Part 33 (1/2)

Mrs. Blunt's husband sat as one in a dream. Where had he heard those words before?--

”There is a Fountain filled with Blood, Drawn from Immanuel's veins; And sinners plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains.”

He closed his eyes, and he saw a certain bare room with a lot of little children sitting round; a teacher sat close to them, who was leading them in a clear voice, while the little ones followed and joined in as they could.

”And sinners plunged beneath that flood!”

The hymn rose and fell to the end; and then there was a prayer, while his mind did not follow the speaker's words, but went back to that old country Sunday School, in which he had sat week after week, month after month, and even year after year.

”Lose all their guilty stains.”

What had the years since then brought him but guilty stains?

He heard not a word of the prayer; but the first sentence that arrested his attention was, ”May I not wash in _them_, and be clean?” and then he listened with an eagerness which surprised himself.

He heard about the proud man turning away in a rage; he heard about his servants trying to persuade him--and mentally said that this was like his own wife; he heard how the man obeyed the prophet's words, and dipped seven times in the stream; he heard how he was cured from his loathsome disease; he heard how he went home rejoicing.

And all through the preacher's words these lines kept running as a strain of sweet music--

”There is a Fountain filled with Blood, Drawn from Immanuel's veins; And sinners plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains.”

Slow tears forced themselves from under his eyelids, which he hastily brushed away with his hand.

What pa.s.sed in the man's mind during that hour was known to none but G.o.d; perhaps he was hardly conscious himself at the time what a great transaction had taken place; but from that day forth, first very slowly and fitfully, but afterwards growing stronger and firmer, came the knowledge that he had plunged in that crimson tide, and had been washed and was clean.

As they walked home very little was said; there had been many praying during that little service for the man who had hardly moved a finger, but had sat with bowed head during the whole time, and they believed that their prayers had been heard.

When they parted at the door of their home, Blunt looked up and wrung Jem's hand.

”Thankye kindly,” he said. ”If ye don't mind, I should like to come next Sunday.”

Mrs. Blunt, like a wise woman, did not stop to speak, but followed her husband into their room, where their little daughter Kittie stood, clean and smiling, ready to meet them, with their frugal meal set out on the table.

[Ill.u.s.tration: All day long the two sat out under the apple-trees basking in the suns.h.i.+ne.--p. 220.]

That was a happy Sunday. How d.i.c.kie was praised for sitting so still, and what a soft little colour mantled in his face when he heard that they were pleased with him!

That evening Meg left Cherry to take care of d.i.c.kie, and went to the service with her husband.

When they came home, the sound of singing on the staircase made them pause. It came from the top of the house, and Jem and Meg went up to see who it could be.

Their mother's door was ajar, and through it they could see Cherry sitting by the fire, singing in a clear, bell-like voice, d.i.c.kie resting on her lap. Miss Hobson's door was open, and she lay propped up on her pillow listening with a peaceful look on her face.

”Whiter than the snow!”

sang Cherry.

”Whiter than the snow-- Wash me in the Blood of the Lamb, And I shall be whiter than snow.”

”Sing it again, Cherry,” said d.i.c.kie, ”'cause I do like it so. Did we sing that this mornin', Cherry?”