes, ma'am," I said; "indeed you may trust me."

"Then be ready at eleven o'clock, in your tidiest clothes, to take Master Reggie out."

"Peter," said the child, "I'll take you to see my children. You didn't know I had any children, did you, Peter? I have sixty-nine children; isn't that a great many? I used to have seventy, but one of them died. Would you like to see my children, Peter?"

"Yes, thank you, Master Reggie," I said, "very much indeed."

"Good-night, Peter," he said.

But before I had shut the door, I heard him say to his mother, "Isn't Peter a nice boy, mother? I like him very much, though he didn't walk on the sea."

The next morning I was very pleased when eleven o'clock came, and it was time to take the little carriage round to the front door. The carriage was made of wicker-work, and was something like a bed inside, so that Master Reggie could lie down the whole time, and there was a handle by which I pulled it along. In a few minutes the door was opened, and his nurse carried him downstairs. He was very pleased to see me, and we went off at once to see his children. As we passed the back door, the cook ran out with a basket, containing a number of parcels.

"That's the children's breakfast!" said the child. "Cook always has it ready for me. My children have a number of nurseries, Peter. Here's the first," he said, as he pointed to a horse-box, at the entrance of a very clean and tidy farm-yard.

EIGHT RING-DOVES CAME FLYING DOWN AS SOON AS THEY SAW US.

I drew his carriage gently inside, and there we found a white hen and eleven little, soft fluffy chickens. He watched me with great interest while I made a dish of sopped bread for the little ones, and threw down a handful of corn for their mother.

"She's an old child, Peter," he said; "I've had her a long time, since I was quite a little boy."

We next visited an old black hen, who had charge of six tiny yellow ducks, and again he was much pleased to teach me how to mix their breakfast, and how much they ought to have.

Then we came upon an open space in front of the barn, and here eight ring-doves came flying down as soon as they saw us, and perched upon the wicker-work of the little carriage. We fed them with corn, and Master Reggie quite screamed with joy as they picked it off the rug which was thrown over his feet.

The next child was a very strange one—a small monkey, which had a warm, cosey home in one of the out-houses.

"A man with an organ brought him one day," he said, "and he shivered so, and the man was cruel to him and beat him, and that made me cry; so mother bought him for me, and he's so happy and warm now; aren't you, Jacko?"

The monkey certainly looked in the best of spirits, as he put out his hands for biscuits, and nuts, and all the good things we had brought for him, and then scampered away and hid them behind his warm bed of hay, to be devoured after we had gone.

We then went on to visit a hutch of ten rabbits, of all colors and breeds, and for whom we had brought a good supply of cabbage leaves, and two young pigs in the cleanest pig-sty I have ever seen, and a tame squirrel with a broken leg, which Bagot had found dying in the wood, and had brought home to be nursed.

"That child is to go free as soon as he's well enough," said the boy; "he has just come to the hospital for a bit, poor thing! He's like me now, he can't walk!"

Then we turned into the garden, and went into an aviary, opening out of one of the hothouses, where were no less than twenty canaries, and here there was much to be done to supply them all with fresh water and sufficient seed. Some of them were so tame that they flew on the carriage, and took hemp seeds out of Master Reggie's mouth.

Our last visit was to a pet lamb, in a field in front of the house, and for this child, I fetched a bucket of milk from the farm.

"Now you've seen sixty-one of my children," said the little boy; "there are eight more in the house; they had their breakfast before you came. There is a little green parrot, an old pussy-cat and a kitten, four little dormice (it was one of them that died), and my little dog Sandy. Haven't I a great many children?"

He seemed very tired now, and soon his nurse came to carry him in. But before she took him away, he threw his arms round my neck, and said, "Peter, dear Peter, don't forget to come for me to-morrow."

He was so thin and light that the nurse carried him upstairs as if he were a little baby.

"Do you think he will ever live to grow up?" I said to Bagot, when I went back to help him in the garden; "he looks so very ill and white and thin."

"God knows," said Bagot, with tears in his eyes; "God knows, Peter. That's all we can say about it, God knows. And, perhaps, Peter," he said with a sigh, as he stooped to pull up a weed, "perhaps it's just as well that we don't know."

CHAPTER VIII.

THERE IS NO TIME TO LOSE.

I WAS very happy in my new life at Grassbourne. If it had not been for the parting from Salome, I do not think I could have been happier.

I had a very busy life, for there was plenty to do both indoors and out-of-doors; but I am sure we are always happier when our time is filled up with useful work. Idle folks are always in bad spirits.

Every one was so kind to me, that I should indeed have been ungrateful if I had not loved them and tried to please them. Bagot and his wife were father and mother to me. Their cottage was a merry, cheerful place to live in, and it was a great help to me to be with such good Christian people.

Ever since the night of Salome's fifth birthday, when I had brought my sins to Jesus, I had taken Him for my Master, and had longed and tried to live as He would like me to live. And every one and everything at Grassbourne seemed to help me forward in this wish and in this effort.

The one thought with which all their hearts seemed to be filled was this: that Jesus, their Lord, might come at any day, and at any hour, and that they must be ready at once to go and meet Him. The "Rules for To-day" were no dead letters to them; they brought them into daily use in their daily life.

Often have I seen Bagot stop suddenly in the midst of something he was saying, and glance up at the chimney-piece, and sometimes he would say aloud to himself:

"Ah, Bagot, you wouldn't like to be saying that when He comes, you wouldn't."

Or when the clock told that the hour he allowed himself for dinner was over, he would rise, and, pointing to Rule No. 1, he would read it aloud:

"'Do nothing that you would not like to be doing when Jesus comes.'"

"Ah, Jem Bagot," he would say, "you hadn't need be caught a-wasting of your time when your Master comes."

His wife seldom spoke of the rules, but she kept them for all that. I never heard her but once speak an ill-natured word of any one, and then she looked up at the chimney-piece, and I saw tears come in her eyes, as she felt she had broken the third rule on the list.

As for my mistress, I think she lived every day as if it might be the last day before her Lord came. Her life was one long act of loving obedience to the Master; she always seemed to try to please Him in everything she did. The poor people in the cottages round, the sick folks in the little town near, the children playing by the roadside, all knew the sound of Bessie's hoofs on the road, and all of them welcomed the sight of her; for they were sure to get a pleasant word, or a kind visit, or a bright smile from their dear Mrs. Tremayne.

"The Master may come any day," I heard her say once, when some one was urging her not to go out in the rain to see a dying woman; "there is no time to lose."

Over the dining-room chimney-piece there was this verse, which my mistress had illuminated herself:

"The time is short—how short we cannot tell,

Or clearly understand;

But those who read the King's directions well,

Think it is close at hand!

Lord, is it so? Then grant that we

May lose no time, but work for Thee."

And the same thought which stirred my mistress up to work, was also her great comfort in her sorrow. There was a beautiful picture of her husband hanging in her room, and underneath it, on a white scroll, I read these words:

"O comfort ye your hearts;

If ye could only know

How few the days

Ere that glad day arrives,

Ye could but praise!

Then wipe your weeping eyes, and joyful say,

'It may be that the King will come to-day.'"

My chief pleasure and delight was in drawing Master Reggie out in his little carriage. Each morning we went together to feed his children, and he soon became almost as dear to me as my little Salome.

Nearly every day he would ask me the same question:

"Peter," he would say, "do you think Jesus will come to-day?"

And when I answered, "I don't know, Master Reggie; we can't tell," he would say, "Oh, I do hope He will come to-day!"

"Do you know, Peter," he said once, "when Jesus comes I shall walk as well as you do, and run and skip and jump! Oh, Peter, won't it be nice?"

And the poor little boy, who had never been able to walk or skip or jump, had tears in his eyes as he said it.

Often he would bring his new Bible out with him, and ask me to read aloud to him out of it. He looked out all the stories about St. Peter, and made me read these to him very often. The story of Peter's walking on the sea was a great favorite of his; but whenever we read about Peter's fall, and his denying his Master, he would take hold of my hand, and say:

"It wasn't you, Peter, you know. You would have called out, 'I do know Him;' wouldn't you, Peter?"

Sometimes, when the days grew damp and cold, and when he could not go out so much or so often, he would send for me to come and see him in his nursery, and would show me his toys and picture-books.

So a whole year passed away, and Salome's birthday came round again, and my mistress was so kind as to give me a holiday, that I might go over and see her. Master Reggie did not half like my being away on his birthday; but he comforted himself with his mother's promise that I should come up to the nursery the next day to see all his presents, and to tell him about Salome.

I went over by an early train, and took them all by surprise. They gave me a warm welcome, and Salome danced for joy, and was delighted with the present I had brought her, a little rose-bush, covered with tiny dwarf roses, and a pot of forget-me-nots. Bagot had given them to me when they were quite young plants, and I had reared them for Salome's birthday.

There was so much for me to tell, and for them to hear, and for them to tell, and for me to hear, that the day passed all too quickly. The parting at night was a little hard to us all, and Salome's tears left my face quite wet, as I hurried away from her down the street, to catch the evening train for Calvington.

All this time I had, by God's grace, kept out of crooked paths.

I had a little room of my own over the kitchen in Bagot's cottage, and I used to get up early, and sit by the window looking out into the little garden, and read my Bible, and pray to God to help me to please Him through the day, and to give me grace to keep the three rules unbroken.

But soon after Salome's sixth birthday had gone by, I began to get very careless about my daily reading and prayer. A lazy fit came over me, and I would lie in bed half awake, until I heard Bagot coming out of the opposite room. He would rap at my door, and call out—

"Only ten minutes, Peter, my lad; you must look sharp, you must."

And then I would tumble out of bed, and dress, and only have time to kneel by my bed for one hasty moment, before it was time for me to go out to my work.

I mention this fact because it throws light upon what comes next. I am quite sure of this, that we are never safe when we are prayerless, and that if, for a single day, Satan can catch us going forth to the day's work without prayer, he catches us at the best possible time for him, and the worst possible time for us.

I think Bagot had some idea that all was not right with me, for he said, suddenly, one morning, as we were walking together to our work in the garden:

"He's a bad soldier, Peter, who goes into the battle with no armor on; he'll come off badly, he will."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"Only don't you ever try it on, Peter, my lad, that's all!"

I thought I knew what he meant, but I did not like to ask him; and for one or two days after that, I got up rather earlier, and gave myself more time for prayer. But I soon slipped into the old careless way again.

CHAPTER IX.

THE ROBBER'S CAVE.

ONE morning in August, about six weeks after Salome's birthdays I went for the carriage, at eleven o'clock, and brought it round to the front door. I was looking forward to taking Master Reggie, as usual, to give his children their breakfast. But my mistress came to the door, which was standing open, with a letter in her hand.

"Peter," she said, "Master Reggie is not at all well; he seems to have taken cold; he will not be able to go out to-day. I want you, instead, to take this letter for me. You are a good walker, are you not?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, "very good."

"It is to the doctor, Peter," she said; "he lives, as you know, at Calvington. Have you ever seen his house?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said; "isn't it a large red house, standing among a number of trees, not far from the station?"

"That's it, Peter," she said. "I am sorry Bessie is laid up with her bad foot. Bagot says she must not go out for some days yet; but if you walk steadily on, you will have plenty of time to get to Calvington before one o'clock, when the doctor is always at home, to receive any messages that have been left for him. Ask to see him yourself, Peter, and give him the letter; I am very anxious that he should come before night."

I set off at once for my long walk. It was a very sultry day, and it was a long time since we had had any rain, so the road was covered with thick white dust.

It was anything but a pleasant day for a walk, and I soon got very hot and tired. Twelve miles of this would be very wearying, I thought. And I wished very much that Bessie had been all right, for I could have driven to Calvington in a very short time.

When I was about two miles on my way, I came to a part of the road which ran very near the sea, and here I overtook a lad who came sometimes to Grassbourne, when we wanted an extra hand to dig up potatoes, or to weed, or to do any odd job we might have on hand in the garden. His name was Jack Anderson, and Bagot did not like him much, and was always very short with him; but his mother was a widow who lived in one of the cottages near, and my mistress pitied her, and for her sake was willing to give Jack a little work now and again.

"Hullo! Peter," he said, "where are you off to?"

When I told him, he gave a great groan of horror.

"Wouldn't be you," he said, "for a good deal."

"It is hot," I said, stopping under a tree to take off my hat, and to wipe the perspiration from my forehead; "there is not a breath of air!"

"I'll tell you what," said Jack, suddenly, "Mike will be up directly. He'll take your letter for you; he's going to Calvington."

"Who is Mike?" I said.

"Don't you know Mike?" he said. "He's McTaggart's youngest lad; his father has Canrobin Farm, away up on the hills. He's driving into Calvington with some parcels for his father, which have to go off by the one o'clock train. I saw him a few minutes since, calling for something at Kilgreggan House, a bit down this road by the sea. Oh, here he is!"

At this moment a light cart drove up, and in it was young McTaggart, in the midst of sacks and bundles and parcels. Jack told him my errand, and he said at once he would take the letter.

"Oh! But, Jack," I said, "maybe I ought not to give it to him. My mistress told me to go myself, and to give it to the doctor."

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Jack, laughing heartily. "As if it mattered who took the letter, so long as the doctor gets it? and Mike will be there long before you would; so it's a good job, whichever way you look at it."

"Perhaps I had better go with Mike," I said, "if he'll be so good as to give me a lift."

"But Mike isn't coming back again," said Jack; "he's going to stay in Calvington all day at his aunt's; aren't you, Mike? And so you'd just have to toil these weary miles back again in the heat and dust. Don't be a fool now, Peter!"

I did not like being called a fool, and so, although my conscience told me I was doing wrong, I handed my letter to Mike, and he drove away.

"Now come along with me, Peter," said Jack, when Mike had disappeared round a turning in the road.

"Come where?" I asked.

"Down to the sea," said Jack; "we can be there in three minutes across this field."

"Oh, no," I said. "I must go home now."

"Nonsense about going home!" he said. "That's the very thing you mustn't do! Your mistress will soon smell a rat if you go home now. She'll want to know why you've been so quick, and then it will all come out. Let us see, if you walked to Calvington, you could not be back here before two o'clock at the earliest; so we've two hours and a half, at least, to enjoy ourselves. I'll take you to the Robber's Cave. You've never seen it, have you?"

"No, never," I said. "I should like to see it very much; but I think I ought to go back."

"Don't be such a stupid!" said Jack, as he sprang over the stile which led into the field.

I knew I was doing wrong, and yet I followed him, for—I am ashamed to say—I was afraid of him. I could not bear to be laughed at, or to be called a fool or a stupid, so I did what my conscience told me, again and again, that I ought not to do.

Yet for a time all seemed very pleasant. I told conscience to be quiet, and made up my mind to enjoy myself till two o'clock.

It was cool and pleasant by the sea, and we had a bathe, and then we climbed along the cliff to the Robber's Cave. It was a very curious place, and we examined every nook and corner of it, and we sat inside it for some time, for it was so pleasant and refreshing to get out of the glare and heat of the sun.

But while we were sitting down in the cave talking and laughing we suddenly heard a rumble of distant thunder.

"It seems to be a storm coming up," said Jack; "let's climb up and see."

The sky was wonderfully changed since we went into the cave about half an hour before; it was quite black now, and the birds flew about wildly in all directions.

We climbed down from the cave, and picked our way along the shore over the rough rocks and shingles, until we came to the pathway leading up to the top of the cliffs. As we went along, the storm increased; and by the time we reached this path it had begun to rain.

"We shall have a pelter in a minute," said Jack; "let's run for it."

We went at a tremendous pace up the cliff, and then tore across the field, for the rain was coming down very fast now. We did not stop to breathe till we had rushed through the open door of a public-house which stood on the road, about a hundred yards from the path leading down to the sea.

"Now," said Jack, "we're all right; that was well done! But we're only just in time," he said, as there came a vivid flash of lightning, a loud clap of thunder, and a tremendous downpour of rain.

"What will you drink, Peter?" he said. "Whiskey or beer?"

"Nothing, thank you," I said; "I never take anything of the kind."

"Oh, rubbish," he said; "you must drink something. Now you've come to take shelter here, for the good of the house you couldn't be so mean as to come in and to take nothing."

A third time conscience raised her warning voice, and a third time I would not listen to her, and for the very same reason—because I was a coward, afraid to do that which I knew was right.

"Two for whiskey," said Jack to the landlord, as he opened the door of the little inn parlor.

CHAPTER X.

THE STORM.

WE were sitting with our glasses in our hands, and Jack was making all sorts of absurd speeches, and was proposing my health, and the landlord's health, and the health of the rest of the company in the room, when there came art unusually bright flash of lightning, which made us all start, followed immediately by a peal of thunder, which sounded as if the house were falling over our heads.

"Good gracious!" said Jack. "That was a whacker! I shall have to drink Mr. Thunder's health next!"

But I could not join in the laugh with which he followed this silly speech. That flash of lightning had made me think of the storm on the night of Salome's fifth birthday; and with the thought of the storm came the remembrance of Salome's text:

"One shall be taken, and the other left," and of Salome's sorrowful words, as she clung to me that night:

"You mustn't be left, Peter; they must take you too!"

Then I thought of the first rule on my card: "Do nothing that you would not like to be doing when Jesus comes." I certainly should not like to be sitting drinking whiskey and neglecting my duty, as I was doing then.

I thought of the second rule on my card: "Go to no place where you would not like to be found when Jesus comes." I certainly should not like to be found in this public-house, and in the company of the idle drinking fellows with whom the room was filled.

I thought of the third rule on my card: "Say nothing that you would not like to be saying when Jesus comes." There were a great many silly and foolish things I had said since I came into that place which I should not like to have been saying if that flash of lightning had been the flash of glory at the appearing of the Lord Jesus Christ. What if He were really to come while I was there!

I felt very much afraid, and Jack told me I was as glum as an old sulky owl. I was very glad when the rain was over, and I could get outside again. Then I bid Jack good-day, and hurried home as fast as I could.

I took off my tidy clothes, and went at once into the stable to clean and polish the harness. I kept an anxious eye on the road all the afternoon, hoping to see the doctor's carriage on its way to the house. But the hours went by, and tea-time came, and he had not arrived.

"Master Reggie has got a bad turn, he has," said Bagot to his wife; "it's going to be croup, our lady thinks. I wish that doctor would look sharp; I do indeed."

But time still went on, and no doctor appeared. Could Mike have delivered my letter, or was it possible that he had forgotten it? I got more and more anxious every moment.

At last I could bear it no longer, and I did what I ought to have done long before—I told the whole story to Bagot. I did not omit to tell him of the storm, and how it had reminded me of the three forgotten rules.

"Ay, Peter, my lad," he said, "it's a sad tale, that is; but I'm glad you've made a clean breast of it, I am, and I'm very thankful the Lord didn't come to-day and find you wandering out of His ways. I'll step across and tell our lady, and see what she thinks had best be done."

"Wait a minute, Bagot," I said; "tell her I've gone off now to see if the doctor has got the letter. I will start at once, and go as quick as ever I can."

"Get a bit of supper first, my lad," said Bagot, kindly.

But I would not hear of waiting a moment, and I set off at a running pace towards Calvington. Of course I could not keep this up long, and it seemed a long way; but the air was cooler than in the morning, which was a great help to me.

It must have been about ten o'clock when I reached the doctor's house. His gig was standing at the door, and the doctor came out and jumped into it as I came up. He was just setting off for Grassbourne. He had only received my mistress's letter a few minutes before. The careless Mike had dropped it on the road, and some one had picked it up and brought it to the doctor's house.

I told him how ill Master Reggie was, and that my mistress thought that he was going to have croup; and he ran back into his surgery to get several things that might be wanted, and then drove off at a tremendous pace towards Grassbourne.

I went home more slowly than I had come, and it was near midnight when I reached the avenue gate. To my surprise, I found Bagot standing there, leaning against the gate, as if he were waiting for me. He was very kind to me—more kind than I deserved, I thought; but he seemed very downcast.

"Is he worse, Bagot?" I asked.

"No, he's a wee bit better, he is," said Bagot. "The doctor is going to stay till morning, though. I've been helping his man to take the horse out, I have."

He took me in, and Mrs. Bagot was still up, and had a good supper ready for me on the table. She, too, was more kind to me than ever; but neither of them spoke much while I was eating my supper.

As soon as I had finished, Bagot said, taking an envelope from his pocket—"Shall I give it him now, old wife?"

"Yes, Jem," she said, "now that he's had his supper, you had best let him read it."

Bagot handed me a telegram, and I read as follows: "Salome is very ill indeed, and cries for you. Can you be spared to come and see her?"

I sat looking at it for a long time without speaking.

Then Bagot said, "Poor lad, I'm awful sorry for you, I am; but cheer up—maybe she'll be better soon."

"Can I go, do you think, Bagot?" I said.

"Yes, I'm sure you may," he said. "Run over with the letter to the house, and ask to speak a word with our lady. They're all sitting up with the child."

I went as he advised me, and the cook gave me a jug of hot water to carry, which was wanted upstairs, and I took it as quietly as I could into the sickroom.

I TOOK IT AS QUIETLY AS I COULD INTO THE SICK-ROOM.

Master Reggie was in great pain, gasping for breath, and the doctor and his mother and the nurse were standing round him, doing all they could to help him. He saw me come in, and smiled, and tried to speak, but I could not tell what he said.

My mistress followed me out of the room.

"Can you ever forgive me, ma'am?" I said.

"I do forgive you, Peter," she answered, "for I know how sorry you are. And I think—I hope—it would not have made much difference if the doctor had been here before, for he says that I had done all that could have been done before he came."

Then I handed her the telegram, and tears came in her eyes as she read it, for I had told her about Salome, and she knew how much I loved her.

"Trouble everywhere, Peter," she said. "Yes, you may go, and you may stay a few days if you can be of any use."

I thanked her very much, and she crept into the room again.

We did not go to bed for a long time after that. We sat round the kitchen fire, and Bagot stepped over to the house every half-hour to ask in the kitchen how the child was; and it was not until he brought us word that Master Reggie was asleep, and that the doctor said all danger was over for the present, and that he was preparing to go home, that we could make up our minds to go upstairs.

I had a very short night, for the train started at eight o'clock, and I had to walk to the station.

When I arrived at home, I went at once upstairs to Salome's room, and I found my mother, looking very worn and tired, watching beside her. Salome seemed to be quite unconscious; she did not know me when I went in, though my mother said she had called for me many times in the night. She was talking wildly and strangely, and I thought she looked very ill indeed. My mother said she did not know what was the matter with her; she had been ill now for some days, and every day she grew worse.

The doctor came soon after I arrived, and my mother went downstairs with him, and left me with Salome. When she came back, she said—

"Peter, it's a bad job; we oughtn't ever to have sent for you; the doctor says he is pretty certain now that it's scarlet fever, which hasn't come out properly. Whatever shall we do?"

And my poor mother burst into tears.

CHAPTER XI.

A TERRIBLE TIME.

OF course my going back to Grassbourne, to carry the infection with me, was out of the question. I wrote to my mistress, and told her the state of the case, and then I was able to relieve my poor mother very much, by taking entire charge of Salome.

She was very ill, and as the days went by she grew worse. The doctor was proved right in his opinion of the complaint, for the very day after I arrived Bartholomew and Jude were both taken ill with the fever, and two days after that Thomas fell ill, and about a week after, Matthew and Simon were also smitten.

It was a terrible time. As I look back upon it now, I wonder how we ever bore up as we did. We had six of them ill at once, so ill that the doctor shook his head each time he saw them, and said he was afraid they would none of them pull through. My poor mother was up night and day, going from one bed to another with a white and anxious face.

My father said little, as was his nature under all circumstances, but he felt it deeply. He would wander about the house sighing loudly, and would stand beside the doors of the two sick-rooms for hours together, that he might be at hand to fetch or to carry anything, or to help us in any way he could. He felt it all the more, I think, from his having so little to do. He was a very honorable man, and he made no secret of our having the fever in the house. As soon as the doctor had told him that it was a case of malignant scarlet fever, he had let all his customers know, for he thought that concealment in such a case was both cruel and wicked.

So few came to the shop, and the till was very empty during that time of sorrow.

I had much time for thought during the weeks which followed. As I was sitting up at night, watching beside Salome and Jude and Simon, my mind was very busy, and my heart was very much troubled. And yet I could not pray. I felt as if there were a great wall between me and God, and if I tried to pray, the words seemed to come back to me, as if they could not pierce the separating wall. It was my sin which had come between me and my Master. I knew that well enough, and I was very miserable when I thought of it.

But one night I took up Salome's Testament, the one I had given her on her fifth birthday, which was lying on a table near her bed. I opened it to see if I could get any word of comfort, and my eyes fell upon these words:

"The Lord turned, and looked upon Peter."

If an angel had said them to me, they could not have seemed to come more direct from heaven.

I had sinned against my Lord, the Lord who had loved me so much, yet now He was turning His face not away from me, but towards me; He was looking at me, not with anger, nor with scorn, but with tender, sorrowful love. Oh! How could I ever grieve such a Master as that. Like Peter in the Gospels, as I sat in that quiet sickroom, I wept bitterly.

And then came comfort; I could pray now. That look of the Lord Jesus had taken away the wall. I could call on Him now and ask Him to forgive me, and never to let me leave Him again.

If I had not come back to the Lord Jesus that night, and had the comfort of feeling His presence very near me, I do not know how I should have gone through the next terrible week. Sickness and sorrow had been in our home before; but now the angel of death drew near.

I had felt sure from the very first that Salome would die. She seemed to me so unlike every one else, and so fit for heaven, that I had no doubt whatever in my own mind that the Master's voice would call her to Himself.

"'One shall be taken, and the other left,'" I said to myself over and over again, as I sat beside her at night, "Salome taken—Peter left."

Even the sound of her breathing seemed to be saying the same words to me in the dark, silent night. "'One taken, another left; one taken, another left.'" And the steps of the passers-by in the street, when morning dawned, echoed the same words, "'One taken, another left.'"

But the words were to come true in a different way from what I had expected.

CHAPTER XII.

SALOME'S RECOVERY.

IT was the night on which Salome seemed most ill; indeed, her face looked so altered and strange, that I thought every breath might be her last. I felt sure that the angel of death was in the room that night.

He was in the room, but it was not for Salome that he had come. Little Jude was taken, and Salome was left. And two days afterwards the angel of death came again, and Bartholomew was taken; and then after a few more days, Simon and Thomas were taken, and still Salome was left. But the doctor still would give very little hope; she might pull through, he said, but he did not think it was likely that she would.

That was a terrible time for us all.

It was a terrible time for my poor father, for he loved his children very deeply, and after he and I had followed one little coffin after another to the grave, he would come home and sit for hours with his head resting on his hands, not speaking a word, but full of sorrowful thought.

It was a terrible time for my poor mother. I felt sure she would be ill when it was all over. She had cried bitterly when little Jude was taken; but after that she seemed as if she could not cry, as if her tears were locked up, and as if she were doing everything she did in her sleep. Indeed, I believe it seemed to her more like an awful dream than a real trouble.

Poor father and mother, they had no heavenly comforter; the Lord was not at that time their Friend and their Saviour! But this very sorrow, which seemed the worst thing which could have happened to us, was to be used by God to bring them to Himself.

One night—I think it was the night after Simon and Thomas had been laid in the grave—we were sitting in Salome's room. She was conscious now, and the fever had quite left her; but she was very weak—so weak that I was afraid to let her talk; so weak that she was as helpless as a little baby. Matthew was much better; he had not had the fever so badly as the others, and he was sitting up in bed.

"There seems nothing to do," said mother that night, as she sat by the fire in her black dress; and for the very first time since little Jude had died she burst into tears.

I knew it would do her good to cry, so I did not stop her, but I laid my head on her shoulder, and we cried together, and my father, who was sitting near Salome's bed, groaned aloud.

We sat in silence for a long time, and we thought Salome was asleep, for she had her eyes shut, but she suddenly opened them, and said:

"Read a bit, please, dear Peter."

I took up her Testament and read aloud:

"The Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first:

"Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.

"Wherefore comfort one another with these words."

"Don't you wish Jesus would come to-night, father," said Salome, "and bring Simon, and Thomas, and Bartholomew, and Jude with Him? We would all go flying up to meet them then; wouldn't we, father?"

My father did not speak; but he took hold of Salome's thin hand and kissed it.

"She's always talking about that, Peter," said my mother. "Ever since you gave her that Testament, her head has been running on that.

"'Mother,' she says, 'would the angels take you?'

"'Jude,' she says, 'would you be taken, or left?'

"'Thomas,' she says, 'wouldn't it be nice if Jesus came to-day?'

"And the boys listened to her wonderful; they did, indeed. Simon, he talked a deal about it just before he died, and about his sins being washed away. I don't know much about it," said poor mother, crying more than ever; "I've toiled, and worked, and slaved to get you food and clothes, and to keep you clean and decent. But I haven't thought about these things as I should, and it seems to me, if the Lord was to come, the angels would be carrying you all away, and leaving me behind."

"And me!" said father, with another groan.

"Oh, no!" said little Salome, with all the strength she had. "Father and mother must come, too; mustn't they, Peter? Kneel down and ask Jesus to wash their sins away, and then He won't forget to send the angels for them when He comes in the sky."

So I knelt down and said a very simple little prayer; and when I rose from my knees both my father and mother were crying.

They said nothing more then, but I have every reason to believe that they did indeed come to the Lord Jesus as their Saviour that very night, and that, from that time, both father and mother loved and served the Lord Jesus, and longed for His appearing, feeling sure that in that great day they would be taken, and not left.

CHAPTER XIII.

GREAT SORROW.

SALOME grew stronger every day, and the doctor was astonished at her recovery.

How good God has been to spare her to me! I said to myself again and again. It seemed almost like getting her back from the dead.

But just as things at home grew a little brighter, and I was rejoicing over Salome's first going downstairs, I got a letter from Bagot, which filled me with sorrow and grief. For it told me that little Master Reggie, whom we all loved so dearly, had been taken away from us. The Master had come, and had called for him, and the child had heard His voice, and had gladly hastened to meet Him. It was another severe attack of croup which had carried him off, and a few hours after he was taken ill, the call had come.

Bagot wrote in great distress, and he said my poor mistress was very ill, and very much broken down. She wished him to say that she would be glad if I could come back whenever the doctor thought it was safe for me to do so. She sent me her kindest sympathy in my trouble, and she wished me to tell my poor mother how often she had thought of her, and had prayed that the Lord would be her Comforter.

I felt leaving home very much, for they all seemed to cling to me and to lean on me after that time of sorrow. My father had aged a great deal, and had turned in a few weeks into an elderly man.

My poor mother said over and over again that she had nothing to do.

"Oh, Peter," she said one day, "I used to grumble, and to think I had a hard time of it, with so many to cook for, and so many clothes to mend, and so many stockings to darn, and such lots of things to wash and to iron, and so much to see after. But now, God knows, I would give all I have to have one of those busy days back again. I didn't know, till they were gone, how much I should miss them all. God forgive me if I ever grumbled at having to work for them!"

It was a very different home now—so quiet and still, with so many empty beds and silent rooms, with so much space at the large dinner-table, which used to be so well filled, with so many vacant chairs, and with a row of caps hanging on the pegs in the passage, which were never taken down from their places, but which mother seemed as if she could not take away. Every one who came to the house must have noticed the difference in our once merry, noisy home.

Yet it was a different home in another way, for now both father and mother were leading their children in the way to heaven.

It was a great effort to my father to open the Bible and begin family prayer, but he made it. It was a great effort for my mother to put on her bonnet, and, in the face of astonished neighbors, to go to church again, but she made it. And when I left them, I had the joy of knowing that whenever the cry was heard:

"Behold the Bridegroom cometh: go ye out to meet Him!"

We should, as a family, be all ready to obey the summons; for in that great day when the King shall gather together His own, every one of us would be taken—none of us would be left behind.

I went to Calvington by the early train, and walked from the station to Grassbourne. Mrs. Bagot gave me a warm welcome when I arrived at the cottage.

"I'm glad to see you, my lad," she said; "I am, indeed. The master and me have been awful lonesome without you, we have, indeed. What with our lady's trouble, and the loss of that dear boy, we've been very dull and low altogether."

She told me I should find Bagot in the garden, and I went to look for him.

I MET MY MISTRESS COMING OUT OF THE HOUSE.

On my way there I met my mistress coming out of the house with a large basket on her arm. I knew what basket it was, and guessed at once where she was going. She spoke very kindly to me, and she said, "Peter, you and I have both had great sorrow since I saw you last; but we must never forget God sends it in love; we must never doubt for a moment that God is good.

"'He doeth all things well,

We say it now with tears;

But we shall sing it with those we love,

Through bright eternal years.'"

My mistress let me carry the basket for her, and we went together to feed Master Reggie's children. We both of us felt it very much, and we scarcely spoke a word the whole time.

"He would be so pleased if he knew we were taking care of them," my mistress said, with tears in her eyes, when our work was done, and we were walking towards the house. "He missed you very much, Peter, and asked many times when you were coming back. He was able to get out again after that bad attack that he had the day before you went home, and he seemed so much better and stronger that I felt very hopeful about him. But he took cold again, and the croup came back, and nothing could be done to save him.

"Only that last afternoon, as he lay on the sofa beside me, he was talking of you. He said:

"'Dear mother, is Peter sorry that the Lord Jesus came for his little brothers?'

"I told him you were very sorry, for you would miss them very much.

"'But it's very nice for the little brothers, dear mother; isn't it?' he said.

"And that very night the Lord Jesus came for him; and now I must try to remember what he said, that it's 'very nice' for him. And, Peter," she said, "I shall go to him, though he will not return to me."

My poor mistress could say no more, but hastened into the house, and I went away to look for Bagot.

From this time, it was part of my daily work to carry the basket for my mistress when she went to feed Master Reggie's children, and she often, at these times, talked to me about him. She never spoke of him as dead, but as living—living in the Father's home, happy and well attended, but still loving her as much as ever, and ready at the King's call to go in the King's train to meet her, and to welcome her when her waiting time should be done.

CHAPTER XIV.

AFTER TWENTY YEARS.

IT is twenty years since all this happened, and yet the twenty years have passed away so fast that I can hardly realize that they have gone. I can scarcely bring myself to believe that I have lived so many years in this pretty cottage with my dear old friend, Jem Bagot. Our life here has been so peaceful, so far removed from the bustle and constant stir of the busy town, so little has happened to mark the time, or to make any break in our quiet lives, that the days and weeks and months and years have gone by as swiftly as I think days and weeks and months and years could possibly go.

When I had been three years at Grassbourne, my mistress offered to keep her promise, and to find me a situation as footman; but I was so happy here, and Bagot and his wife were good enough to say they were so fond of me, that my mistress very kindly said I might still stay on with her, if I would like to do so.

Very soon after this, Bagot had a terrible attack of rheumatic fever, and during his long illness I took entire charge of the garden and hothouse, and then, when Bagot got better, he was very weak and feeble, and could not have managed to keep pace with the work, if he had only had a young, inexperienced boy to help him.

And so it came to pass that I never left Grassbourne, and now Bagot is getting old and infirm; he is seventy-five years old, and he can do no hard work. But I have stepped into his place, and he enjoys helping me, and doing any little job which he can manage without tiring himself.

Dear old Bagot, I believe he loves me as much as if I were really his own son. Ever since his wife died—and she has been dead now more than ten years—he has leaned on me more than ever. He felt her death very much.

"The missus and me always pulled together, Peter," he said, as he cried like a child on the night she died; "it was a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull both together, it was, and the boat went bravely over the waves. But now, my lad, it has landed her on the other shore, it has; and how I shall ever pull on without her, Peter, it beats me to think."

"But the Lord is in the boat, Bagot," I said. "He won't leave you to pull on alone."

"You 're right there, Peter," he sobbed, "you are. I was forgetting that, like an old foolish-headed fellow, I was; but I wish, Peter—I can't help wishing, my lad—that we had both got to the shore together."

I did all I could to cheer him and to comfort him when we were left alone together. And when Kate came, the old man felt he had a daughter as well as a son to take care of him. I never saw any two people take to each other so well as Bagot took to Kate, and Kate took to Bagot. He wanted to go away when he knew I was going to be married, but I would not hear of that, and Kate would not hear it either, and we could not be a happier little family than we are now.

Bagot's great pleasure is in the children. Little Jude and the tiny Kitty are his constant playmates, and they follow him about wherever he goes. Little Kitty is wild with joy whenever she hears Bagot's step coming in from his work, and she toddles to meet him, and climbs up into his arms, saying, "Dear daddy Baggy, dear daddy Baggy."

My mistress has aged very much since I first came to Grassbourne. Her hair is growing white now, and her face has lost much of the beauty which made her so much admired when she was younger; but sometimes I think she looks more like an angel now than even when first I saw her. She is twenty years nearer the end of the journey now, and the twenty years of patient waiting, the twenty years of busy working, the twenty years of discipline in the Lord's school of sorrow, the twenty years of learning daily more and more of His love, have all left their mark upon her, and have made her even more beautiful in the eyes of those who know her best, than she was in those by-gone years.

I sometimes think the waiting time may not be much longer for her now; it seems, at times, as if a gleam of glory from the Heavenly City were shining on her face, and I tremble as I think that the gates may even now be opening to let her in. I tremble for ourselves, and for all those whom she helps, and teaches, and comforts; but I can but rejoice for her, if the wilderness way is growing shorter, and the welcomes in the Father's Home are drawing nearer.

Yet the thought often comes to me, "Oh that we could all go together! Oh that, instead of the Master's voice calling us one by one, instead of the terrible parting with one dear one after another, as they go gladly at the sound of His voice, He would come again, and receive all, all to Himself, He would appear to gather together in one His children scattered abroad, and that we, all of us together, might gladly go, hand in hand, to meet Him!"

The "Rules for To-day" still hang over the chimney-piece in their old place, and we are still trying; by God's grace, to carry them out in our daily lives. And the blessed hope of the Lord's appearing still stirs us up to live very near to Him, and to keep very far from sin, and still comforts and cheers us in all the sorrows and anxieties of our every-day life.

My old home has been broken up a long time now. My poor mother died the same year as Mrs. Bagot, and she rests from her labors in that Home where the weary are at rest. My brothers are all doing well for themselves, and have wives and families of their own.

My father gave up the business when Salome married, and went to live with her. He often comes over to see me, and the quiet of this country place is a great enjoyment to him. He is as silent as ever, and it is amusing to see him and Bagot sitting together over the fire. They have quite renewed their old friendship, and are very fond of each other; but when they talk together, it is an equal division of labor, for Bagot does all the talking, and my father does all the listening, and yet it seems to give them both the greatest satisfaction.

Salome came over to see us last week with her little girl, and in the evening I drove them to Calvington in the light cart. It was Salome's birthday, and she came over to see me for her birthday treat, for she and I love each other as much as ever.

It was a lovely evening, and as we drove along the sun was setting behind the distant hills. The sky was full of glory, golden clouds floated along in the deepest blue, like islands of glory on an azure sea, and then there were deep rose-colored and crimson clouds beyond, which looked like the glorious shores of this lovely sea, and which were constantly changing, both in form and color.

We were in good time, and we pulled up in a quiet bit of the road, and looked at the sunset.

"Don't you think it will look something like that, Salome," I said, "when the Lord comes?"

"I was just thinking so, Peter," she said. "When I was a child, ever after you and I heard that sermon on my birthday, whenever such a sky as that came, I thought it was the Lord coming in glory."

"But He hasn't come yet," I said, with a sigh.

"No," answered Salome, "not yet, Peter.

"'But the Day is nearer now,

Far nearer,—

And the signs of His approach

Far clearer!'"

"That's a very comforting thought, Salome," I said.

"You would like that hymn, Peter," said my sister. "I had a copy of it given me the other day, and I will send it to you."

And this morning the hymn arrived, and I have just been reading it to Bagot and Kate.

"'YE SEE THE DAY APPROACHING.

"'When we were little children, and heard of Jesus' love,

We often wished that He would come, and take us all above.

But the Day is nearer now,

Far nearer,—

And the signs of His approach

Far clearer!

"'And oft, with childish fancy, at the closing of the day,

We hoped that in those golden clouds the King was on His way.

But the Day is nearer now,

Far nearer,—

And the signs of His approach

Far clearer!

"'Lord, we are growing older, those days and years are fled;

And time and change have done their work; and some we loved are dead.

But the Day is nearer now,

Far nearer,—

And the signs of Thine approach

Far clearer!

"'Lord, make us ever ready, as each day hurries by,

To raise the welcome shout of joy,—"The Lord our King is nigh!"

But the Day is nearer now,

Far nearer,—

And the signs of Thine approach

Far clearer!'"

"Amen," said Bagot, when I had finished reading. "'Even so, come, Lord Jesus.'"

THE END.

University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.

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Table of Contents

TAKEN OR LEFT.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

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