Part 3 (1/2)

One day there came to her school a little deformed boy, about eight years old. He had been brought there by one of the scholars, and when Ruth entered the school-room she did not notice him, but proceeded with the opening exercises. She had taught the children to repeat with her alternate verses of Scripture, and this morning selected the twenty-third Psalm. After she had repeated the first verse, the scholars took up the second. But there was one voice, clear and distinct, above all the others. Glancing round, she saw a pale face, whose large, earnest eyes, bent full upon her, touched her strangely. Slightly averting her head, she went on where the children left off, but still there was the fixed look. It was not a stare or look of curiosity, such as a new scholar might show, but penetrating as though the child had pa.s.sed through deep experiences, maturing the intellect while the body was dwarfed and feeble. At the close of the exercises, a little girl taking him by the hand, led him up to the desk, and introduced him as a new scholar.

”What is his name?” inquired Ruth.

”I'll tell her; mother said I should be a man and speak out. My name is Philip Driscoe,” and here the thin tiny hand was slipped in Ruth's. How very thin and white it was, like a baby's hand. As it lay for a moment in Ruth's the fingers closed over it, and stooping down she kissed the child. ”I like you, you are good, like mother,” and drawing closer he laid his other hand over hers by way of caress.

A sudden impulse seized her to take him in her arms, but the children were there, looking on understandingly. Holding both hands she bent smilingly down, but in an instant her eyes were full of tears. She was thinking of Guy. What if he had been thus afflicted? A thrill of gladness followed the pain occasioned by the thought, and collecting herself she took the child over to a seat in the middle of the room, promising him a book in a little while.

”And a slate and pencil to make pictures?”

”Yes, can you draw pictures?”

”O, elegant ones; mother says I'll make real ones when I am a man, if I don't die.”

Ruth could not tell what to make of herself that day, or for many days after, she was so drawn toward that little face. ”Now if it had been Agnes, it would have been quite natural.”

But the truth was, wherever there was suffering or weakness of any kind, her heart threw off its casing, and she felt that she could do anything to s.h.i.+eld or comfort. When the call came for strength or sympathy, she could give it unhesitatingly, but when there was only ordinary occasion, she made no response.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decoration]

CHAPTER V.

WHAT HAPPENED ONE DAY.

AT the beginning of the year, Agnes had resolved not to let a day pa.s.s without having benefitted some one. ”It may only be perhaps by looking pleasantly, or speaking tenderly, yet if done in the right spirit, the Lord will accept it and make it result in some good,” she argued. And in the spirit of this mission she started for school one morning.

”What a wonderful thing it is to know that while there are millions of people on the earth, there is something for each one to do, that no one else can do. A work the Lord has laid out for each one of us,” were her thoughts as she walked. But another thought followed: ”How do you know your own work? you may be doing the wrong thing after all.”

This was not the first time such a suggestion had been made. Once it troubled and bewildered her, but now her mind was clear on that point.

”For,” she reasoned, ”my work must be to do everything that comes in my way, as well as I can, without waiting for special calls. And if I do this faithfully, and the Lord sees that I can do a different work, he will turn my mind in the direction of it, and bring it near to me.”

Her reflections were disturbed by the loud, eager voices of several of her scholars, who announced in one breath, ”O, Miss Agnes, you ought to have seen Martha Nelson's father. He had his leg cut off, and they took him on a settee to the hospital, and Martha's mother is nearly crazy.”

”How was it?” inquired Agnes, turning from one to another of the eager, frightened faces.

”Why, he drives a dray, you know, and he fell off when the horse was going fast, and the dray ran over him. Everybody says he was drunk.”

”Hush, hush, we must never speak of another girl's father, as we would not like to have our own spoken of. Poor Martha, she will need to-day something that each of us can give her. What is it?”

”Pity,” said one of the girls, who by look and voice showed that her heart was already touched.

”Is that all?”

”And love,” was the reply.

”Yes, the dear Lord wants us all to do something for Him to-day, and as we cannot do great, hard things, He wants us to love and be sorry for Martha. And if we love people, we will do all the kind things we can for them; don't you think so, especially when they are in distress. And when we say our prayers, we must not forget to ask our Heavenly Father to love and care for Martha, now that her father is away from her, and may perhaps never get well.”

When the lessons were over and school dismissed, Agnes hastened to the home of poor Martha. It was quite a distance from her own home, being at the other end of the town, and this was prayer-meeting night. But her day's work could not be complete until she had sympathized with these suffering hearts.

”Here it is, teacher,” exclaimed the children who had offered to show her the way, ”The house with the shutters shut tight.”