So Dick watched the "new gait," and Adele prayed that it might be a walk worthy of the Lord.

Meantime Hubert was pursuing his study of divinity in a normal way—with an open Bible and the Spirit of the Author to interpret. He sought also the fellowship of His people and deep was his perplexity as he found into how many countless sects the "one body" had been divided. Very contrary to the Bible it seemed, but very helplessly he stood before the fact that seemed as hopeless of remedy as of denial. What ought he, one unit among the whole, to do about it? Kindly people sought to draw him into their various fellowships, and he peered into their folds and sought to find the place where his Lord was most honored and His presence most manifest. He found old churches, great and cold, whose service moved with slumbrous calm, and his ardent soul was chilled. He found others where activity bristled and cheerfulness prevailed, but where the world held court as obvious as in the market square; and from these he turned away with a still sharper grief. He found other congregations built in strife and schism, but with some fragrance still of the name of Jesus Christ, and rejoiced that He was preached.

"'They feared the Lord and served their own gods,'" he said to himself, as almost everywhere he saw the strange mingling of worship of the true God with the too patent service of the gods of pleasure and of wealth.

He found little companies, gathered in protest from shameless worldliness or infidel denial of the Lord, and with them he had sympathy, but still looked hungrily for a fuller expression of the truth than they offered. He found himself in companies where correct, punctilious statements of the truth abounded, and where the most careful zeal sought to restore an apostolic order of worship. But he found that the statements grew dry and juiceless in their formal exactness, and that prescribed form could not insure the animating Spirit without which it was as useless as the phylacteries of the Pharisees. He concluded that truth was deeper and fresher than any definitions of it, as the fountain excels the cistern; and that life was sovereign over form, though in form it embody itself.

He found perfection nowhere. After a disappointing meeting, the climax of a series of experiences in which arguments from various schools of doctrine had jostled against each other, and the varying phases of practice, emotional, anti-emotional, informal and ritualistic, with the intervening shades of difference, had presented themselves, he stood in the veranda at home with Winifred and described to her the procession of rival claims which a divided church presents to a Christian man's adherence, and ended with the question:

"Where shall we find the truth, Winifred?"

"In Christ," she answered simply.

"You are right, wise little sister," he said admiringly. "And there we will look for it."

He turned from his quest for perfection in any detachment of the church and sought the place where God would have him, not alone for the green pasture to be found but for the testimony to be given. Deeper lessons were learned as time advanced—lessons of "grace" as well as "truth." Keen discrimination was tempered by love toward that Body which, though distorted and maimed, was still beloved by her Lord, and though besieged by error was still "the pillar and ground of the truth."



CHAPTER XIV

A "WITLESS, WORTHLESS LAMB"

The air at Silverguile Lake did not altogether agree with Mrs. Gray. Rheumatic damps rose from the water, and the mornings were chilly and uncomfortable. The inane round of dressing, eating, appearing in the veranda, taking the daily drive, and other mild etcetera, grew irksome; and, beyond all, the faces of the dear ones at home were longed for. Winifred came for a few days, and then the place brightened like a cloudy day that surprises the world with sunshine at its close.

Mrs. Gray was far from well when the home journey was undertaken, and Winifred looked at her with apprehension. But they traveled comfortably and reached home in the evening where welcome waited. But an alarming chill overtook the mother before she had retired that night, and the doctor was hastily summoned. The chill was a harbinger of serious illness, and the cheerful house became shrouded in dread of coming sorrow. Winifred devoted herself eagerly to her mother, but professional skill was needed also. The telephone rang frequent calls from the office during the anxious days to inquire for the loved patient, and life for the time was enveloped in the one painful query: Will mother live?

The doctor gave sparing reports, but careful directions. Winifred moved about the house with a pale face and frightened eyes, until the doctor told her that she evidently needed his services also, and that she must not let her mother see her with that face. Then she fled to her room and poured out her pitiful need to God, and begged His grace for calm and cheerfulness. With unfailing faithfulness He gave her what she asked, and she went back to minister with Him at hand to help.

"Winnie, dear, is that you?" said a faint voice from the bed.

"Yes, mother."

"Come here, dear, let me look at you."

Winifred went and sat beside her where they could look into each other's faces.

"Dear, do you think I am very ill? Does the doctor say so?"

"He has not said much, mother. But he is taking every care."

"Yes, I see. What do you think, child?"

"I do not know, mother. But we hope you are getting on as well as possible."

"Winnie," said she again, and her voice came with difficulty, "I think I am very ill. I have had sickness before, but not like this. Things seem slipping away."

Winifred's eyes filled with tears, but she forced them back. "Do not think that, mother," she pleaded.

"They are all slipping away," insisted the sick woman. "Every one—father, Hubert, you—everyone—everything I know—all slipping away."

Winifred looked to her invisible Companion in an agony of entreaty for her mother. Presently Mrs. Gray's voice again arose plaintively from the pillow:

"I am afraid—I am afraid, Winnie. I don't know—the things ahead! These,"—and her poor hands closed themselves over the counterpane as though they would try to hold the tangible, known things—"are slipping away, and I—am afraid."

"God never slips away," whispered Winifred.

"No?" queried the mother. "But I—can't—see Him! I don't—know Him."

So the secret, before unconfessed and unrealized, came out at last. She did not know Him. The church, the service, the minister,—the external routine of a nominally Christian life, all was slipping away into a mist of past that could not be retained. And now the soul stood, a terror-stricken stranger, before the things not known.

"I am afraid," repeated the faint voice.

Winifred longed for words of comfort, but they did not seem at hand.

The white-robed nurse came into the room with a little air of professional authority. "I think our patient should not talk any more just now," she said, and Winifred retired.

She met Hubert in the hall and drew him to her own little sitting-room, where they pleaded with God together for the eternal comfort of the beloved sufferer.

Evening came and Winifred was again by her mother's side.

"Winifred," said the gentle voice, stronger to-night for the increased fever.

"Yes, dear mother?"

"Winnie, dear, would you be afraid if—if you were ill—like me?—if you were going to—"

"To die," she was about to say, but she could not speak the word. She shivered instead, as though a cold wind had struck her.

Winifred did not wait for the unwelcome word.

"No—I think not, mother," she said simply.

"Why not? Is it not dark—what we do not know?"

"But I know God," said Winifred earnestly, "and Jesus Christ. And they are there—in the things we cannot see. The Apostle Paul said, 'For me to live is Christ; to die is gain.'"

The words brought no comfort. "'To live is Christ,'" repeated the sick one musingly. "If that were so—?" she was silent for a few moments, and then broke out hopelessly: "No, no! To live has not been Christ! It has been myself, and you all, and these things! It is not gain to die! It is loss!—loss!—loss of everything I know!"

Her voice rose excitedly, and her glistening fevered eyes looked about restlessly. Winifred feared that the nurse would come, and finding her worse, end the interview. So she prayed that God would calm the dear patient and give them both His needed grace for the hour. And He heard.

"Let me straighten your pillow, mother dear," she said, and suited the action to the word. Her mother clasped the deft hands that arranged things so comfortably, and looked long with yearning fondness into her daughter's face.

"Winnie," she said finally, "could you sing just a little for me?"

Winifred choked back a sob that tried to escape. "I will try," she said.

She brought a little stringed instrument that her mother loved, with which she sometimes accompanied her songs.

"What shall I sing?" she asked, seating herself beside the bed.

"I don't know," hesitated her mother.

"Would you like that little Scotch song from Sankey's book?"

"Oh, yes. That is very sweet."

So Winifred began the plaintive words:

"I am far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhiles For the langed-for hame bringin' an' my Faither's welcome smiles."

She began with a stern watch upon her own emotions. But, as she proceeded, from the sadness of the hour rose a longing in her soul for the "ain countrie" where no blight of death and tears are known, and it poured itself out in the song. She sang two of the long stanzas.

"I've His guid word o' promise that some gladsome day the King To His ain royal palace His banished hame will bring. Wi' heart and wi' een rinnin' ower we shall see The King in a' His beauty in oor ain countrie. Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, I wad fain be agangin' noo unto my Saviour's breast; For He gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me, An' carries them Himself to His ain countrie."

Mrs. Gray had been lying with closed eyes through which the tears forced their way. Now she interrupted:

"What does it say, Winifred? 'He gathers in His bosom?' Please sing those lines again."

So Winifred repeated:

"'For He gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me, And carries them Himsel' to His ain countrie.'"

"Thank you!" murmured the invalid with a sigh. "Is it true, Winnie?"

"Yes, mother, it is quite true."

"That is what—I have been." She was speaking again with difficulty, and her voice was very low, so that Winifred leaned forward to listen. "I've been—a 'witless, worthless lamb!' Will He—gather—me?"

"I know He will—if you trust Him!"

"How do you know, Winnie?"

"There is the Scripture, mother. There is the parable of the lost sheep, and then there is another word; 'All we, like sheep, have gone astray; we have turned everyone to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.'"

After a moment the weak voice spoke again:

"Winnie, you know Him; will you pray? Tell Him—I've taken—my own way,—a 'witless, worthless lamb!'"

Winifred slipped to her knees beside the bed and prayed; prayed with the greatest thankfulness she had ever known because she knew God, and prayed for the dearest object for which she had made request. She reminded God with great simplicity that He had laid the iniquity of us all who have wandered on His Anointed One, and begged Him to make good the virtue of that act to her poor mother. And the dying lady listened, and believed.

"Dear mother," said Winifred fondly, "do you not see that He will gather you?"

Mrs. Gray's head had sunk back contentedly in the pillows. She smiled faintly.

"Yes, I see it now," she said. "It is very true."

In a few moments she was asleep, and the nurse resumed her watch. But later in the night a quiet alarm summoned the little household to her chamber, and they watched for the moment of parting between the spirit and its fair tenement. Before it came she opened her eyes, and looked at them placidly. Her lips moved, and Winifred bent forward eagerly to catch their words.

"I—am—not—afraid'" they pronounced, and then closed their witness for this world forever.

The death of Mrs. Gray brought the first great sorrow to the house of Robert Gray. It did its work in the heart of each who remained. It smote the husband with a conviction of misspent years, of a united fellowship in the things that perish so miserably instead of in those things which remain when all else is shaken. Had he but led his gentle wife, as was his opportunity, in ways of the Spirit, how different might have been their record together. And now the end had come for one, with no "abundant entrance," no glad prospect of long-anticipated joys,

"Where the eye at last beholdeth What the heart has loved so long,"

but with the negative testimony of a fear relieved—of wrath averted, through the grace of a longsuffering God. They had been guilty together of the capital sin of an earth-centered life; and now the iron merchant, elder of the church though he was, awoke from his long dream of money getting and of earthly comfort to the reality of God, and of his obligation as a redeemed soul to Him. There crept an unfamiliar note of yearning sincerity into the prayers wherewith he took his heretofore formal part in the church prayer meeting, and it almost perceptibly thinned the frozen crust of the "icily regular" service. The men in his business noticed a new softness in his manner, and sometimes it emboldened them to speak to him of their own cares and sorrows, and they found sympathy.

Hubert grieved for his mother with the strength of an intense, reticent nature. But, as did also his sister, he found solace in God.

Winifred felt very keenly her mother's loss, missing the vanished hand from every part of the house where she now assumed her place, seeing everywhere reminders of her dainty touch and quiet taste, and longing for her voice yet more and more as the days went by. This great bereavement came so closely on the separation from one whom she never mentioned now, but who was far from forgotten, that often her heart seemed torn between the two sorrows. Sometimes waves of disheartenment came on cloudy days of testing, when the sun was hidden and life looked cheerless and hard. But anon the face of Jesus Christ broke through the clouds, and with the vision came always joy.

The three who were left drew more closely to each other, and despite their sorrow found a sweetness of comfort together never known before.



CHAPTER XV

"SELL THAT YE HAVE"

Three years had passed, and the snows of winter had lain heavily for weeks upon all the region surrounding New Laodicea. It spread soft mantles over lawns and roofs in the city, and only in the streets was its white purity turned by the traffic of man into vileness. On a sharp, clear morning Hubert Gray walked through the cutting air toward his office, and meditated thus:

"What am I doing? What is the occupation that employs so much of my waking time and the powers that God has given me? 'Diligent in business,' the Scripture says. Yes, I am certainly that, but what is it all for? I am trading in iron, as my father has done, and laying up treasure on earth. That is something—the laying up treasure on earth—that the Lord Jesus said not to do. But did He really mean it? Nobody takes it very literally, I suppose.

"'Sell that ye have and give alms.' That is what I read this morning. 'Make for yourselves purses which wax not old, a treasure in the heavens that faileth not.'

"How much does it mean? We cannot always press the words of the Lord to their utmost literal meaning. I suppose He used language a great deal as we do, to be taken at its face value, and not screwed and pressed and tortured into literal exactness until all the spirit is taken out of it? But these words sound very bald and unequivocal. I wish I knew what they meant. Would I act on them if I did? There's the rub. It is undoubtedly hard for a man with money to look at the matter disinterestedly. And Jesus said, 'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!'

"But if a man wishes to know how to interpret these words, I suppose he may consider other words of the Lord and their evident interpretation and find a rule. For instance, He said, 'Labor not for the meat which perisheth, but for that meat which endureth unto everlasting life.' He evidently did not literally mean not to labor for daily bread, for that is something we are told to do. 'Work with your hands, that ye may . . . have need of nothing,' it says. And, 'If any will not work, neither let him eat'; and again, 'That with quietness they work, and eat their own bread.' So that is clear enough. Apparently what He meant was to emphasize the supreme need of the other kind of food—'the meat that endures unto everlasting life.' The one pales into such insignificance—into nothingness!—compared with the other, that He puts His hand over it—He puts it out of sight completely, and says, 'Look at this! This is the supreme thing, the one thing needful!'"

Hubert grew enthusiastic as he meditated the meaning of the text and the supreme need. He walked faster, and trod the snowy walk emphatically.

"What a splendid text!" he thought. "If I go to the mission to-night perhaps I shall speak from it. 'Labor not . . . but for'—ah! that word 'labor,' as applied in the second phrase needs explaining also, and Jesus did explain it. 'This is the work of God, that ye believe on Him whom He hath sent.' That is 'labor' for the living bread—to believe on Him!"

But he returned to his former consideration. "'Sell that ye have and give alms.' I wonder if the principle in the other text will apply to that? Did He mean, not literally that they were to sell all and give, but rather to emphasize the supreme importance of the treasure in heaven? Did He push aside one and bring forward the other, saying, 'Look at this! Let go the other, and lay hold of this. Lift up your eyes to the kingdom it is your Father's good pleasure to give you. Take stock in that. Little flock, you are so very rich yonder, you can afford to give up what you have here. Give to the poor that have no treasure here, and perhaps none yonder.' Ah, but my paraphrasing has not led me far from the literalness of the text! And how beautiful it is! That Man of Glory, 'Heir of all things,' poor for a little while for our sakes, counseling His little flock to follow for a brief season in the steps of His poverty, laying up more abundant treasure in His eternal kingdom!"

By this time Hubert had reached his place of business and was stumbling over the office boy in the hall. When alone in his office, at his desk, he leaned his head upon his hands and prayed:

"O Lord, teach me what those Scriptures mean that I may obey them. Save me from the bias of self-interest. Help me to live by the understanding I had with Thee at the outset of our walk together. What may I do to please Thee? My time and my energies are Thine, for I am bought with a price. Thou seest my possessions. What shall I do with them?"

He lifted his head with a lightened heart. "He will show me what to do," he thought.

That day at lunch Hubert propounded a question to his father.

"Father," said he, "what do you think Jesus meant by saying, 'Sell that ye have and give alms?'"

Mr. Gray reflected. "Hm!" he observed, "eh—well—" then, with a sly twinkle as though rather enjoying a coat that fitted tightly, "it doesn't sound very obscure, does it? The language is simple. What would you think it meant?"

"That is a point I am studying. If a man came to it without prejudice or self-interest, it would seem very simple, I imagine. But I am not sure that it should be pressed to absolute literalness. But, granted that it means something, was it of limited application, or would Christ say the same thing to His followers to-day?"

"Well," said Mr. Gray, whose theological studies had been greatly stimulated in recent months, and who had fallen into the hands of a variety of teachers, "you know some people draw pretty fine distinctions now-a-days. They may tell us that that does not belong to the church. I shouldn't wonder a bit if some of them would slip this over our heads and let it fall on some other people. But I should say, if you ask me, that such a principle, if it applied to anybody, might certainly to us; that if heavenly-mindeduess could be enjoined upon any it might certainly upon those who are raised and seated with Christ in heavenly places.'"

"I think you are right, father. But now, just what is the principle—what is the true spirit of the text? In short, what are we to do about it?"

Mr. Gray looked at his son curiously before replying. Was it for the sake of doing the word that he pondered its meaning? To expound a text and to act upon it were two separate things. The former was sometimes the pleasanter task. But he answered honestly:

"I suppose the true way to understand a Scripture is to read it in its relation to other Scripture—in the light of every other Scripture. I confess I have not so studied it. And," he added cautiously, "one must be very sure of the meaning of a word before he acts upon it."

"Certainly," said Hubert. Then he added privately that they had not waited to understand the text before proceeding to pile up treasure upon earth in abundance. "I intend to look up the subject," he said aloud, "and see what the Bible really does teach about it; that is, what the New Testament says. I suppose if we searched the Old Testament we should find earthly prosperity guaranteed the Lord's people on the ground of obedience. But we are under the new covenant, with heavenly riches assured."

"Just so—just so," murmured Mr. Gray.

The next morning the subject was renewed.

"I have found, father," said Hubert, "that the apostolic church did precisely what Jesus had told His flock to do. They sold what they had. It was an effect of the coming of the Holy Spirit. I suppose the heavens were so opened through that illumination that earthly possessions shriveled into nothingness by comparison. What precept alone could never have power to do the entrance of the Spirit did. It turned out the love of the world and 'the things that are in the world.'"

An enthusiastic light glowed in Hubert's face as he spoke. His father eyed him curiously as on the day before.

"Just so—just so," he replied, absently.

Presently, however, he rallied to the discussion. "But, Hubert," he said, "do you remember what they did with the proceeds of their sales?"

"Yes," said Hubert, "they laid them at the feet of the Apostles, and distribution was made to the needs of all the company."

"That was not an indiscriminate alms-giving," said Mr. Gray.

"No," replied Hubert. "But the parting with their possessions of those who had property supplied the need of those who had none. That could be called alms-giving, I should think."

"That seemed to be confined to the church," said Mr. Gray meditatively.

"Yes," said Hubert, "and when a beggar solicited alms of Peter and John, they had nothing to give him! No—I beg pardon—they had much to give him, through the 'riches in glory.' They gave him ability to make his own living, which was far better than an alms. But is there not some other Scripture that will tell us the relative positions of the church and the world to us in our giving?"

"I think so," said Mr. Gray. "How is this? 'As we have opportunity let us do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith.'"

"That is to the point," said Hubert.

"But to return to the Pentecostal precedent," said Mr. Gray; "if we were to sell out, at whose feet would you propose laying the proceeds?" He looked slyly at Hubert. "At Doctor Schoolman's?"

"Never," said Hubert, and then he laughed. "I beg the gentleman's pardon for my emphasis," he said, "but it never would occur to me to turn over my money to him."

Mr. Gray smiled. He felt that he had scored a good point against any rash procedure in the matter of possessions.

"At whose feet, then," he persisted, "would you think to lay it down?"

"There's the rub," said Hubert grimly.

"Ah, just so," said his father.

There was silence for a few moments and then Mr. Gray began again:

"Those early conditions at Jerusalem have never been reproduced since they were broken up by the scattering of the church, and I do not remember any hint in the Epistles to the Churches that there should be an effort to establish a similar communism in any place."

"No?" said Hubert. "I shall search farther and see what they do say."

And he did. A less disinterested disciple would not have pressed such a vigorous search toward an end that might mean his own monetary disadvantage. But a supreme longing to know the will of God and to do it was master of the situation. Moreover he remembered the vision of the cross that stood at the outset of his Christian way, and the terms of complete abandonment of himself and his circumstances to which he consented in his heart.

He pursued diligent and business-like methods in his study. With the aid of a concordance he found and tabulated what the Gospels had to say about "money," "gold," "silver," "goods," "riches" and "treasure," words that might serve as clews to discover the mind of God in the matter he searched out. Also he read carefully the Epistles to see what, in the more settled state of the church, was enjoined after the dissolving of the community at Jerusalem.

His thoughtful study involved the spare hours of many days, and he emerged from it with certain convictions which were not likely soon to be shaken. He set his arguments in order with a deliberation and logic with which a lawyer might prepare his brief. His leading conclusions as to the teaching of the Scriptures on the subject were somewhat as follows:

First, that the possession of riches is a disadvantage to a man as to his entering the kingdom of heaven. Indeed, that it would render it impossible but for the grace of God with whom all things are possible.

Second, that the teaching of the Lord Jesus placed the seeking of worldly goods in utter contempt and disregard as compared with heavenly riches. Indeed, they might well be abandoned for the sake of that treasure. That even the necessities of life were not the things to be anxiously sought, but were guaranteed by God in response to the diligent, first-in-order, whole-hearted seeking of His kingdom and righteousness. That this teaching, however, was guarded against misinterpretation by practical instructions in the Epistles to work for honest support and in order to have to give.

Third, that an instant effect of the coming of the Holy Spirit was a practical illustration of that disdain of earthly goods inculcated by the teaching of the Lord Jesus; and the result was not the want of any, for "neither was there among them any that lacked."

Fourth, that that striking example, set at the head of the age as an object-lesson for its entire course, was not literally followed by the Churches subsequently formed, but its principle was carried forward to them also, Paul enjoining an "equality," saying to the Corinthians, "Your abundance being a supply at this present time for their want, that their abundance also may become a supply for your want; that there may be equality."

Fifth, that the giving up of possessions at Pentecost was spontaneous and voluntary, not forced; and the subsequent giving was to be not a legal necessity, but as the heart inclined. The flavor of delight to God would be lost if otherwise. The giving would have value in His eyes only as it was done, not of necessity, but cheerfully.

Hubert reviewed the articles of his newly formed financial creed, feeling that it was far from exhaustive, but that its principles must help to clear his vision as to the attitude a Christian man should take toward this world's gain. From the whole trend of the teaching he gathered that the true Gospel of Christ demanded a complete reversal of the generally accepted rudiments of worldly thrift, and that its key word for the use of money was not "get," but "give." Sometimes he hesitated and turned pale before a radical step which he found his heart prompting, and again he looked at the possessions now in his own right and was glad he had so much to place at the absolute disposal of the Lord he loved.

"It is not a necessity," he said. "I may do as I will. And I will to do that which will serve Him best."

He read the text, "Ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though he was rich, yet for your sakes He became poor, that ye through His poverty might be rich." Tears, to which his eyes were unused, made them glisten for a moment. "Ah, if through my poverty some might be made forever rich!" he thought.

How to put in practice what he desired to do became a problem. He went to his office with the sense of a new relationship to its business. A new Proprietor sat at the desk with him, and, afraid to act rashly, on Him he wisely waited for the clear instructions which should show how best His interests might be served.

The new Proprietor looked on him and saw a man triumphing where the multitude of essaying disciples fail: not in lofty ideals, not in emotional experiences, not in grand works undertaken; but in the prosiest, hardest spot—albeit the touchstone of many a man's consecration—the money question.



CHAPTER XVI

THE MISSIONARY MEETING

It was early summer when the Women's Foreign Missionary Society of Doctor Schoolman's church was to have a public meeting. On Sunday the faithful calendar announced it, and Doctor Schoolman made special mention of it, urging attendance. A missionary home on furlough was to exercise a part of his "well-earned rest" in addressing the meeting. It was to be held in the afternoon, but it was suggested that as many men of the congregation as possible unite with the ladies in giving welcome to one who had distinguished himself by faithful and valuable service on the foreign field.

The announcement was discussed in the Gray household and Hubert determined to join Winifred in attendance.

"Not that I believe much in it," he said, "when here all about us, and especially in our large cities, there are plenty of objects for our commiseration quite as wretched, undoubtedly, as those in foreign countries."

"No doubt," said Winifred. "It always seemed to me to be looking rather far afield for something to do."

However, the two determined to hear the voice from China.

Wednesday, the day for the meeting, came, and Hubert left work in time to join Winifred on her way. They found the lecture-room of the church rather better filled than was usual at a missionary meeting, but only a few gentlemen were present. Winifred had time to observe some of the faces about her before the meeting began. She knew the Secretary, a woman with a keen, earnest face, always active in good works, and indefatigable in her efforts to excite a generally indifferent church into some glow of interest in the missionary cause. There were a few other faces as interested as her own. Hubert saw the plain little body he had singled out at the church social as one who perhaps would find it a pleasure to talk about the Lord. Her eyes looked expectantly toward the quiet looking man who came in with Doctor Schoolman.

The President, rather new to her office, fingered her jeweled watch-chain nervously as she opened the meeting. The company sang "From Greenland's Icy Mountains," and Doctor Schoolman offered prayer. The Secretary read the minutes of the previous meeting—a "Thank-offering meeting"—and it was discovered that the sum of $90 had been realized. The ladies exchanged glances of satisfaction at the amount.

"Hm-m! Their combined thanks foot up to that," thought Hubert. He was a business man and must be forgiven such a practical view of the case. "The Lord must be gratified!"

"I feel, ladies," said the President, pushing a diamond ring up and down upon her finger anxiously, "very much pleased that our poor gifts have amounted to so much. We cannot all do what we would, but we may give our mites, and together they will count for something in the work. We cannot tell what these ninety dollars may mean to the heathen."

"Their mites!" thought Hubert, with something of his old-time irony. He was freshly instructed on the subject of money, and knew well the story of the widows' mites. "If Mrs. Greenman herself had given the ninety dollars, I should think she was beginning to feel a tinge of gratitude for something."

Winifred had fastened her brown eyes musingly upon the President. She was wondering if money might express thanks, and, if so, how much would appropriately suggest her own gratitude to God for His "unspeakable gift."

"No gift would be large enough," she thought, and then the familiar lines came to her mind:

"Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were a present far too small; Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all."

"How true that is," she thought. "But I suppose it is nice to give some token, even though one cannot adequately express one's thanks."

There were some other reports and then the leading alto from the choir sang:

"There is a green hill far away."

"I am sure we are all glad," said the President, "to have with us Mr. Hugh Carew from China, who has labored for years among the heathen there. We shall be pleased to hear him tell us something of his work."

And Mr. Hugh Carew began. He was a man uninteresting to look upon, save that his face wore a certain indefinable expression of a man who has been a stranger in many places; a man habituated to loneliness and to silence. But he was evidently a man also accustomed to speak, for he addressed his audience with easy grace.

"The pleasure is mine," he said, "in being able to present to your interest and sympathy the dearest object of the heart of God."

Hubert started to hear the man's work, as he thought, thus spoken of. Mr. Carew went on:

"Of course I refer not to my simple share in it, but to God's great work of salvation in all lands."

"Ah, that is what he means," thought Hubert, and repeated to himself—"the dearest object of God's heart!"

"You may question my definition of that work," said Mr. Carew, "but a moment's reflection will convince you that it is true. We may measure the object's value by the price expended for it. For what other than the dearest object would God have been willing to give His most priceless treasure—the Son of His love? You will pardon my giving some attention to the fundamental facts of our common salvation before speaking specifically of the work in which I have had a part for some years in China. My apology is this: that wherever the returned missionary goes, even among God's people, he finds himself obliged to defend his work to some who regard it as an impractical and self-devised effort at doing good, rather than the simple carrying out of the expressed will of God. We have to go back to first principles and inquire afresh: 'What is the will of God?'"

"That sounds sensible," thought Hubert, who loved to hear vital principles discussed.

"Some very simple, well-worn texts will serve for our brief study," said Mr. Carew. "First there is that comprehensive passage, familiarly known and quoted in all evangelical circles: 'For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' The words that I wish to emphasize especially are two:—'the world.' They show you the scope of God's love and gift. He loved 'the world,' not some favored race within it. And love, which cannot rest inactive, gave; gave according to its own measure—'His only begotten Son.' We cannot be otherwise than agreed that this love and this gift were for all, and so must include my poor China. Indeed, could you divide God's love arithmetically (it is a foolish way to put it—you cannot divide infinity!) then my friends over there might claim about one-fifth of it, I suppose, as they number about that proportion of the world's population."

The ladies smiled indulgently at the curious way of putting it, but were not yet persuaded in their hearts that so considerable a portion of the love of God could be diverted from their own delightfully engrossing race, not to China alone, but to other peoples also, as would follow by that kind of arithmetic. Let the missionary talk. It would still be as obvious to their consciousness as the glittering pompon on Mrs. Greenman's bonnet that themselves were the consistent and natural monopolists of the favor of their Creator!

But Mr. Carew went on: "We may find our two very illuminating little words in another text almost equally familiar. It is this: 'Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world.' This lets us farther into God's attitude and purpose concerning 'the world.' Loving all His creatures, He still saw that they were involved in ruin brought on by sin. If He brought them to Himself—the only event that could satisfy love—it must be by a great and costly Redemption. One emanating from Himself must be projected into the ruin and death of the world and come back to Him, spotless and unsullied, bringing with Him 'many sons' unto the glory. But He must purge their sins. So He gave Him to be a Lamb of sacrifice; that He taking the sins of the world upon Him, might work in Himself a death unto sin that should be made good to all that become united to Him. Potentially, then, the sin of 'the world' is taken away. If we wish to support further this point in our study concerning 'the world' we may turn to Paul and hear, 'God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto Himself, not imputing their trespasses unto them.' Or the Apostle John will tell us that 'He is the propitiation for our sins; and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world.'

"Now that we have reminded ourselves of the love, and of the gift embracing redemption, it occurs to us to ask how are our poor brothers in China to avail themselves of the gift or to hear of the love. Another well-known test, containing our two words again, tells us very clearly. It offers the only logical answer to the question, and it is this: 'Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature.' Love has devised its gift and prepared it at unspeakable cost, and now commands our feet that we may bear it to all habitable parts of the earth. Wherever the objects of God's love are, there the gift must be borne. Do we not all see that the work which we call 'Foreign Missions' is in the direct, simple carrying out of the purpose of God, bearing the knowledge of the gift to all for whom it is intended, that they may avail themselves of it? What object could be dearer to the heart of God? What He has Himself done shows us of what moment the matter is to Him. How can we ever excuse ourselves that it has been a matter of such indifference to us? He has limited Himself to human instruments for the carrying to the lips of dying ones whom He loves the water from the smitten Rock, and how have we responded? Are we indeed His sons and daughters, that His supreme wish should be our last concern?"

The speaker's eyes had deepened in color as he spoke. Now they burned with intense feeling. His long, tenacious hands were clenched repressively. He went on:

"I imagine I hear an objection that the same work is being done at home, and that there is ample field here still. We may not trust our own understanding to argue the case as to the value of confining our efforts to the home field, but let the Scriptures, always ready to instruct us, give us light. Probably we will agree that Paul, the apostle-missionary, is in his life an exponent of the theory of Gospel preaching. He had an ambition. Hear how he expresses it: 'Yea, being ambitious so to preach the Gospel, not where Christ was already named, that I might not build upon another man's foundation; but, as it is written

"'They shall see, to whom no tidings of him came, And they who have not heard shall understand.'

"He shows his Roman readers his method; telling them that from Jerusalem unto Illyricum (just across the Adriatic Sea from Italy) he had 'fully preached the Gospel of Christ.' Now he was ready to look farther, his task to those regions being accomplished. What did he mean? Was he leaving behind him converted areas, whose every inhabitant magnified God in Christ Jesus? Far from it. 'Fully preached' though he had, communities were still heathen, but for the lights that he had kindled from place to place in his persecuted journeyings. Remembering that he is in his life the model for Gospel preaching, as he is in his writings the messenger of Christian doctrine, must we not see that the Gospel is for broadcast sowing, not for close gardening, save by the careful hands that God will raise up in the wake of the evangelist. Or, to use another figure, it is the notification, to lost heirs, of a fortune bequeathed them; and the responsibility of the ones entrusted with the carrying out of the will is not so much to persuade heirs to receive their inheritance as to notify them of it. So the Apostle preached 'not where Christ was named,' having a zeal to discharge his debtorship of making known to all nations God's gift of grace. Now over into Spain—far, far afield, as distances then were gauged—the eager eyes of the Apostle looked and longed for a crown of rejoicing from that land also in the day of Christ. In him we see the faithful exposition of the missionary idea."

By this time Hubert was looking at the speaker very intently, with widened, almost startled, eyes that were opening to a new idea. Winifred also sat with riveted gaze, her cheeks slightly paling beneath the deepening conviction of a tremendous truth. True worshiper that she was, to know the truth must be to shape her life in consonance with it, and a voice at her heart gave warning that to be conformed to this newly revealed will of God would be pain. But where was the theory that had seemed so clear and sensible to both Hubert and herself when they came to the meeting? Hubert always had clear ideas. What would he say to this? Now Mr. Carew was saying:

"I have frequently heard it objected to foreign missions that there are works of philanthropy still to be done here. The objection is absolutely irrelevant. The work of missions is not an indefinite 'doing good.' It is the bearing of a specific good to those who have not received it. It is not, per se, the bettering of temporal conditions. It is the securing to those who believe its message the best eternal conditions. It is not a matter of 'elevation'—it is a matter of translation. Not into a bettered life, but into a new life with an eternal outlook—into a new realm altogether, and that divine—the Gospel we carry ushers its believers! How would the poor, irrelevant argument I have quoted have affected Paul? Looking across the sea to Spain, and to Rome by the way, he was leaving behind him in Judea, in Asia—in all the region unto Illyricum, hungry people still unfed and the naked still unclothed. Want and misery still stretched out their hands to be relieved. But they could not stay the feet of the Apostle. He had heard the supreme call! God had a supreme gift to bestow; the world had a supreme need; and to bring the need and the gift together was his absorbing, constraining zeal. Would God it were ours also! Friends, my plea for China is not for its temporal needs; it is not that its women's feet are bound, that its men are opium-stupefied, or that it needs our Western ideas, as it is waking from its Eastern way. It is this: God has an unspeakable gift for its people, and we must bear it to them."

His tall figure was leaning forward and his burning eyes chanced to rest fully upon Hubert. The latter started, and a half audible groan burst from his lips. Was it the burden of a new motive, or the sudden smiting of a chord he knew right well? The "unspeakable gift!" Yes, he knew it; and its glory was ineffable beyond the highest earthly good he had known. Happy the man under commission to bear such a treasure, though it be to the uttermost parts of the earth! And the great Giver longed to bestow it on the millions of His creatures, but waited the unwilling feet of His messengers! It was heart-breaking! But was there no other way? Why should an infinite God limit Himself to finite man in carrying out His great design? Mr. Carew continued:

"You may ask why does God restrict Himself to the human instrument in bearing the tidings, and through the tidings the effective result, of the Redemption? I cannot tell you why, but I see that it is so. A light from heaven may overpower a Saul of Tarsus, and he may hear words straight from the ascended Christ. But a Christian man—Ananias—must be sent to tell him how to wash away his sins, and to minister the Holy Spirit to him. An angel may communicate with Cornelius, the Centurion, but he stays his lips from uttering the Gospel of Christ. That privilege is reserved for the human lips of Peter. Is it not sufficient that the Commander has said, 'Go ye'? Had the task been set for angels, it would have been accomplished long since, for they do His pleasure. But He trusted it to us, who might be expected to be so bound by ties of gratitude to His will that we would eagerly spring to do His bidding. And we have miserably failed. 'Is there not another way?' we languidly ask in the face of the command. I do not see another way. But the Lord has most clearly outlined this way: That the Gospel should be preached in all the world to every creature, and that the one who believes and is baptized should be saved. To sit and philosophically consider that an infinite God must surely find some other way if we fail in this, is not reverence for His wisdom. It is mutiny."

Some of the ladies looked startled at this bold setting forth of the case, and remembered how, privately, they had given voice to the sentiments under criticism before coming to the meeting. The Secretary's keen face betrayed thorough assent to what the speaker was saying, and the President was glad that she held such a relation as she did to a cause so evidently right, with a reverse side so evidently wrong. The plain little body of the Church Social beamed thorough sympathy.

"Do you say," continued Mr. Carew, "that God will be merciful to the heathen because of their ignorance? I believe He will, and do not doubt that it will be 'more tolerable' for those who have never heard than for those in this country (heathen also, in the Scriptural sense) who, having often heard, are still rejectors of the Gospel. But there is a greater question involved than that of lessened stripes or mitigated woe. Do you say that men will be saved by lack of knowledge? The prophet said his people perished for lack of it! Ah, if God had ordained ignorance to be the way of salvation He might have spared Himself great cost!—cost of the redemption sacrifice, and of its proclamation, often in martyr blood. But He confers His boon to faith and 'faith cometh by hearing.'

"You say it will increase the responsibility of the heathen if they hear, and put them in worse case if they reject the message? Very true. But had that been a sufficient reason it would have silenced our Lord's 'Go ye' at the outset of the age. Never would the Gospel have traveled to our barbaric fathers, and we should be without hope to-day. But the treasure was too great which the Saviour sought. No thought of deeper shadows cast by the very brightness of the light could deter Him from holding it forth. Beyond all cost of difficulty, danger, or the deepened condemnation of the lost, was the value of the Church He sought—the pearl of great price for which all other possessions might be forfeited! Ah, friends, since the object is so dear to Him, where are our hearts that we think of it so coldly! The burden of my plea is for Him; not for the missionary, not for philanthropy, not even so much for the heathen themselves, as for Him, because He loves and longs to give but lacks the human vessels through which to give!"

The speaker paused, and absently pushed back the hair from his flushed forehead. An almost tragic yearning shone in his deepset eyes. There was one in the congregation whose heart burned in a fellowship of grief over the Saviour's unmet longing. Mr. Carew continued more slowly, in a voice intensely sad and almost broken:

"Do you sometimes quote softly for your comfort, 'I will guide thee with mine eye'? You have thought of His eye upon you—and that is right—to care for, protect and lead. But have you ever watched the glance of His eye with another thought, not for yourself, but for Him? Not to see in it provision and help for you; but to see to what He is looking, for what He is longing—what it is that will give joy to Him? When I look in His eyes," and the speaker was looking far away from his congregation and spoke as though half forgetting them, "I seem to hear Him saying, 'I have other sheep—I must bring them!'"

His voice sank to a whisper. Hubert felt a little convulsive movement beside him and Winifred's hand was shading her eyes. Mr. Carew recovered from the emotion that nearly mastered him, and remembered his hearers and their probable wishes. He began again:

"But perhaps I am neglecting to tell you that which you came especially to hear—some details concerning the actual work of God in China. You will pardon me, but I cannot forbear speaking wherever I go concerning the principles underlying our work, as well as of the work itself. One might describe the people and their ways—and all that is valuable in making them more real to us—and might present a score of curious things which would perhaps beguile an hour very pleasantly, but still leave an indifferent heart unchanged as to the real motive of missions. However, all that I have said will gain and not lose by our turning attention for a time to the practical outworking of the theory."

Then the speaker gave illustrations of the way lost souls are found in China. Very pathetic were some of the incidents, and again and again Winifred's eyes were dim, and an unspeakable pain gnawed at Hubert's heart. Fervently he thanked God for those whose darkness He had turned to light, but sad beyond expression seemed the repeated instances which had occurred in Mr. Carew's experience of earnest pleadings for missionaries to be sent to various places and his absolute inability to answer the cry. But broader than the fact of the wish of some stood the need of all! Populous cities without one witness to the grace of God! Wide regions untraversed by the feet of His messengers! Hubert had thought New Laodicea a place of desperate need; and so it was in the matter of vital, fruit-bearing piety. But as he thought of the inky darkness in which China's millions dwelt this seemed a place of light.

The meeting came to an end. But first the President expressed the thanks of those who had listened to the lecture, and hoped all had been stirred to greater zeal and effort for the future in helping so good a cause. She suggested that the mite-boxes should be redistributed.

"'Mite-boxes!'" thought Hubert and squirmed in his seat impatiently. Then an inward voice reproved him for his contempt of small things. He thought of the poor that might deposit from time to time small coins that meant much from their slender incomes. Yes, "mites" were all right, if they were like the "widow's," and not the meager drippings from a selfish superfluity. But suppose he take a mite-box? How many of them would be required to hold the hoarded, unnecessary, unused wealth at his command? He could not insult the Lord and the "dearest object of His heart" by an offering unworthy of his resources.

There was a pleasant buzz of voices at the close of the meeting and nobody seemed to be going. Doctor Schoolman was shaking hands with Mr. Carew. Doors were opened into the parlor and there was the fragrant odor of a collation prepared. For the benevolences of New Laodicea were nothing like certain reluctant pumps that will give nothing until they have been given to. To whet an interest in such meetings as this, and to cajole small sums from unwilling purses, it was found necessary to make a gastronomic appeal.

Hubert and Winifred moved forward to personally express to the lecturer their appreciation of his words. Doctor Schoolman greeted them warmly and introduced them to him. Mr. Carew had noticed the two among his hearers, and looked at them now with an unconsciously appealing glance. His face was still flushed and the hand Hubert took was hot.

"You are not well," said the latter involuntarily.

"No," said Mr. Carew, rather absently, "I suppose not."

"I should not think this work you are doing would tend to recovery?"

"No, perhaps not," said the missionary.

Hubert looked at him inquiringly. "Then why do you do it?" he wished to ask, but refrained.

Mr. Carew answered his questioning look.

"I am not to be pitied," he said with a smile, "even if I should not recover as I hope to do. Some men are sick and die for pure folly's sake, or for business. They are to be pitied. But if it were given a man to be spent for Christ's sake—to know some faint shadow of suffering for the same cause for which He suffered as we never may—that man is happy, I think."

"He is," said Hubert earnestly, "he is."

Mr. Carew was struck by the sincerity of Hubert's tones. He looked at him with a searching, yearning expression; somewhat, it may be, as the Lord Jesus looked on the rich young man and "loved him." Would this one stand the test of love's requirement?

Some ladies were taking Winifred away to the parlors for refreshments, and someone invited Mr. Carew and Hubert also. They both accepted with the mutual wish to prolong the conversation. As they ate they talked of the Living Bread which must be borne to men.

In the course of their conversation Hubert confessed: "You will be astonished, but I have never before seen the matter as you presented it to-day, and yet I have been a Christian for three years."

"A good many men have been Christians for many years, and yet have not come to see the true motive of missions," said Mr. Carew. "It is singular how the most fundamental principles may be most ignored; I suppose somewhat as a man thinks less of the foundation stones of his house than of what he finds inside it. But in spite of this if a man has really a heart for God, when the matter is clearly presented to him he responds to it. God's purpose must find an 'amen' in his heart."

"That is true," said Hubert.

Presently they left the parlor, still talking together earnestly of God's will, and inadvertently drifted into the great auditorium. Mr. Carew glanced about at its finished elegance.

"Perhaps," he said to Hubert, "they think this instead, is doing the will of God. I daresay they have read that the house Solomon builds for God must be 'exceeding magnifical,' and they think so must this be. And, indeed, the spiritual antitype of that house must be beautiful! It 'groweth into a holy temple in the Lord.' And the work of missions is gathering its 'living stones.' But this—the New Testament breathes no word of instruction concerning this material house! Ah, if I were to write a general confession for our church I should say: 'We have left undone the things we were told to do, and we have done the things we were not told to do, and there is very little health in us!'"

Hubert smiled at Mr. Carew's words, but felt their force. He ventured to remark: "This building does not look as though there were lack of money among us."

"Oh, no!" said Mr. Carew. "Oh, no!" He repressed his lips, as though fearing to say more than would be courteous. But presently he spoke again in general terms.

"The church at home," he said, "has largely forgotten her pilgrim character. She has put off her sandals, and loosened her robes for luxurious living instead of girding them for service and pilgrimage. As to display and indulgence at home, she says plainly, 'I am rich,' but as to the carrying out the will of God entrusted to her for the world, she is pitifully poor."

They were emerging from the stately auditorium, and Hubert bethought him to look for Winifred. They met her in one of the rooms with Mrs. Greenman.

"Oh, Mr. Carew," said the latter, "I was looking for you. Our ladies appreciate so very much your talk to us! I hope—"

Winifred and Hubert were now speaking together and did not hear more of the President's remarks. But before they left the place Hubert had sought Mr. Carew again and had asked him to call at his office the following day.

"I should like to talk with you further concerning your business," he said.

He used the word "business" absent-mindedly, and Mr. Carew smiled, not at all illy pleased with it. Hubert was thinking of an investment.



CHAPTER XVII

LET THE DEAD BURY THEIR DEAD

Winifred and Hubert walked a part of the way home in silence. At length the former spoke.

"It seems to me we have been rather blind concerning the object of missions," she said. "What do you think of it now, Hubert?"

"I am convinced that I have taken a very shallow view of it," Hubert replied. "It is a marvel to me now that I could have missed so completely the true motive of missions. It is as clear as daylight in the Bible. It is humiliating to think one has been so contentedly provincial in thoughts of God's salvation. I am ashamed of it."

"So am I," agreed Winifred, and then they walked on in silence. An uneasy thought was gnawing at her heart that hardly found expression. Had it been put in words it would have been something like this:

"How are we to act with reference to new light on the will of God? If Hubert and I are really His children, called into His fellowship, then we must be sympathetic with His wish and do what we can to forward it. What would that be?"

Soon they reached the door of their home. Home! What a pleasant word it is. How easily the accustomed key turned in the latch, and how familiarly the house belongings greeted them as they entered. Ay, "there's no place like home," and its cords wind themselves about us silently, certainly, until it seems almost a sacrilege to think of leaving it.

Hubert went at once to his room, to the spot where questions were wont to be settled, and when dinner was announced he begged to be excused.

Winifred and her father sat alone at the table. He inquired concerning the missionary meeting, and she rehearsed to him much of what Mr. Carew had said.

"Ah, very good—very good," Mr. Gray said. "Very conclusive, I should think."

But it did not occur to him how a conclusive argument and a life action might stand related. Theories cost nothing when only the mind assents to them. But wrought in the heart, they mold lives after them.

In Hubert's room a painful heart process was going on. Sunk in a deep, capacious chair, with head resting upon his hand, he set in order before himself the axiomatic truths he had heard.

"God's supreme work is salvation," he meditated. "The field for this work is the world—the whole world. Salvation is wrought—as to man's part—through faith in a message preached. The message requires a messenger. In vast proportions of the field the messengers are wanting. What should be done about it? Clearly, the messengers should rally at the command of God. But it must be at His command. Men cannot go self-sent."

This thought gave a brief respite to the haunting sense of a responsibility.

"Whom shall I send and who will go for us?" The double questions heard by Isaiah in the temple repeated itself now in Hubert's mind.

"There are two questions there," he said. "'Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?' A man can only answer, finally, the second. God must answer His own first query,—although Isaiah did suggest, 'send me.' Must not any loyal child if he hear his Father's appeal say, 'Here am I'?"

Hubert's head sank lower upon his hand.

"Have I heard the voice of His need?" he asked, but hesitated to answer his own question. "Yes," he said finally, aloud, in a strained voice, "I have heard. I can never un-hear His words. I may disregard them, make myself forget them, but I can never go back to the place of twelve hours ago and be as though I had never known His mind. I have been in His temple—I, a worshiper purged by His infinite grace, I have seen a vision of His will, and have heard the voice of His need. I can never undo the fact."

Lines that somebody had written repeated themselves in his mind:

"Light obeyed increaseth light; Light rejected bringeth night. Who shall give me power to choose, If the love of light I lose?"

Why did he still hesitate? Why did his "here am I" linger for hours unsaid? A sense of the reality of present things and of home surroundings swept over him. These were the possible things. But those—? He shuddered. Dim, misty, in a veil of unreality lay China, a distant land. What relation had he with it? There were missionaries, a strange, separated, unusual folk, specially created for the purpose, no doubt; but he, a practical, everyday, intensely real sort of being—what had he to do with things so far away? Oh, no! It was not for him. Let him put aside the overwrought fancies of the day, and return to practical life again.

He almost rose from his seat as though to emphasize his sober thought, but an impression restrained him.

"And so I lose My witnesses!" he imagined his Lord saying with grief. "They are walking by sight and not by faith, and the seen, tangible things hold them. Who will stretch out his hands to lay hold upon the things of eternal life?"

Hubert sank in rebuked silence under the spell of the afternoon's disclosure. It was reality, if he were a Christian. It must be faced. But how the seen things wrestled with the heavenly vision! Habit, long association, and tender love mingled a cup of sacrifice that he must drink. Could he leave all these for the sake of the joyful message of his Lord?

Now imagination pictured the leavetaking. How the familiar scenes of his home and native city remonstrated with his choice! In fancy he wrung for the last time his father's hand, he bade one last farewell to the flower-dressed grave of his gentle mother, and—and Winifred!

A dry, tearless sob shook him. O sweet sister, loved most of all since the days when, her jealous-eyed protector, he walked beside her to the school, shared sturdily but keenly her childish woes and fought all battles for her! Loved now with a closer, spiritual tie in their mutual devotion to their blessed Lord! How could he give her up? How could he leave her undefended now by his watchful love?

The scene of three years ago when he handed the sword of his self-served and self-defended life to Jesus Christ, and purposed in His heart to follow Him at any cost, was vividly rehearsed in his memory. Possessions, home, kindred, all things, were nominated in the bond of the whole-hearted surrender to his Lord. The time had come to hold to those honest terms.

Hubert rose from his seat with a pale face, and a death-like sinking at his heart. "Yes, Lord Jesus," he uttered with dry lips, "I am at Thy command. Forgive my coward halting. If Thou wilt send me, I will go."

On the other side of the hall, in her pretty room, Winifred had prayed: "We have seen the glance of Thine eye, O Lord, and know Thy longing. Open our eyes to see how we may serve Thee, and strengthen our hearts to bear—nay, to love!—Thy will. If we must give each other up"—a long pause, broken by storms of weeping, intervened—"then let us see—oh, let us see Thy face!"

When Winifred and Hubert first met in the hall next morning some gleams of comfort had already stolen into both their hearts. He put his arm about her as they descended the stairs together, and at the foot they paused.

"Dear little sister!" he said caressingly.

Her eyes filled at his unusual tenderness; for Hubert's love, however fervent and well believed-in, was not demonstrative. She looked up in his face with a long, serious question. He answered it by asking:

"Shall I go?—for Him, Winnie?"

"Yes, Hubert," she said earnestly, "oh, yes!" But the color flickered in her cheeks and her lips grew white.

They stood for a moment together but neither spoke. Together they presented afresh their offering to God, and He knew that it was costly.

At breakfast neither spoke of the matter that was uppermost in their hearts. But later Hubert sought his father in the library and made known to him the step he had taken.

Grief, dismay, and almost anger, struggled in the older man's heart. He looked at his son with sorrowful sternness.

"Then—then, Hubert," he said very slowly, "you have concluded to leave me."

A pang shot through Hubert's heart, keener than any thought of his own pain, but he answered steadily:

"I have concluded, father, to follow Christ."

Mr. Gray frowned. He was not conscious of frowning at the name of Christ, or at so pure a sentiment as that uttered, but grief made him insensible to what he did.

"And is that," he asked with some irony, "the only way you can find of following Him? Can no one follow Him at home?"

"I do not see that he can if he is called abroad, father."

"And are you called?" he asked sharply, still the pain at his heart dulling any sense of shame that he could speak unsympathetically of such a thing.

Hubert answered gently.

"I believe I am, father," he said.

Mr. Gray stared at his son silently. His face grew ashen and the hand upon the table before him trembled visibly. Hubert stood in an agony of mute sympathy. At last the father rose without a word and prepared to leave the room. His face looked older by a decade than an hour before. Hubert made a movement to detain him and opened his lips to speak; but the other waved him aside with a quick gesture of the trembling hand. And so they parted.

Hubert looked after his father with a breaking heart. He had thought the crisis of his grief was passed when alone in his room he wrestled out the problem for his own heart. But now a heavier weight rested upon his soul. Must he break his father's heart? Must the hope of happy comradeship in future years be put aside, and with the disappointment his father age and weaken irrecoverably? He saw him walk down the path slowly and heavily, and a feeling of awful guilt swept over him. Was he his father's murderer? Was he following a delusion that would make himself an exile and lay his father prematurely in his grave? The thought overpowered him. He sank helplessly in a chair and groaned out his burden to the Lord.

"O Lord," he prayed, "am I walking in Thy footsteps, or am I a deluded wretch, bringing sorrow, and it may be death, to those I love most?" He paused, and his head sank deeply. "Lord, this is grief," he groaned. "This is grief. I have not known it before."

And so it seemed. Thoughts of his own loneliness and possible hardships seemed light compared with this.

"Grief!" he repeated, as though he found relief in the pitiful uttering of the word whose depths he was sounding. Then memory framed a passage which held the same word. "A man of sorrows," it repeated, "and acquainted with grief!"

How sweet the words sounded! And how dear the imagined face of Him of whom they were spoken!

"Tell me of Thy grief," he whispered. "Didst Thou cause grief?"

Words of Scripture again came to his help.

"Yea, a sword shall pierce through thine own soul," he heard Simeon say to the mother of his Lord, and it dawned upon him that when Jesus faced the cross with its agony He must have felt through His tenderest of hearts the sword-piercing of His Mother's sorrow. Ah, yes! He caused grief. And as He took His own way to the cross He raised a standard for those who follow of pitiless separations and of broken ties, if need be, for His kingdom's sake. "If any man cometh unto Me, and, hateth not his own father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be My disciple."

Texts that Hubert had passed lightly before were now illuminated with meaning and power as the occasion rose for them to be translated into life. He found a rare sweetness of comfort in those which assured him that he need not fear he was out of the path of the Saviour's footprints, though he found them blood-marked or washed with many tears. He turned to some familiar words which he wished to see before him again in plain black and white. They were found toward the end of the ninth chapter of Luke.

"Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father," said one in response to his Lord's "follow me." And said Jesus, "Let the dead bury their dead, but go thou and preach the kingdom of God."

"Let the dead bury their dead!" What a strange expression, and what could it mean! Hubert pondered the text, no longer in keen agony of mind, for his distress had lightened as he saw even on the painful way the light of God's will shining. Anything could be borne, if the face of the Lord still shone upon it!

"What does it mean?" he queried in deep meditation.

Slowly a meaning, not the full one, doubtless, but suited to his need, dawned upon him. Let the spiritually dead attend to the affairs of death. Let them follow the conventional, natural round, and answer always to the cries of human love and longing. Let them keep to earthly ties and earthly work. But let the living be about the affairs of life! A ministry waits that only living hands can serve. Let filial hearts render unto earthly love that which is due, but see that thou, child of God, render also unto God the things which are God's.

"There are a thousand things," thought Hubert, "that unregenerated men can do quite as well as any. Indeed, they have an affinity with earthly things that is lacking in the heaven-born man. To trade in iron and amass wealth does not require a living man. I will let others do it. The supreme business of my Father calls, and I must be about it. But my earthly father? Shall I wait first to bury him? The Lord says, No."

Hubert studied his pattern in His life as well as words.

"He was subject to His parents," he reflected, "until the time came for His ministry and He had reached mature years of responsibility. Then, when He had entered upon His task, not even His mother's voice could turn Him from it. When His friends thought Him beside Himself, and she with them sought to take Him away from His work, He said, 'Who is My mother? . . . Whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is my brother and sister and mother.' But He still was not unfilial. When not even the thought of the sword through her heart could take Him from the cross, He made provision for her, commending her to John's faithful love."

Hubert's eyes grew soft again with thoughts of his father. There was no need to think of provision for him, for he had enough. But he longed to give him always the joy of a son's tender love and companionship. Still the supreme call was inexorable, and another Father's business demanded filial fellowship.

"Thou must care for him, Lord," he said, and with a sudden impulse he knelt beside the library table and prayed that God would take away all the sting of his father's grief, and give him joy instead; joy in fellowship with the great Father in His giving.

After prayer he was much relieved and went to his work as usual, admitting to his office soon after his arrival Mr. Carew, who called in response to his wish of the day before. Hubert had more to offer than the financial gift contemplated.



CHAPTER XVIII

GOD, MY EXCEEDING JOY

A heavy cloud hung over the house for days. Mr. Gray was silent and sad. All attempts to renew the conversation of that painful Thursday morning were waived aside. Hubert was at a loss to know how to proceed with his project, but he and Winifred gave themselves to diligent prayer. As to the latter, sharp as was her grief at the thought of parting with her brother, her love for God was stronger, and she did not hesitate for a moment in her consent that he should go.

"I do not know any other answer to give to God," she said. "Surely I have nothing too precious for Him, when He has given all to me. And you know," she said with a radiant smile, "Hubert and I can never lose each other! We cannot lose what is in Christ!"

She made these remarks to Adele Forrester, to whom the matter of Hubert's call to foreign service was communicated. Her friend listened very quietly.

Adele had been steadily growing in God's grace since the day when His way of salvation dawned so brightly upon her. She was the same merry-hearted young woman as before, but a certain womanly sweetness, never really lacking beneath the gay exterior, developed in ever-increasing winsomeness. A capacity for intense enjoyment found new sources for its filling in the knowledge of Jesus Christ, and she pursued faithfully and happily the ways she saw of serving Him. To-day she received Winifred's news with evident sympathy, but with a reserve of feeling not expressed.

"Our Bishop preached a splendid missionary sermon two weeks ago," she remarked. "He made things very plain indeed. I think we all felt that we had been almost traitors in not rallying to the Lord's standard better than we had done. Even Dick paid some attention, for he said after church—you know what a tease he is—'now I hope you see where you ought to be!'"

"Oh, Adele," said Winifred, "I haven't thought to ask you in months how the choir is getting along. The mention of Dick reminds me. Do you still enjoy your singing?"

Adele laughed. "My 'occupation's gone,'" she said. "We are supplanted by a boy choir. The present minister likes that better. A saucy little fellow who brings our evening paper and fights his business competitors once in a while is one of our successors. He looks quite cherubic in a surplice."

"And you?"

"I sing praises in the congregation, and what is left over I sometimes offer in the mission."

"So you still keep up your service at the mission?"

"Oh, yes!"

Adele did not add how much appreciated were those services, nor how she had added visitation amongst the families represented at the mission to the evident blessing of not a few.

Their conversation drifted back to the subject of Hubert's leaving, and Adele entered a compact of prayer for the right development of all things relating to it.

Gradually the Spirit of God wrought in the heart of Robert Gray. He was led to think of the darkness of unbelief out of which his son had been brought, and to consider how fitting a thing it was that a life thus renewed should be held at the command of God. But it was hard to think of him as a foreign missionary! Mr. Gray had believed theoretically in the cause of missions and had given a yearly subscription to the society representing it. But to give his son—ah, that was a different matter! At the first shock of the thought he had recoiled, and a naturally stubborn heart kept the question at bay for a time. But he could not long fight with God. The fellowship lost while he steeled his heart against the unwelcome demand was too great a price to pay. Gradually it came to him that the greater weight that bowed his soul and took the joyous spring from life was not Hubert's proposed leaving, but the hiding of God's face.

"In thy favor is life," he prayed. "Any bereavement would be better than for Thee to hide Thy face from me."

And the Face shone out again as his softened will loosened its tenacious grip of that it held. But still he was a man of strong opinions, and slow to be convinced that his clear-headed, business-like son was the one to follow the still hazy-seeming, far-off life of a missionary.

It was a happy day when the ban was lifted from the subject and Hubert was free to discuss it with his father and arrange business matters for a separation. A new element in the matter taxed the sympathy of the hard-headed business man, when it became apparent that his hitherto practical son intended not only withdrawing his active partnership from the firm of Robert Gray & Son, but to sell his interest in the concern, liberating the proceeds for the use of God.

"What folly!" said the elder man frankly.

"Do you remember our discussion of the Scripture about it?" replied Hubert, smiling. "I think I submitted to you the conclusions drawn from a study concerning it. I might as well act upon my convictions, or I shall lose them. You know what James says about the 'hearers only' of the word?"

"Yes, I know what he says," said his father a little testily. "But about this money question there must be a sensible middle course somewhere between a fanatical giving away everything you have and a close-fisted holding on to it all. Give to the Lord of your first fruits, certainly. That is a good thing. But a man ought to look out for himself."

"Yes," said Hubert, "I believe there is a rational course to be followed, and perhaps the Lord may not wish to hereafter provide for me miraculously that which I now have in hand naturally. I do not see all the details clearly yet. But certainly over and above my own necessities—which will be simple—there is something to lay at once at the feet of the Lord. I am glad I have so much for Him."

"Don't let your enthusiasm run away with your common sense. Try to be practical."

"I think I am practical," said Hubert, smiling again, "although it is hard for a man to judge his own actions. It seems to me the practical way to give is to give. The people whom I consider impractical are those who, having an abundance for themselves, dole out pittances for the Lord and regret they are so little! The poor, perplexed ladies in the missionary society vex their brains in planning how to 'raise' something for Him. They take mite-boxes themselves, and they encourage the gifts of the poor, the children, the babies—and even the dolls, I am told! It is very pathetic. But why does it never occur to them—to those who can afford it, I mean—to give? That is what I should call practical. I suppose Mrs. Greenman did not find much difficulty in 'raising' enough money to pay for her swell reception the day after the missionary meeting, I saw the street lined with carriages and heard an orchestra playing inside as I passed. We can imagine the decorations and the fine gowning. Now that was practical. What she wanted was a fine display, and she practically put her hand in her pocket and paid for it. But she says they cannot all do what they would like for missions! Why do they plead poverty there? Mrs. Greenman would not like to have her husband poorly rated in Bradstreet's, and I am sure she did not wish to have her guests the other day think of poverty. But before the Lord—ah, maybe that is what they think it is to be 'poor in spirit!' But if they would be honest! If she should say, now, in the missionary meeting: 'The amount raised is not what we might have given, but it is all we really wish to give in view of the luncheon parties, fine dresses, and all that sort of thing, that we find more important,' I think that way of putting it would be practical, and honest withal."

Mr. Gray actually laughed, and the sound was music to his son's ears.

"Very good, Hubert," he said. "You had better give them a lecture."

"Had I not better give them an object lesson?" Hubert suggested instead.

"There is one thing you cannot do," Mr. Gray said with a sly triumph. Hubert looked at him inquiringly. "You cannot give away your mother's legacy. The terms of the will provide for that. The property cannot be alienated."

Hubert looked at his father blankly for a moment. The fact stated he had quite forgotten.

"You are right," he exclaimed. Then his brow cleared of its blank surprise and he laughed. "That settles it about the rest," he said. "The income from that property will amply support me and any poor interests a humble missionary may have."

"Just so," said his father. "Or it might maintain a poor fool who had missed his calling and was sent home."

Hubert laughed again. "Quite so," he assented.

And so the clouds broke away from over the house of Gray. A restored mutual understanding gave relief amounting to joy even in the face of coming separation.

Hubert's enterprise, like a great ship, could not be launched hastily. Months of preparation passed in which the business matter was finally settled and other affairs adjusted. It was finally concluded that the entire business of Robert Gray & Son should be sold, as the senior partner did not wish to carry it on without his son.

"It is not a question of the poor-house if you do give it up now, father," Hubert said to him, and he assented.

The missionary-to-be found himself called to many places to speak on behalf of the cause, and he did so with great readiness. His intense ardor caused his words to burn their way into many hearts. Again and again his own heart was overwhelmed within him by the greatness of his theme. Cold figures became burning facts as he looked at the wide areas untouched by the Gospel. The slighted wish of his Lord became an anguish in his soul. That men and women should call themselves by His name and still live unto themselves, never grieved by His message undelivered, His errand of love undone, was a shame intolerable. Sometimes when the passion for his Lord's will swept his soul, and he beheld in contrast the idle hands of the church, paralyzed by pleasure or filled with self-interests, in secret he cast himself upon his face and wept as only a strong man, unused to tears, can weep.

The heart of Robert Gray turned with increasing fondness to his daughter who still saw her place to be at his side. A great comfort was she to him in these days of trial. For herself, Winifred was finding out afresh "the sweetness of an accepted sorrow." The joy of the Lord was inexpressible. She could scarcely understand the gladness that filled her soul after sacrifice "more than when their corn and their wine increased."

"Why are you so radiant?" Adele asked in one of their many conferences.

"I do not know," she answered, blushing at being surveyed so admiringly. "But do you remember that Psalm, Adele, that says:

"'O send out thy light and thy truth: let them lead me, Let them bring me unto thy holy hill'—

"that is getting very near to God, Adele—

"'And to thy tabernacles.

"That is nearer still; but listen to that that comes next:

"'Then will I go unto the altar of God, Unto God my exceeding joy.'

"I think this is the reason why I am so happy. His light and His truth have led me to His holy precincts and I have gone to His altar—to the altar of burnt offering. And, Adele,"—her eyes filled with tears of an inexpressible gladness—"it is there we find Him to be our 'exceeding joy.' I cannot explain it—I cannot even tell it—but He is 'my exceeding joy!'"

"I know," said Adele, her own eyes filling. "I have found Him there. And I think one reason why so many Christians seem to have no joy is because they have not come to His altar in the sense you mean. Perhaps they have seen Christ there for them in some sense, but have never quite taken their place there with Him. Do you remember, too, Winifred, that it was when the burnt offering began on that great occasion in Hezekiah's time that 'the song of the Lord began also?'"

"Oh, yes!" Winifred responded. "'The song of the Lord!' It has surely begun here, Adele."

And so it had, indeed. That evening as Hubert returned from a busy day in town he found his sister singing;

"'O joy that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to thee; I trace the rainbow through the rain, And feel the promise is not vain That morn shall tearless be.'"

"Singing, little sister?" was his greeting.

"Yes, Hubert. That has been much of my occupation to-day."

"That is good," he replied. "By the way, I heard some news in town to-day." He endeavored to speak carelessly, but looked at her apprehensively.

"Yes? What is it?"

He walked to the window and examined a flower with apparent interest.

"I hear that George Frothingham's engagement to Miss Randolph, the banker's daughter, is announced."

"Yes," said Winifred calmly, "I saw that in the morning paper. You need not have been afraid to tell me, Hubert. His engagement is a matter of perfect indifference to me."

"Thank the Lord!" Hubert exclaimed impulsively.

"Amen," she responded, still calmly.

On another evening Hubert returned with still another piece of news. He had gone to the Cleary Street Mission to speak, and was late in returning. Winifred, who loved to hear accounts of all his meetings, waited up for him. She was in her little sitting-room when he returned. He came straight to her door and answered her ready "come in" with a light step and glowing face. He plunged at the special matter of joy at once.

"Winifred," he said, "I am not going to China alone."

The color changed in her face at the sudden announcement.

"Who—who is it, Hubert? Is it—?"

"Adele."

"Oh, Hubert, I am so glad!" she cried joyfully, and kissed him in warm congratulation.

Then suddenly the thought of her own loss intruded. Must she give her up also? Her eager gladness turned to a burst of tears. How swept of all whom she had loved, except her dear father, seemed the home scenes now. She would gladly have restrained herself for Hubert's sake, but the sudden grief was uncontrollable. She sobbed convulsively, as when years ago some childish grief had broken in storms upon her and Hubert had stood by in tearless but painful sympathy, suggesting boyish consolations, ready to sacrifice any plaything or possession that might mend her broken heart. Now he stood helplessly before this passionate outburst.

"Forgive me, Winifred," he said contritely, "it is cruel of me to take her away."

"No, it isn't," sobbed Winifred. "It is just—what I—wished. Only—I shall—miss her so!"

"Of course," he replied pitifully.

The storm subsided, and Winifred looked at her brother apologetically.

"I am ashamed," she said, still with long catches in her breath. "I couldn't help it. I am not sorry—she is going—I am very glad!"

"You are very brave," he said.

"But it's true," she persisted. "It's all over now, Hubert. I shall not cry like that again. Let us talk about it."

They talked about it till the small hours came. Winifred's face cleared of every trace of sorrow, and she loved to think of the cheer and help that Hubert would have in the far-off land. No braver heart of all they knew could have been found to share his pilgrimage; and they imagined how Adele's keen sense of humor might turn many a sorry happening into mirth. Also she had served an apprenticeship here among the poor and outcast whom she had come to love and who loved her well.

"Winifred," said Hubert suddenly in the midst of their conversation, "Gerald Bond is to preach for Dr. Schoolman next Sunday."

For some reason best known to himself he watched her countenance narrowly as he made the announcement. But her fair face showed only sweet unconsciousness.

"Really?" she said. "I am very glad."

"We must have him with us if we can. I long to talk with him about these new things."

"Certainly. You must invite him, Hubert."

"Winnie," said her brother, "I seem to have a spirit of prophesy upon me to-night. Almost I can see the path before us with some of its lights and shadows. Oh, there will be compensations for all sorrows!"

"I know it," she said earnestly.

"You will say it is my own great joy that God has given that makes me prophesy. Perhaps it is. But I see this, Winnie; He will never be in our debt when we yield our all to Him. Sweet surprises, unlooked for joys, will be thrown in all the way. Goodness and mercy shall follow us all our days!"

"I believe it, Hubert, and then—we shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever!"

He drew her to the low open window, and they stepped together into the balcony. The lights of the city were still burning, but in the east a flickering star was proclaiming the not distant advent of a greater light.

THE END