^» A NARROW DOOR. 15 of the :m can Lgainst J of us ke the others laws," at the ig con- uscita- ie was ^e two people rse, it 1 sum, roved me to as he )hould He les to |ls my He lurch- lloons, lor no right "Amen !" said his wife, folding both arms about his neck. There was silence between them for a minute, then Martha said : ** I'm afraid I can't get up any right frame of mind toward Dr. Brown. I find myself wanting to say like those naughty children, long ago : * Go up, thou bald heads'" ** Don't yield to it, dear, else two bears named Spite and Gloom will come out of the woods and devour you," her husband said, as he reached and brought her face round between his two hands close to his own. "Dearest, we must rise above all this. We must. If our religion is genuine, it will be proved in just such times as we are passing through this summer." " Yes, I know we must. But, John, don't go to that little back Stony-something place where he wants to banish you. Don't I Go to Patagonia or the Hawaiian Islands first. Don't be ordered about by him as if he were Pope." And the eyes of the minister's wife were not soft as she said it. Her husband's eyes were half-amused, half-sad, as he looked fondly down at her. '• Perhaps, dear, Stony Ridge must come into our lives to transfigure them, to make you and me able to re-present our Lord." " O ! John, you do not need it. You are good already. But me — I shall never have any grace to boast of." i6 i i JOHN REMINGTON, MARTYR. " May you never ! " said John. " But you really will not think of going there, to a forlorn little place like that } " " Not if the Master sent me word to go ? " " But he would not send word by Dr. Brown." " O, Martha ! " An old church may be a picturesque object, and it may not. It depends upon whether it be of stone with moss and ivy creeping over turrets and towers, or whether it be a wooden, box-like struct- ure, streaked and weather-beaten, with dilapidated roof, broken windows and tumble-down steps. Of the latter sort was the one church in the straggling village of Stony Ridge. In its best da^s it could have laid claim to nothing higher than respectability, as it belonged to a denomina- tion which, solid and true though it be, does not suffer from an excess of architectural taste. A wide-spreading elm had done what it could to soften the bareness and squareness of the build- ing, and there used to be green grass in front, but it was now grown up to burdock and Canada thistles. The forlornness of it all expressed as plainly as words could, the discouraged state of the church. In fact, the whole village was dis- couraged. Death had taken the old stand-bys, others had removed to the cities, and young people seemed to make it the one aim of their lives to get out of Stony Ridge. So it turned out that .S" A, I I A NARROW DOOR. 17 there, M wn. i> ct, and be of Its and struct- )idated )S. in the s best higher omina- es not e. A uld to build- front, anada sed as ate of IS dis- id-bys, people ves to t that t ■A V ■■i 1 .» ; the maintenance of the church, which once was strong and prosperous, now depended upon a few faint and feeble-hear.ed folk who seemed to have lost ambition to do the little they could. The congregation had dwindled to a mere handful, and when at last the old minister died, little, if any effort had been made to secure another. The church had been closed for many months now, and the little parish had become quite accustomed to silent Sabbaths. On one of those summer Sabbath afternoons an old woman came out of a gray old house and took her way across the fields in the direction of the church. She cast furtive glances about her, as if to make sure that no prying eyes were watching, then pulled a key from her pocket and fitted it into the rusty lock of the church door. Entering, she locked it behind her and walked slowly down the aisle to a pew at the farther end. If Mrs. Blake's neighbors had known that she came often to the lonely church and spent an hour in silent worship, they would have shaken their heads and murmured : " She's queer." This afternoon she opened her old Bible to well- known passages — texts of revered ministers who had long been gone. Memory brought back in- structing or comforting words treasured through the years. . As she mused over them her soul was uplifted and nourished as when she had first heard them. She opened her hymn-book and read m t ihi ; I 'i I |!i i8 JOHN REMINGTON, MARTYR. several hymns, and then, although her lips made no sound, refreshed her heart by singing the hymn beginning, " I love thy church, O God," to the sweetly flowing tune of Seir. So many memories the old tune stirred. She lived over the long past years. She was a girl again in the choir. Over there was David's seat. He used to watch her while she sang, then wait for her and walk home through the meadows. There she and David stood when they were mar- ried, and there at last under the pulpit lay dear David in his long sleep, and she heard again, as she heard it that day, the low, sweet singing as if from far off : "I know that my Redeemer lives." Here was a little footstool that each baby sat on when it toddled first to church. They were all gone now — old minister, babies and David ; only the dear church was left, and there were rumois that it was to be sold. Must it be} She fell on her knees and poured out her griefs and fears in prayer. It was the experience of the old prophets finding words again, for, regardless of all restraints, her voice, broken and pleading, sounded through the empty church : " I have loved the habitation of thy house and the place where thine honor dwelleth. . . . Why is the house of God forsaken ? Hear my prayer, O Lord, and let my cry come unto thee." Was the shaft of light from the setting sun which streamed through the dusty window and f A NARROW DOOR. 19 rested like a halo upon the bowed gray head an earnest of the blessing that was to come ? A few days afterward John Remington stood one Saturday afternoon in the church at Stony Ridge. The sun streamed in through unblind^d windows, revealing walls stained by leaks in the roof, bare floors and long lengths of rusty stove- pipe in all their forlornness. The pulpit was high, with steep steps ; the cushion worn and faded. Could anything be more wretched, thought the young minister. Not so did it appear to Mrs. Blake, who was acting the part of sexton. The old church was glorified in her eyes, for once more there stood in it one of God's servants. Her prayer had been answered, her heart sang for joy, her face shone. "The very dust is sort o' precious," she mur- mured, as she shook out her dusting-rag. Mrs. Blake had trudged many a mile that week to spread the notice far and wide that there would be preaching on the following Sabbath. When the morning had really come, and a respectable congregation were gathered, she sat trembling with delight as she joined her quavering voice in the first hymn. Surely it was a day to sing — ** How pleasant, how divinely fair, O Lord of hosts, thy dwellings are." The remnants of a choir had been mustered, and they had asked the privilege of selecting the 20 JOHN REMINGTON, MARTYR. ill !1 t first two hymns lest the strange minister might chance upon a tune which was not in their reper- toire. The first two lines were such a sarcasm on the dreary surroundings that Mr. Remington for- got where he was, and found himself smiling. But then Mrs. Blake as she sang had no reference to earthly " dwellings." It was the -nseen and the beyond. The sermon was simple and earnest, suited to the needs of the hearers and refreshing to the heart of at least one old saint as cold water to a thirsty traveler. At the close of service Mr. Remington laid be- fore the congregation the proposition of the Board that if the church would raise two hundred dollars it should be supplemented by two hundred more to secure preaching at least a part of the time. '* Do not suppose, my friends," he said, '* that I have selfish motives in this. I am simply here to help you get on your feet again." There was the usual long silence with which any proposition is met in some country churches. Then Deacon Graves, a farmer, with small eyes close together, who made a good living and had money in the bank, said he didn't see how it was to be done ; that there were only a few in that church to bear all the burdens. He was willing to do his part — and that would be an infinitesimal part — but winter would be coming on before long, and it would take a good deal of wood to warm the I 1 A NARROW DOOR. n r might ir reper- casm on ;ton for- ig. But rence to and the uited to 5 to the ter to a laid be- le Board d dollars ed more ime. "that I here to h which lurches, all eyes and had w it was in that willing itesimal )re long, arm the old place. And why was it not just as well to read a sermon at home as it was to be at so much expense that they were not able to meet ? Deacon Graves had been the mouthpiece of that church for years. What he opposed could not succeed. In another moment a little wizened- up man who had just life enough to make motions would be sure to pop up and say, '* I move we ad- journ," and the short fat man by his side who always did that work would say in a wheezy voice, " I second the motion." A few scared hands would be half-way lifted in assent, and the thing would be done. In the silence a tall, white-haired woman, with strong features and youthful eyes, stood up and began to speak. There was a decided sensation. The sisters' voices were never heard in the con- claves of that church. It was Mrs. Blake. But what was she saying ? Like a prophetess of old her voice rang out, clear, and with a sort of ma- jesty which deep feeling produces in the voices of some persons. "How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of hosts. My soul longeth, yea, even fainteth for the courts of the house of the Lord : my heart and my flesh crieth out for the living God. . . . Blessed are they that dwell in thy house ; they will be still praising thee. . . . For a day in thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than to dwell ft Hi %i JOHN REMINGTON, MARTVR. in the tents of wickedness. . . . For the Lord God is a sun and shield : the Lord will give grace and glory : no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly. . . . Forsake not the assembling of yourselves together ; . . , We will not forsake the house of God. Brothers and sisters," she added, " these words say all that is in my heart far better than I could. I will be glad to give fifty dollars of the two hundred if you will make up the rest ; and I'll divide my wood with the church, too. It won't be a burden ; it'll be a dear privilege." Amazement sat on every face. No amount of good old-fashioned manners could hinder every eye in that church from turning itself to rest upon Mother Blake. They all knew she was poor. She had worn the same faded shawl and old bon- net — always, it seemed. How could she give so much ? It was just because of wearing the old shawl and bonnet that she could. Not one, even of the most inquisitive of Stony Ridge dwellers, knew that Mrs. Blake had a well-to-do niece, whose benevolence supplied her each year with fifty dollars for clothing. By means of much skillful management on the part of the minister, which would have done credit to an accomplished financier, and some effective exhortations on the duty of each one to give some- thing, if it were but a dime, and to give as they had been prospered, a little more than the required i i A NARROW DOOR. 23 he Lord ve grace )ld from ; not the We will lers and hat is in be glad you will )od with t'll be a aount of :very eye jst upon as poor. old bon- give so the old ne, even Iwellers, niece, sar with on the le credit effective ^e some- as they required amount was pledged, in sums of from one to twenty dollars, Deacon Graves giving exactly ten times as much as he ever had before. Some of the officers waked up, too, and asked the minister to preach to them as long as he could. Mr. Remington was one of those men who can not sec a broken-down anything, whether it were a church or a man, without having his sympathies enlisted at once to try to save. After a month of preaching on Sabbath and visitation about t^he surrounding country, he felt assured that there was a future for the church, especially as it was quite certain that a factory was to be established there at an early day. He began to ponder upon ways and means for improving the building. His mind nlled with the irlea, he strolled out one morning to take a look at the dilapidated struct- ure. Gazing up at it reflectively, he became con- scious of the presence of another person. The two men were not acquainted, though each knew the other at a glance. Mr. Remington knew that the rather stout man with florid complexion and iron-gray hair and beard was Mr. Hargrave, owner of large quarries and dealer in stone in the city he had himself just left, and Mr. Har- grave knew the history of the Kensett Square Church and the reasons for the young pastor's dismissal. Mr. Hargrave had come up to Stony Ridge to look after an old farm to which he had lately fallen iii' 24 JOHN REMINGTON, MARTYR. mi m ' t heir, and to consider the feasibility of establishing a quarry on some of its granite hills. *• Pretty well played out, isn't it ? " he said, nodding toward the church, after they had shaken hands and introduced themselves. "Yes," Mr. Remington replied, "but it is not hopeless. They tell me the frame is good. Some new shingles and paint would make a vast differ- ence with it. The steps need repairing, too. It is strange somebody has not done that before. A few boards and nails would make that all right in a short time. I could do it myself. I am going to try to help them to some repairs — raise a little money for them, if possible," Mr. Hargrave had met with some experiences which made him cynical toward ministers. He believed that many of them were instrumental in binding heavy burdens upon churches which they themselves would not lift with one of their fingers. He had made his fortune by hard work, and had almost a contempt for one who could not or would not work with his hands. There was a facetious side to him, too, which enjoyed a bit of humor. He expected the next minute to be asked for a large donation to this church — ministers were not at all backward in that way. But John Reming- ton seemed to have no intention of that kind at present. He was examining the support of the steps with a critical air. Mr. Hargrave looked at the white hands and well-fitting black suit of the I i A NAKROW DOOR. «! minister, then, with a half-malicious twinkle in his eye, said : "You think you could do it yourself, do you? I'll give you two days to finish the job. If [t'< well done and you do it, I'll pay for the lumber and nails, and give you a check of two hundred dollars to fix up the church." '• Agreed ! " said the minister, with a flash in his eye that Mr. Hargrave liked. CHAPTER II. MADE OVER. I iiiii i il!i:'l k MR. REMINGTON invested a small sum in a pair of overalls, secured his lumber and tools, took off his coat, and went to work. Thanks to Aunt Hannah's training, the work was not so new to him as might have been supposed, and the job was finished at the specified time, to Mr. Har- grave's entire satisfaction. He especially admired the skillful manner in which a piece had been set in at the end of one of the steps which had but a small hole in it, and did not seem to require a whole board. " That patch is worth fifty dollars," he declared, and increased his check by that amount. The steps improved and money in hand, Mr. Remington was eager to begin at once to make other repairs, especially as the church people waked up as they had not for fifty years. With full confidence in the minister's ability to do any- thing well, they put the management of the repairs into his hands. Those mended steps challenged their admiration, and produced a more favorable 26 i MADE OVER. 2; 5um m er and rhanks not so ind the r. Har- dmired en set but a whole dared, d, Mr. make people With io any- repairs lenged /orable m impression than a profound sermon could possibly have done. Mr. Remington wrote home that he should not return for several days, giving so enthusiastic an account of his field of labor and Mrs. Blake's sub- scription, that Aunt Hannah was moved to add fifty dollars to the fund. " Three hundred dollars will go a good ways if wisely spent," the minister told himself. To that end he enlisted all who v.^ere "cunning workmen " to help shingle or paint. One of the men was a painter by trade. He was to have full wages and direct those who volunteered to give labor as their contribution A goodly force assembled one morning to begin work, among them the minister, armed with a paint-brush, his wardrobe increased by a jacket which matched the overalls. " There's good grit in that fellow," Mr. Hargrave remarked to himself as he watched the painters, and noted that not a brush among the amateur workers was handled with such skill and vigor as the minister's. Such fascinating work as it was to make over a church ! When the outside of it was in order, the " boss," as the men took to calling him, set them to work on the lawn, cleaning out weeds, sodding it where needed and laying a good walk in front, while he went off to the city to buy paper for the walls. And behold, just as he was leaving, a note from Mr. Hargrave said : :m ,|l:^i I;; Mi 28 JOHN REMINGTON, MARTYR. " The old church is taking on airs. She must be all * glorious within ' as well as without. What- ever she needs to make her comfortable in the way of carpets, etc., please buy and send the bills t& me »> Perhaps the stern man of business had tender memories connected with the church where his old father and mother had worshiped, or it may be he had an eye to the coming population which the new industries about to be established would surely bring, or it may have been a mere whim of an ec- centric man to please the young minister to whom he had taken a fancy. Purchases so important required Mrs. Reming- ton's nice taste, so she met her husband in the city, and together they ransacked stores. They were exceedingly particular as to tints, tones and effects, and enjoyed the whole business like two children. Behold the church of Stony Ridge, one Septem- ber morning, transfigured ! A very Quaker it was in pale gray, trimmed with a darker tint. Inside, too, the walls and woodwork were of gray, from dark stone, shading to a soft creamy tint, with a ceiling of pale green, meeting on the walls in a band of dark green. The carpet was only ingrain in shades cf green, but it looked like bright moss. Green Venetian blinds shaded the windows, and the pulpit wore a new dress of dark green plush. A chandelier took the place of two or three smoky MADE OVER. 29 ; must What- he way )ills !£► tender ire his nay be ch the surely an ec- whom eming- in the They es and iQ two 2ptem- it was nside, , from with a s in a ngrain moss. s, and plush, smoky lamps, and the stove-pipes had disappeared, the rusty stoves having given place to an excellent furnace which Mr. Remington got for half-price at a hardware firm where the proprietor was inter- ested in struggling churches. He specially re- joiced in that purchase, the grim stoves and long stove-pipes had so emphasized the dreariness. The morning the church was reopened for ser- vice it was nearly filled. Farmers' wagons, with generous loads of people, had driven early into town as they did on gala days. Evidently there was no trouble about gathering a congregation in Stony Ridge, provided there was sufficient attrac- tion. It was a surprise to each one as they stepped in out of a glare of sunshine to the new, clean, cool place, with the soft air and fragrance of flowers. Mrs. Blake sat and took it all in, sang hallelujahs in her soul, and cast admiring glances at the young wife of the minister who had come over for the occasion. Then the first hymn aroused her, and she joined with rapture in the words — " How pleasant, how divinely fair, O Lord of hosts, thy dwellings are." Mr. Remington chose it, remembering they sang it that first dreary Sabbath when it seemed to mock them. Many a tired-out man and woman took heart again and lifted up their heads in hope, as prayer and sermon fitted to their needs took hold upon them. It was blessed to hear the song, I 30 JOHN REMINGTON, MARTYR. 1 !i strong and triumphant, go up again, and voices unused to praise joined in: " O God, our help in ages past, Our strength in years to come; Our refuge from the stormy blast. And our eternal home." ! m U:i ilhjiii^ !i How safe and sweet and pure the sanctuary seemed that morning even to the careless ! What a fair type it was of the eternal home ! By this time Mr. Remington had forgotten all about dis- appointing letters and wide fields of labor, so absorbed had he become in making things over at Stony Ridge. He began to consider the question of settling down there, and went so far as to ask his wife if she could ever consent to it. They talked it over one day at Mapleton while they gathered chestnuts. "The people are perfectly devoted to me," he said. "The country-side is thickly populated, and it is now a settled thing that a factory is to be established there, as well as a stone quarry." ** I don't wonder they are devoted to you," his wife said ; "you come there and wave a magician's wand over a tumble-down old church in a weedy lot, and behold, all is changed. There it stands now in a dignified gray dress, with a lovely lawn in front, and that grand elm — what a mercy it is there, hiding the boxy shape — the neatest, pret- tiest country church within and without that can Mil' i MADE OVER. 31 voices ictuary What By this )Ut dis- bor, so over at uestion to ask They i they ne," he ed, and ) to be )ii," his [ician's weedy stands y lawn :y it is t, pret- lat can 1 ■J be found. It really is a sweet place inside. Those forays and greens together have just the effect I wished. It would be interesting to work among factory people, and almost make a church as it were from the very beginning, but I fear we should grow as lean and cadaverous as Dr. Brown himself, trying to live on the salary he mentioned. I understand now what ails him ; he was starved in his youth." " I could supplement it by writing some articles for religious papers. You know I have been in- vited to do so," Mr. Remington said, half-doubt- fully ; '* but it would seem that in these years of strength I might do more work than this place calls for at present Still, how do we know what is important work .'' The thing, after all, is to do the will of the Master. If he closes other wide doors and opens this narrow one, he must mean that I shall go in and stay until he sends me else- where. He may see that I am not fitted for a different place. But my city-bred wife will be dreary in a country place like that } " " Now, John, you know you want me to make a fine speech and say that no place can possibly be dreary while you are in it, but I shall not humor you, and I shall put my consent to live in Stony Ridge on a higher ground. When I knew that I had given myself to a minister, I promised that I would never be a hindrance in his work; that I would school myself to go cheerfully wherever he i M m III 32 JOHN REMINGTON, MARTYR. thought he ought to go. John dear, don't you suppose the Master's will is, in the main, the greatest thing in life to me, too, even though I am so full of faults ? " The tone was wistful. "You darling!" exclaimed John ; "you are a brave woman. As to faults, your Father in Heaven and I both know that mine far outnumber yours." It was not an easy thing for either husband or wife to do — to put on this garment of humility, to cast aside ambitions, the hope of filling a high place and bearing an honored name as the years went on. And it was trying to human nature to be thrust aside from a city pulpit, with its good salary and other attractive features, and, with rising popularity and no mean gifts as an orator, to take this obscure place, with a mere pittance to live on. But the decision was made in good faith and with no thought but that, if the people desired it, they should make Stony Ridge their home for years. For the present they allowed Aunt Hannah to carry out her plans for them; that Martha and the baby should remain with her, and that John should divide his time between the two places. The only objection to the plan was the danger of spoiling the minister. Petted by ?.ll the good old women of Stony Ridge the last half of the week and wel- comed with delight each Monday by two other fond souls, might destroy his humility. Two months passed away and then Mr. Rem- '•f I MADE OVER. 33 I't you in, the h I am 1 are a Heaven yours." oand or ility, to a high e years re to be d salary I rising to take live on. nd with it, they l^ears. nah to and the should le only poiling women nd wel- other -. Rem- ington did not appear one Monday morning. In- stead came a letter saying : " I cannot come home this week. The most remarkable thing is happening here. I find my- self in the midst of a wonderful revival. I had noticed as I went about visiting the people that they were unusually ready to speak upon the subject of religion. Yesterday the house was thronged. Many were in tears during the ser- vice, though the sermon was of the most unexcit- in^r character from the text, * Lovest thou me } * In the evening we held a prayer meeting after the sermon, and almost every one remained. Many asked to be prayed for. They seemed broken in spirit and eager for instruction. It was easy work to direct them how to be saved, for the way was all prepared. This is not the result of my few sermons or visits ; it is a wonderful visitation of the Spirit in answer to some saint's prayer of faith, possibly Mrs. Blake's or Aunt Hannah's, or both. And I thought my field narrow ! God forgive me and fit me to labor in it. To think so great a joy should come to me ! " The work went on through the winter. Mr. Remington found little time to spend at Mapleton. The meetings, after the first three weeks, were not according to the usual plan of such work — a spas- modic effort lasting night and day for months, till soul and body were utterly worn out, to be fol- lowed by a reaction, mischievous and deplorable. i f < 1 J m ■k F^ 34 JOHN KKMIN(iTON, MARTYR. |1|lh|ii when Satan would smile to himself to see good people backslide into fretfulness, gloom or stupid- ity ; when they would berate themselves as cold and without a particle of grace. And all because the poor nerves, strained to the utmost in the late hours and excesses of the past weeks, had snapped. It is a pity that God's people will sometimes for- get that they have bodies as well as souls. The enemy loves to have it so. The young minister must have had special wis- dom bestowed upon him for the skillful manage- ment of this work. He made many calls, not in a perfunctory way, but with something of that gracioua sympathy which Christ must have pos- sessed, making people feel at once that he was a friend of theirs ; and he preached no sermons but such as might be expected to produce immediate results. There was the usual Sabbath-morning service, and in the afternoon the young people v/ere gathered for an hour. ** Christian Ethics " the minister called it, and they liked the sound of it ; but he talked to them of what he thought they needed most, or explained to them some of the doctrines, especially regeneration and faith. The weekly prayer meeting was followed by an inquiry meeting, as was also a young people's v/eekly meeting. Great care was taken to select and cir- culate attractive religious books through the parish. And here one had need of great discernment to fit the right book or tract to the right person. If •I I MADK OVI'.K. 35 c good stupid- is cold »ecausc he late lapped, jes for- ;. The ;ial wis- nanage- , not in of that Lve pos- e was a ons but mediate norning people Ethics " ound of ht they of the The inquiry v/eekly and cir- e parish. ment to son, If 1. sure that James' "Anxious Inquirer" or Baxter's ** Call " or Bunyan's " Come and Welcome " would not be read by certain persons, then there was a wide field to choose from to secure an excel- lent religious story, from ** Pilgrim's Progress " down to Miss Warner's " Queechy " and "Old Helmet." Where did the money come from ? The minis- ter devoted some of his tenth of the past year to it, and in his former parish was a woman who spent hundreds of dollars annually in sending good books and papers where they were needed. He considered it just as indispensable to have them as for a farmer to lay in a stock of good seed when the ground is prepared. He insured iends." Sometimes the whole conscreecation was asked to [read through, during the week, a certain book in «'4 I ll ll 36 JOHN KKMINGTON, MAKTYK. the Bible, as Romans or Hebrews, and try to find the special subject treated of. Or, a theme like the I'rodij^al Son was given out for prayer meetinj:^, and each asked to state in a sentence or two what struck him most forcibly in the parable. The re- sults were that the people aroused from the apath'^ which settles over the monotonous village a'ld farm life in a country community, and were kept awake mentally and spiritually. In short, this wise minister's aim was to have a revival in his church that would go on through all the year. It was spring at Mapleton. An unmistakable spring day ! If the robin's song had not told you of it, the pussy-willow in her silver suit would have said it long before, or the apple-tree's gnarled old branches blossoming out in pink and white, or the lilac's white and lavender in old-fashioned sweetness, or the breezes, would have whispered it : that soft, delicious, indescribable, witching air with hints, in its odors, of new grass, of spicy woods, and mint and thyme, and what not, mak- ing one feel that he can run and jump and fly and do anything but settle down to steady practicalities. Mrs. Remington was on the piazza giving little John a lesson in walking. The small rogue was in high glee. His white flannel dress was daintily held up by thumb and finger, and when with a desperate effort one chubby foot after the other was thrust out and brought down with a thump, he 1 i MADR OVER. 37 to find ic like cctinj::, what rhe rc- apath^/ ge and re kept rt, this [ in his ;ar. stakable :old you : would gnarled 1 white, .shioned lispered f spicy )t, mak- i\p and steady tig little orue was daintily with a le other lump, he shouted and showed all his ten white teeth in dimpling smiles. The next minute the other member of this little family appeared, coming up the long walk from the gate, satchel in hand, and Baby John actually took three steps alone in his haste to be gathered up into the strong arms and held aloft. "This sort of life has its compensations," Mr. Remington said, as he took both wife and baby into his arms at once. " It is so delicious to get home to you. I never in all my life looked for- ward to any pleasure as I do to this." "John, don't you think, baby can talk!" his wife said, as soon as the greetings were over. " You know his shoes have silver buckles on. Aunt Hannah said over and over again to him one day when she was dressing him: 'See the buckle! Pretty buckle!' And behold, the next morning when he awoke he sat up and looked around and said : * Buckle ! * And when he sees anything new he gazes at it a while, then draws a long breath and says in a solemn way : 'Buckle!'" " Who knows but he is talking about the great author of that name, and thinking wise, deep thoughts ? " said Baby's father, adding : " What a noble, beautiful boy he is ! It doesn't seem pos- I sible he belongs to us. Don't you worship him, [ dear, will you ? else he can't stay with us." " I don't seem to be the one in most dansfer of It; i ii'i I 'i.i t I 38 JOllhJ RKMtNr.TON, MARTYR. committing that sin just at present," the young mother replied demurely. Hut her husband did not retort. He was resting his eyes with the sight of mother and child, enjoy- ing one of those rarely blissful moments in a man's life when it seems that the cup is full, and there is nothing more to ask. " I have a letter from Elsie Chilton," said Mrs. Remington presently, and she read scraps of it between Baby's shouts and crows while he and his father played a game of •* peek-a-boo." •' You clear people, I am hungry for a sight of you " [it began]. " I should have written long ago to let you know that I have not been 'good,' as the children say. You always think better of me than I am, so I feel as if I ought to confess. After my step- mother's death, I had many burdens laid upon me in the care of the younger children. I don't think I was patient. I fretted a good deal at my lot, and, though I tried, I was not always entirely cheerful and helpful in this gloomy house. Things are better with us now. Aunt Emily, father's sister, has come to live with us, and be at the head of the house. You do not know her. She was very fond of my own mother, but after my second mother cime here she did not visit us because they were not quite con- genial. She is the dearest auntie in the world, loving and wise and self-reliant. I feel so rested since she came, as if a great weight of responsibility had rolled off me. She calms and soothes us all with her saintly face and gentle ways. I think I shall be a better Christian now. liut I think I can hear Mr. Remington saying that it is a very poor sort of religion which flourishes only in sunshine and when all goes smoothly. I am glad there are Christians of another sort. It is such a comfort to me that you and Mr. Remington will not stop praying for my father, even though he was foremost in having you leave us. T do not think he is quite ?o bitter toward temperance workers as he used to be. MAHF. OVF.R. 39 pi He does not call mc to account so often, though he knows I have sung in Kurn Kedpath's gospel temperance meetings two or three times. I'crhaps it is because his thoughts are absorbed in another way. That dear girl is going on just the same. She is working now among the women in the penitentiary. I want you to know her better some lime. •' Do you know I hea^d soTiething the other day which gave me great joy.' Some one told me that there is to be a new organiza- tion of our church at the West I'ind, and they are talking of Mr. Remington to take charge of it. Won't that be lovely ? You would be sure to come, would you not ? " "Would you ?*' asked Mrs. Remington, looking up into her husband's face. t i! I' 11 s\i] I I I . « I'M m iC: i i 1 ' 1 P'l CHAPTER III. TO THE FRONT. THE summer had but just begun when Mr. Remington received a letter from Mr. Har- grave, saying : " At last we have perfected our new organization on the West Side, and are about to build. What next? We want you, and we mean to have you. The desire is unanimous. I say 'we' be- cause I expect to rent our present home and build on the West Side, on account of the greater healthfulness of that part of the city. My relations, as you may know, have been with the Central Church. " You can come to us without the preliminaries of trial ser- mons, etc. Many of the people on this side have often heard you preach, and, for my own part, I think I wou!d consent to receive a man of as good pluck as yours, even if I had not heard you preach two excellent sermons at Stony Ridge." [Then followed propositions as to the terms, and a house to live in until the parsonage should be completed, which seemed generous indeed.] " We shall not be ready to receive you [he said] before Sep- tember. Our chrtoel will be completed by that time. " Do not. I beg of you, scruple to accept this on account of leaving Stony Ridge. You have done a good work for them, and another can carry them along. A man of your gifts should have a wider swee]!. To tell the truth, I have forestalled any objec- tions you might have to leaving the church alone at a critical 40 TO THE FRONT. 41 time, by conferring with my friend Dr. Ray, who has recommended to me a young man just from the seminary, who can better live on the small salary they can afford, and who is just the man for them unless you should know of somebody else." IP^- TP 1 i 1