Daisy
a banner before me on which it was blazoned.
I was so ashamed, and sorry, and glad, all at once, that I fell down
on my knees there, on the stone matted floor, and gave up the world
from my heart and for ever, and stretched out my hands for the wealth
that does not perish and the blessing that has no sorrow with it.
I was afraid to stay long on my knees; but I could hardly get my eyes
dry again, I was so glad and so sorry. I remember I was wiping a tear
or two away when Miss Cardigan came in. She greeted me kindly.
"There's a new rose out, did ye see it?" she said; "and this blue
hyacinth has opened its flowers. Isn't that bonny?"
"What is _bonny_, ma'am?" I asked.
Miss Cardigan laughed, the heartiest, sonsiest low laugh.
"There's a many things the Lord has made bonny," she said. "I thank
Him for it. Look at these violets--they're bonny; and this sweet red
rose." She broke it off the tree and gave it to me. "It's bad that it
shames your cheeks so. What's the matter wi' 'em, my bairn?"
Miss Cardigan's soft finger touched my cheek as she spoke; and the
voice and tone of the question were so gently, tenderly kind that it
was pleasant to answer. I said I had not been very strong.
"Nor just weel in your mind. No, no. Well, what did the flowers say to
you to-day, my dear? Eh? They told you something?"
"Oh yes!" I said.
"Did they tell you that 'the Lord is good; a stronghold in the day of
trouble; and he knoweth them that trust in Him?'"
"Oh yes," I said, looking up at her in surprise. "How did you know?"
For all answer, Miss Cardigan folded her two arms tight about me and
kissed me with earnest good will.
"But they told me something else," I said, struggling to command
myself;--"they told me that I had _not_ 'trusted in Him.'"
"Ah, my bairn!" she said. "But the Lord is good."
There was so much both of understanding and sympathy in her tones, that
I had a great deal of trouble to control myself. I felt unspeakably
happy too, that I had found a friend that could understand. I was
silent, and Miss Cardigan looked at me.
"Is it all right, noo?" she asked.
"Except _me_,--" I said with my eyes swimming.
"Ah, well!" she said. "You've seen the sky all black and covered with
the thick clouds--that's like our sins: but, 'I have blotted out as a
thick cloud thy transgressions, and as a cloud thy sins.' You know how
it is when the wind comes and clears the clouds all off, and you can
look up through the blue, till it seems as if your eye would win into
heaven itself. Keep the sky clear, my darling, so that you can always
see up straight to God, with never the fleck of a cloud between. But
do you ken what will clear the clouds away?"
And I looked up now with a smile and answered, "'The precious blood of
Christ'"--for the two texts had been close together in one of the
pages of my little book not long before.
Miss Cardigan clapped her hands together softly and laughed. "Ye've
got it!" she said. "Ye have gotten the pearl of great price. And where
did ye find it, my dear?"
"I had a friend, that taught me in a Sunday-school, four years ago,--"
I said.
"Ah, there weren't so many Sunday-schools in my day," said Miss
Cardigan. "And ye have found, maybe, that this other sort of a school,
that ye have gotten to now, isn't helpful altogether? Is it a rough
road, my bairn?"
"It is my own fault," I said, looking at her gratefully. The tender
voice went right into my heart.
"Well, noo, ye'll just stop and have tea with me here; and whenever
the way is rough, ye'll come over to my flowers and rest yourself. And
rest me too; it does me a world o' good to see a young face. So take
off your coat, my dear, and let us sit down and be comfortable."
I was afraid at first that I could not; I had no liberty to be absent
at tea-time. But Miss Cardigan assured me I should be home in good
season; the school tea was at seven, and her own was always served at
six. So very gladly, with an inexpressible sense of freedom and
peace, I took off my coat and gloves, and followed my kind friend back
to the parlour where her fire was burning. For although it was late in
April, the day was cool and raw; and the fire one saw nowhere else was
delightful in Miss Cardigan's parlour.
Every minute of that afternoon was as bright as the fire glow. I sat
in the midst of that, on an ottoman, and Miss Cardigan, busy between
her two tables, made me very much interested in her story of some
distressed families for whom she was working. She asked me very little
about my own affairs; nothing that the most delicate good breeding did
not warrant; but she found out that my father and mother were at a
great distance from me, and I almost alone, and she gave me the
freedom of her house. I was to come there whenever I could and liked;
whenever I wanted to "rest my feet," as she said; especially I might
spend as much of every Sunday with her as I could get leave for. And
she made this first afternoon so pleasant to me with her gentle
beguiling talk, that the permission to come often was like the
entrance into a whole world of comfort. She had plenty to talk about;
plenty to tell, of the poor people to whom she and others were
ministering; of plans and methods to do them good; all which somehow
she made exceedingly interesting. There was just a little accent to
her words, which made them, in their peculiarity, all the more sweet
to me; but she spoke good English; the "noo" which slipped out now and
then, with one or two other like words, came only, I found, at times
when the fountain of feeling was more full than ordinary, and so
flowed over into the disused old channel. And her face was so fresh,
rosy, round and sweet, withal strong and sound, that it was a
perpetual pleasure to me.
As she told her stories of New York needy and suffering, I mentally
added my poor people at Magnolia, and began to wonder with myself, was
all the world so? Were these two spots but samples of the whole? I got
into a brown study, and was waked out of it by Miss Cardigan's "What
is it, my dear?"
"Ma'am?" I said.
"Ye are studying some deep question," she said, smiling. "Maybe it's
too big for you."
"So it is," said I, sighing. "Is it so everywhere, Miss Cardigan?"
"So how, my bairn?"
"Is there so much trouble everywhere in the world?"
Her face clouded over.
"Jesus said, 'The poor ye have always with you, and whensoever ye will
ye may do them good.'"
"But that is what I don't understand about," I said. "_How much_ ought
one to do, Miss Cardigan?"
There came a ray of infinite brightness over her features; I can
hardly describe it; it was warm with love, and bright with pleasure,
and I thought sparkled with a little amusement.
"Have you thought upon that?" she said.
"Yes," I said,--"very much."
"It is a great question!" she said, her face becoming grave again.
"I know," I said, "of course one ought to do all one can. But what I
want to know is, how much one _can_. How much ought one to spend, for
such things?"
"It's a great question," Miss Cardigan repeated, more gravely than
before. "For when the King comes, to take account of His servants, He
will want to know what we have done with every penny. Be sure, He
will."
"Then how can one tell?" said I, hoping earnestly that now I was going
to get some help in my troubles. "How can one know? It is very
difficult."
"I'll no say it's not difficult," said Miss Cardigan, whose thoughts
seemed to have gone into the recesses of her own mind. "Dear, its nigh
our tea-time. Let us go in."
I followed her, much disappointed, and feeling that if she passed the
subject by so, I could not bring it up again. We went through to the
inner room; the same from which the glass door opened to the flowers.
Here a small table was now spread. This room was cosy. I had hardly
seen it before. Low bookcases lined it on every side; and above the
bookcases hung maps; maps of the city and of various parts of the
world where missionary stations were established. Along with the maps,
a few engravings and fine photographs. I remember one of the
Colosseum, which I used to study; and a very beautiful engraving of
Jerusalem. But the one that fixed my eyes this first evening, perhaps
because Miss Cardigan placed me in front of it, was a picture of
another sort. It was a good photograph, and had beauty enough besides
to hold my eyes. It showed a group of three or four. A boy and girl in
front, handsome, careless, and well-to-do, passing along, with
wandering eyes. Behind them and disconnected from them by her dress
and expression, a tall woman in black robes with a baby on her breast.
The hand of the woman was stretched out with a coin which she was
about dropping into an iron-bound coffer which stood at the side of
the picture. It was "the widow's mite;" and her face, wan, sad, sweet,
yet loving and longing, told the story. The two coins were going into
the box with all her heart.
"You know what it is?" said my hostess.
"I see, ma'am," I replied; "it is written under."
"That box is the Lord's treasury."
"Yes, ma'am," I said,--"I know."
"Do you remember how much that woman gave?"
"Two mites,"--I said.
"It was something more than that," said my hostess. "It was more than
anybody else gave that day. Don't you recollect? It was _all her
living_."
I looked at Miss Cardigan, and she looked at me. Then my eyes went
back to the picture, and to the sad yet sweet and most loving face of
the poor woman there.
"Ma'am," said I, "do you think people that are _rich_ ought to give
all they have?"
"I only know, my Lord was pleased with her," said Miss Cardigan
softly; "and I always think I should like to have Him pleased with me
too."
I was silent, looking at the picture and thinking.
"You know what made that poor widow give her two mites?" Miss Cardigan
asked presently.
"I suppose she wanted to give them," I said.
"Ay," said my hostess, turning away,--"she loved the Lord's glory
beyond her own comfort. Come, my love, and let us have some tea. She
gave all she had, Miss Daisy, and the Lord liked it; do ye think you
and me can do less?"
"But that is what I do not understand," I said, following Miss
Cardigan to the little tea-table, and watching with great comfort the
bright unruffled face which promised to be such a help to me.
"Now you'll sit down there," said my hostess, "where you can see my
flowers while I can see you. It's poor work eating, if we cannot look
at something or hear something at the same time; and maybe we'll do
the two things. And ye'll have a bit of honey--here it is. And Lotty
will bring us up a bit of hot toast--or is bread the better, my dear?
Now ye're at home; and maybe you'll come over and drink tea with me
whenever you can run away from over there. I'll have Lotty set a place
for you. And then, when ye think of the empty place, you will know you
had better come over and fill it. See--you could bring your study book
and study here in this quiet little corner by the flowers."
I gave my very glad thanks. I knew that I could often do this.
"And now for the 'not understanding,'" said Miss Cardigan, when tea
was half over. "How was it, my dear?"
"I have been puzzled," I said, "about giving--how much one ought to
give, and how much one ought to spend--I mean for oneself."
"Well," said Miss Cardigan brightly, "we have fixed that. The poor
woman gave _all her living_."
"But one must spend _some_ money for oneself," I said. "One must have
bonnets and cloaks and dresses."
"And houses, and books, and pictures," said Miss Cardigan, looking
around her. "My lamb, let us go to the Bible again. That says,
'whether ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of
God.' So I suppose we must buy cloaks and bonnets on the same