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AGNES GRAHAME, DEACONESS. 
 
V 
 
 
 • '.\v 
 
LiSS’-i'/ 
 
“‘Come in, little one,’ she said/’ 
 
 I’AGE 9. 
 
9ig:nfS (§ra]^amc, 
 
 DEACONESS. 
 
 A STORY OF 
 
 WOMAN’S WORK FOR CHRIST AND HIS CHURCH. 
 
 BY 
 
 M. A. M., 
 
 AUTHORESS OF “NANCY LAMBERT,” “THE WAVES OF THIS 
 TROUBLESOME WORLD,” ETC., ETC. 
 
 With Introdnctoi y Paper by the Very Rev. the Dean of Chester. 
 
 I commend unto you Phebe our sister, which is a servant of the Church.” 
 (Romans xvi. i.) 
 
 WILLIAM HUNT AND COMPANY, 
 
 12, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 

 

 H 
 
 <1 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 J HAVE been asked to prefix to the following 
 pages an expression of my opinion regarding 
 them ; and, after reading the volume carefully 
 throughout, I have no hesitation in acting in 
 accordance with this request. The book appears 
 to me both very interesting and very useful. 
 
 As to the general subject to which it relates, I 
 believe it to be of extreme importance, whether 
 as regards the social needs of our time or the 
 
 700695 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 spiritual efficiency of the Church of England ; 
 and I rejoice in the publication of a book which 
 is likely to draw the thoughts of many readers to 
 the careful consideration of such questions. 
 
 At no time, I believe, since the founding of the 
 Christian Church, has a systematic ministry of 
 women been unnecessary, or, indeed, has it been 
 safe to conduct religious operations without one. 
 But in our own day there are special causes, 
 connected with the separation of classes, with 
 feverish excitement in business, with excess of 
 various kinds, and manifold misery arising out of 
 that excess, with selfish neglect on the one hand, 
 and sorrowful desolation on the other, — which 
 urgently demand the soothing, patient, vigilant, 
 gentle, helping work of women that is implied 
 in the term Deaconess.'' 
 
 And if we turn from the characteristics of our 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Vll 
 
 times to the responsibilities of the Church of 
 England, we seem to perceive, from another point 
 of view, not less clearly, the need of such an 
 organization. The mere work of the Clergy, even 
 though aided by many energetic and sensible 
 men of the Laity, will not suffice to keep religious 
 influences strong over all sections of the com- 
 munity, or to enable them to penetrate into all 
 parts of domestic life. In addition to all that is 
 done by such zealous and useful co-operation, 
 there is need of a ministry of women, which is 
 systematic and continuous, trained for the work 
 which it has to do, acting in harmony with 
 parochial arrangements, and under the sanction of 
 the Bishops — while, on the other hand, reasonably 
 flexible and free, and adapted to the requirements 
 of various institutions. 
 
 The benefit of such womanly ministration is set 
 
Vlll 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 forth very persuasively in this volume. The 
 writer of it has elucidated great principles with a 
 light hand ; and the readers, in following its 
 pleasant pages, will find, step by step, that their 
 thoughts and sympathies are brought into profit- 
 able contact with very serious questions. 
 
 If one point is to be named, above all others, 
 as particularly worthy of mention in a criticism 
 of the book, I think it should be this, — that it 
 illustrates the beneficial effect indirectly exercised 
 by Deaconess-work upon other work that is less 
 regular and formal. And this is a matter of no 
 slight consequence ; for those who approach the 
 subject with prejudice are apt to say that an 
 authorized and systematic female agency would 
 supersede, or at least impair, that voluntary 
 female agency which already does so much good 
 in the world. But, in fact, the case is exactly the 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IX 
 
 reverse. Deaconesses are especially useful on 
 this account, that they bind together scattered 
 efforts, and make the most of them, that they 
 are links between domestic life and parish life, 
 that they encourage and sustain those who are 
 willing to be useful but hardly know how, guide 
 those who are perplexed among conflicting duties, 
 and bring salutary information and kindly feelings 
 within the circle of families which might other- 
 wise be very forgetful and careless. The picture 
 of a Deaconess, which is given to us here, has 
 these features well portrayed. 
 
 I do not scruple to say, on the highest grounds, 
 that this little work is worthy of careful study. 
 Such study, and the thoughts to which it will 
 lead, may promote a better estimate of some of 
 our worst difficulties and of their remedies, and 
 may aid in encouraging practical steps towards 
 
X 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 the firm establishment within the Church of 
 England of a ministry of women, alike suited to 
 our present wants and in harmony with the 
 suggestions of Scripture and the practice of 
 Primitive Times. 
 
 J. S. HOWSON. 
 
 The Deanery, Chester, 
 
 Dec. i^th, 1878. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. TO HELP MOTHER 
 
 II. TIRED . . . . 
 
 III. mother’s little messenger 
 
 IV. REST FOR THE WEARY 
 
 V. CONSECRATED LIVES 
 
 VI. HELP AT LAST 
 
 VII. PLEASANT HOMES AND KIND HEARTS 
 
 VIII. A QUIET RESTING-PLACE 
 
 IX. OUR JANET ” . 
 
 X. FATHER 
 
 XI. SUNDAY AT ST. OLAVE’s 
 
 XII. “ GENTLE ANNIE ” . 
 
 XIII. SERVANTS OF THE CHURCH 
 
 XIV. SOUGHT AND FOUND 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 
 14 
 
 19 
 
 27 
 
 38 
 
 48 
 
 53 
 
 67 
 
 74 
 
 81 
 
 87 
 
 97 
 1 12 
 119 
 
xii 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XV. 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME ! 
 
 PAGE 
 
 124 
 
 XVI. 
 
 FOR HIS name’s sake 
 
 I3I 
 
 XVII. 
 
 FRESH INTERESTS 
 
 • 137 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOR EVER 
 
 144 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A BRAVE WOMAN 
 
 • 155 
 
 XX. 
 
 AT LENGTH .... 
 
 165 
 
 XXL 
 
 CROWN AFTER CROSS 
 
 180 
 
 XXII. 
 
 CALM AFTER STORM 
 
 188 
 
AGNES GRAHAME, DEACONESS. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 TO HELP MOTHER 
 
 “ Love feels no burden, thinks nothing of trouble, attempts what 
 is above its strength, pleads no excuse of impossibilities ; for it 
 thinks all things lawful for itself and all things possible.” 
 
 ‘‘God weigheth more with how much love a man worketh, 
 than how much he doeth. He doeth much that loveth much. ” 
 
 Thomas A Kempis. 
 
 HE grey light of a March morning was 
 
 -L struggling for admittance into an attic in 
 Balls’ Court. A room bare, but clean. 
 
 Damp stains showed on wall and raftered 
 ceiling ; through cracked and broken panes of an 
 ill-fitting window, down a wide, old fashioned 
 chimney, the March wind roared and blustered ; 
 stirring and fluttering the poor pretence of a 
 curtain put up to shield a sickly-looking woman 
 B 
 
2 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 who lay asleep upon a bed in one corner of the 
 room. 
 
 A fair-haired child, of some twelve summers, 
 waking with morning light, had just raised herself 
 up on elbow, peering anxiously into mother’s 
 face to make sure whether she still slept. Satis- 
 fied on this point, the child slipped noiselessly 
 out of bed and began to dress; shaking and 
 shivering in the cold room. 
 
 That done, she proceeded to make such pre- 
 paration as lay in her power for mother’s com- 
 fort on awaking : then, taking an old basket from 
 the cupboard, went away rapidly down a long 
 flight of stairs, — out of the big lodging-house, 
 along Balls’ Court, and thence into open streets, 
 through which she pressed steadily forward 
 countrywards. 
 
 What errand of urgent import made little Elsie 
 Lovell willing to brave this sharp March morning; 
 breakfastless and ill clad as she was ? 
 
 Only the fulfilment of a purpose, formed by a 
 loving childish heart: ‘^to help mother.” Elsie 
 had come to understand that while they lived out 
 their poor pinched life in Balls’ Court, mother 
 was fighting a hard battle, — a battle for shelter 
 and daily bread. 
 
TO HELP MOTHER. 
 
 3 
 
 Day after day she watched her sitting at work 
 in the cheerless room ; her thin hands toiling 
 ceaselessly — but oh so wearily — at seam or hem ! 
 her sad face growing whiter and whiter. 
 
 What would become of them both if she fell 
 ill and unfit to work, Elsie could not imagine. 
 They had lived so long alone in the midst of the 
 great town, by Mrs. LoveU's wish keeping them- 
 selves to themselves,” till they could scarcely 
 count on one friend of their own class. No 
 relations were near at hand ; and Elsie had only 
 a dim memory of a long-absent father, about 
 whom she had been strictly forbidden to speak. 
 
 She said little, for she was a child of few words, 
 but as she sat for the most part of the day, list- 
 less and unoccupied, at the window of their room 
 and watched the crowd moving about below in 
 Balls’ Court, she had pondered over this question 
 of helping mother, till she could bear to sit idle 
 no longer. 
 
 Something she must do. * But what } As to 
 ways and means of earning money she knew very 
 little. How should she know, kept close as pos- 
 sible to her mother’s side, lest she should see and 
 hear too much of the rough life lived by most of 
 their neighbours in Balls’ Court } 
 
4 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 There was mother’s fine sewing, — but that was 
 far beyond her skill; nor could mother stay to 
 teach her. She could not be spared to go to 
 service, even if anyone would take her, insufficiently 
 clothed and half trained as she was. But one 
 day a child friend — Lottie Bell, who lived with 
 her widowed mother in the next street — happened 
 to tell Elsie of a successful watercress gathering 
 in lanes somewhere near Neston Village. Lottie 
 had looked upon her expedition more as a pleasant 
 treat than anything else ; had sold her cresses to 
 her mother and the neighbours ; and had quickly 
 spent the money she earned on some much- 
 desired finery, — for Lottie s mother was, so to 
 speak, ^‘well off.” But Elsie treasured up the 
 idea in her own mind, and thought it over again 
 and again, with a very different end in view. 
 
 Surely she might follow Lottie’s- example with 
 equal hope of success. Even the few pence for 
 which the cresses might sell would be very 
 welcome. 
 
 Lengthening days and promise of spring deter- 
 mined Elsie to carry her plan into effect. Obtaining 
 from mother a half unwilling consent, she set off 
 out of town this very morning, bent upon finding 
 Lottie’s watercress brook on the Neston Road.” 
 
TO HELP MOTHER. 
 
 5 
 
 True, the way proved long, and the directions 
 she had received hard to recall ; but then her 
 heart was stout as well as tender, and love for 
 mother lent strength to willing feet. Spite of 
 pelting shovver and keen east wind, she never 
 once thought of abandoning her purpose. The 
 watercress brook was found, some of its spoils 
 transferred to the old basket; and not till then 
 did Elsie turn her, face towards Westpool again, 
 quite content to have succeeded thus far in her 
 plan ^‘to help mother.” 
 
 Yet her ill-shod feet were blistered with walking; 
 her faded but carefully mended frock rent and 
 torn in its passage through hedge and ditch during 
 her quest for the cresses. 
 
 And now they were gathered, how to sell them ? 
 Ah! this was the hardest part of all; for Elsie 
 was no experienced saleswoman. As soon as she 
 reached the outskirts she began to try ; coming 
 on by degrees nearer and nearer the busy town ; 
 then wandering to and fro through many of its 
 crowded streets. Very wistfully she looked into 
 the faces of passers-by as she offered her water- 
 cresses for sale, and told again and again her tale 
 of mother ill at home,” as a plea for their 
 purchase. 
 
6 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 But the tale was no new one in Westpool Streets. 
 It might be true, or it might be false. Who could 
 stop to inquire into it, this cold day ? As for 
 the pleading look on a sweet little sorrowful 
 face, that was no new thing either. There were 
 many pleading glances, many faces both fair 
 and sorrowful, to be seen in the great town 
 that day, — or any other day, all the year 
 round. 
 
 So the hurrying, bustling, crowd passed on its 
 way, far too much occupied with business or with 
 pleasure, to bestow a thought upon the child and 
 her tale of want. 
 
 In this way the day wore on till dusk ; and the 
 cresses, brought from their clear country brook 
 into a close soot-laden town atmosphere, began 
 to wither’ and to look altogether untempting for 
 possible purchasers. 
 
 Only a very few bunches had been sold : a 
 very few pence represented Elsie’s success. Of 
 these she was compelled to spend part in food 
 for herself, so that, at last, only two remained. 
 Two pennies, and a basket of half-withered cresses, 
 was all she had to carry home to mother by 
 way of help. 
 
 What a weary disappointment ! 
 
TO HELP MOTHER. 
 
 7 
 
 As dusk deepened to dark, people began to 
 hasten home, glad of shelter from the cold and 
 rain. Long ago Elsie had watched the grand 
 ladies, who had been so busy shopping, drive 
 swiftly away in their carriages to comfortable 
 homes and carefully tended little children. 
 
 Afterwards followed their husbands, fathers, or 
 brothers, coming up from the business quarter of 
 the town. Some cheerful and prosperous looking ; 
 some as weary and worn, if not as footsore, as 
 the tired child herself. 
 
 Later still, rough men and bold looking women 
 began to come out ; from whom Elsie, accustomed 
 as she was to sordid surroundings, shrank away 
 timidly. Pale shop girls hurried home; or perhaps 
 to doubtful places of amusement. 
 
 Small hope for the little saleswoman now! 
 Even the very policeman on his beat looked down 
 pityingly on the slender figure, basket on arm. 
 
 Wearily the child dragged her slow steps 
 onward ; her plan for helping mother all come to 
 nothing. Must she really give it up and go home 
 to tell of her failure.^ Yes, surely; for mother 
 would be uneasy if she staid out any longer. 
 
 The hope which had kept her up all day thus 
 suddenly withdrawn, her strength gave way com- 
 
8 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 pletely. Faint and sick at heart with disappoint- 
 ment, she looked about for some sheltered spot 
 where she might rest quietly for a little bit before 
 going back to Balls' Court. 
 
 As she stood hesitating where to turn she spied, 
 just across the street, a large door with a deep 
 porch. Crossing over, and going into the porch 
 for shelter, she was met by a sudden flood of 
 light and warmth, as the door opened upon her 
 unexpectedly. She could see that it led into a 
 room quite filled with children. 
 
 Some who sat close beside the door were as 
 poor looking as herself ; but had lost something 
 of their usual forlorn look in the warmth and 
 comfort of their cheery resting-place. 
 
 While she stood peeping in, longing, but not 
 daring to hope, that she would be allowed to enter, 
 a lady came forward, as if on the watch for guests 
 .still expected. 
 
 Her eye, falling on the little watercress seller, 
 took in the situation at a glance. The wearied 
 air — the basket of half-faded cresses — the sweet 
 • childish face ; so thin and pale, but as yet, un- 
 stamped with the indelible stamp of crime. 
 
 Very tenderly she laid her hand on Elsie’s 
 cowering, shivering form. 
 
TO HELP MOTHER. 
 
 9 
 
 Come in, little one,’' she said ; and led her 
 gently within the warm room. 
 
 Quickly she found her a cozy nook wherein to 
 rest, put food and warm tea into her hand, and 
 left her to recover herself undisturbed. 
 
 Once warmed and fed, the child soon revived, 
 and grew sufficiently at ease to notice her com- 
 panions in the sheltering room. 
 
 While she rested, they had been singing, — 
 distinctly and sweetly in their fresh childish 
 voices. Oh, such blessed words for the weary 
 little girl to hear ! They found their way straight 
 to her heart. 
 
 . “There’s a home for little children 
 Above the bright blue sky, 
 
 Where Jesus reigns in glory : 
 
 A home of peace and joy. 
 
 No home on earth is like it, 
 
 Nor can with it compare. 
 
 For every one is happy. 
 
 Nor can be happier there.” 
 
 home where everyone is happy,” thought 
 Elsie, who scarce could realize the idea of any 
 one being quite happy. 
 
 There was old Sarah Robins, at the end house 
 in the Court, who had often spoken kindly to 
 her, — and once even had asked her to tea in her 
 
10 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 cozy kitchen,— might have a happy home ; 
 for she had no children to want bread, no husband 
 to illtreat her, and had money saved,’’ the 
 neighbours said. 
 
 Those grand homes too, where Elsie had called 
 earlier in the day, trying to sell her cresses ; 
 and whence smart servants had been in such 
 haste to bid her begone, — doubtless they were 
 happy homes. Except these, the child could 
 imagine no home ‘‘where everyone is happy.” 
 
 While her thoughts were busy on this subject 
 the children sang on, unheeded by her, till they 
 came to the last verse of their hymn, — 
 
 “ There’s a robe for little children 
 Above the bright blue sky, 
 
 And a harp of sweetest music, 
 
 And palms of victory.” 
 
 Here Elsie’s thoughts wandered back to herself 
 once more. She looked down at her torn mud- 
 stained frock. If she could hope ever to get to 
 the “ happy home,” surely she would need “ the 
 robe ” too ! But the whole thing was very vague 
 and misty to the poor child. A beautiful song, — 
 beautifully sung : she wished she knew more 
 about it. She would like to go to the home, if 
 only mother might leave off working and go 
 
TO HELP MOTHER. 
 
 II 
 
 too. Perhaps she would get well and strong 
 then. 
 
 As these thoughts passed rapidly through the 
 child's mind, her attention was caught by hearing 
 the voice of the lady who brought her into the 
 room. 
 
 She was talking to the children, and telling 
 the very thing Elsie wanted to know, about the 
 home where everyone is happy. She heard her 
 speak of our Father in heaven, who prepared a 
 beautiful sinless home for His sons and daughters. 
 She heard of the tender love of Jesus Christ His 
 Son, our Lord ; who lived, suffered, and died, to 
 open the gate of the home closed by sinners 
 against themselves. 
 
 Then she recollected that once, — a long, long 
 time ago, — mother told her something of the 
 kind. Now it was all plain and clear to her. 
 With earnest gaze fixed upon her new-found 
 friend, she listened to every word of the good 
 news from a far country. 
 
 A few simple prayers closed the proceedings, 
 and then the children were bidden to go home 
 quietly." 
 
 Alas, to such wretched homes ! Or may be to 
 no home, even remotely deserving of that dear 
 
12 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 name ; but to some miserable den or other, where 
 weary heads might hide till morning light. 
 
 When all were trooping out, Elsie took up her 
 basket prepared to follow ; but as she looked 
 again at the cresses it contained, grown more 
 faded and worthless than ever in the warm room, 
 and was reminded of the failure of her attempt to 
 help mother, she could not keep back her tears. 
 
 But the kind friend who brought her into the 
 sheltering room did not intend to let her go away 
 uncared for. Coming to where Elsie stood, she 
 took the old basket into her own hands and said, 
 So you could not sell them, dear ? ” 
 
 No,’' answered the weeping child : ‘‘ and please, 
 I did so want to sell them. If I could earn a 
 little, mother might rest a bit, or we could buy 
 more firing, and then her cough might mend. 
 But ’tis no good : I must throw them away now.” 
 And she held out a grimy hand for the basket. 
 
 Well was it for the little watercress gatherer 
 that she had fallen into the hands of one who had 
 learned charity’s highest aim, — to help those who 
 are trying to help themselves. By no means 
 would she allow this little one’s first and feeble 
 attempt to lighten the home-burden to prove a 
 failure. 
 
TO HELP MOTHER. 
 
 13 
 
 Perhaps/^ she said, ‘‘ I might use your cresses 
 for my birds, so I will buy them.” 
 
 Taking out of her purse a bright sixpence, she 
 put it into the child's hand ; whereupon the tears 
 dried up like an April shower. 
 
 ‘‘Now,” she continued, “we will go and see 
 what we can buy for mother with your money, 
 and some of mine besides. If you will tell me 
 your name, and where you live, I will come and 
 see your mother. Perhaps I can find something 
 to cure her cough.” 
 
 Here was comfort for the friendless little waif 
 and stray, after her long disappointing day. To 
 speak her thanks was quite beyond her power, 
 but the lady seemed to understand them, though 
 unspoken. 
 
 Shyly the child told her name, — “ Elsie Lovell,” 
 — and where she lived. Then the lady's sweet face 
 grew grave, for she knew the poor street the child 
 named, with the Court in all its wretchedness. 
 But she took Elsie by the hand, and they went 
 away together to make their purchases. 
 
 That done, Elsie hastened home, bearing with 
 her comforts unknown for many a long day, 
 and with a wonderful tale to tell of all that had 
 befallen her. 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 TIRED. 
 
 » 
 
 Oh, weary of the turmoil, 
 
 The striving and the care, 
 
 And weary of the burden 
 
 Which we of earth must bear ! 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh, weary of vain longings. 
 
 And weary with vain fears. 
 
 And wearier with heart sorrows 
 Than with the weight of years ! ” 
 
 Lyra Anglicana. 
 
 U P in the attic room, in Balls' Court, sits a 
 tired sewer, — Elsie's mother. Late as it 
 grows, she must not stop to rest yet. Until her 
 work is finished, and paid for, there is no hope 
 of to-morrow's meal for herself and Elsie. The 
 rain patters against the window pane : the keen 
 wind comes in gusts down the chimney, driving 
 the ashes from a fireless grate into the cold 
 room. 
 
 Dimly Mrs. Lovell wonders where Elsie can 
 be, and raises her head for a minute listening for 
 
TIRED. 
 
 15 
 
 the child's footfall ; then bends close over her 
 work once more. 
 
 At length she hears the small footsteps plod- 
 ding upstairs, flight after flight, till they reach 
 the attic door ; and Elsie comes in, with a bright 
 smile on her weary little face. 
 
 “ See, mother," she cries, showing the old 
 basket filled with food in place of its load of 
 cresses: ^^see what I have brought you ! " 
 
 Surely you cannot have sold cresses enough 
 to buy all those things, child ? " answered her 
 mother. 
 
 ^^Now just you put down your work, mother 
 dear, and let us have tea ; then I'll tell you all 
 about it," said Elsie. 
 
 Far too tired to exact further explanation, and 
 willing to please the child, Mrs. Lovell did as she 
 desired. All day long had that monotonous 
 stitch, stitching, gone on, with only interval suf- 
 ficient for the eating of a crust and drinking a 
 cup of cold tea. No wonder that the worker is 
 spent ! With a sigh of relief she surrendered 
 the work that Elsie took gently from her; and 
 lay back in her chair watching the child, as, with 
 important and happy-looking face, she lit the 
 fire, and prepared such a meal as had been 
 
i6 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 seldom seen in that room, — since Elsie and her 
 mother lived there, at all events. 
 
 Before long everything was ready ; and the 
 fire, crackling and blazing merrily, made the 
 bare attic look a shade less miserable. Enjoying 
 food and warmth, Mrs. Lovell revived, smiled 
 lovingly upon her little girl, and, laying a wasted 
 hand upon the child's head, bid God bless her.” 
 
 ‘‘You are the only comfort I have left,” she 
 added. 
 
 And Elsie deemed those loving words ample 
 payment for her toilsome day. 
 
 Presently she began to tell mother of the 
 search for the watercress brook*; of the long 
 walk back to Westpool ; of her unsuccessful 
 attempt to sell the cresses she had obtained at 
 the cost of so much pains and patience ; and 
 finally of the opportune shelter afforded by the 
 schoolroom, and of the lady who befriended her 
 there, through whose kindness both she and her 
 mother were warmed and fed that night. 
 
 “And, oh, mother,” continued she, “the lady 
 says she is coming to see you, and will bring 
 something to cure your cough ! Only think of 
 that, mother ! ” 
 
 “What made you tell her where we lived. 
 
TIRED. 
 
 17 
 
 Elsie ? '' replied Mrs. Lovell. ** Don’t you re- 
 member I bid you talk to no one about our 
 affairs ? I don’t want visitors.” 
 
 Elsie felt disappointed. She was aware that 
 some. reason existed for this lonely and sorrowful 
 life of theirs, but what it was she could scarcely 
 understand. Only she knew they had been poor 
 and mother had worked hard ever since she 
 could remember, because ‘-father was away, and 
 they must live as they could till he came back.” 
 
 “ But this lady is quite different from the 
 neighbours you forbid me to speak with, mother,” 
 explained Elsie. “ She is so gentle and kind, 
 you could not help liking to see her.” 
 
 “You meant well, child,” returned Mrs. Lovell, 
 “and what’s done can’t be undone. After all, 
 ’tis not very likely that a lady, such as you speak 
 of, will find her way into Balls’ Court. So now 
 let us go to bed : I’m tired out, and I’m sure 
 j/ou are.” 
 
 Elsie was weary in truth, yet she would have 
 liked to sit awhile beside the glowing embers and 
 ask mother to tell something more about the 
 beautiful home, the story of which had taken 
 such hold upon her childish fancy. She was sure 
 mother could tell if she would, but to-morrow 
 C 
 
AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 l8 
 
 she must ask all about it. She even lay awake 
 for a while, her thoughts busy over what she had 
 heard that night. Before her eyelids closed in 
 sleep she had breathed her first childish prayer 
 to our Father in heaven : Please to take care of 
 mother and me, and take us to the bright home 
 very soon.’' 
 
 Would not the little one’s simple petition 
 ascend up with the prayers of the saints ? For 
 the Lord is very pitiful and of tender mercy.” 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 mother’s little messenger. 
 
 ‘‘ I could not do without Thee, 
 
 0 Saviour of the lost, 
 
 Whose precious blood redeemed me 
 At such tremendous cost ; 
 
 Thy righteousness. Thy pardon. 
 
 Thy precious blood must be 
 My only hope and comfort. 
 
 My glory, and my plea. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 “ I could not do without Thee ; 
 
 . For, oh, the way is long. 
 
 And I am often weary. 
 
 And sigh replaces song. 
 
 How could I do without Thee ? 
 
 1 do not know the way ; 
 
 Thou knowest, and Thou leadest, 
 
 And wilt not let me stray.” 
 
 F. R. Havergal, 
 
 S OOTHED by the comfortable meal and un- 
 accustomed warmth, Mrs. Lovell speedily fell 
 asleep that night, and slept much more -peacefully 
 than usual. 
 
 Towards morning, however, her slumbers were 
 
20 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 disturbed by a dream. As she lay sleeping, with 
 her child nestled close beside her, she went back 
 to the years of her own girlhood, and thought she 
 saw herself once more in the old farmhouse at 
 home. It was a summer evening, and she had 
 wandered away down the shady lane, and on to 
 the edge of Ashley Moss, to watch for father on 
 his way home from the distant sheep pastures. 
 
 Far away, on all sides, stretched the Moss, 
 with its covering of heath, bramble, bush, and 
 bracken ; and beyond it a silver line, where the 
 sea bounded the horizon. 
 
 Across the clear blue sky birds flitted, arid here 
 and there hazy films of smoke floated, hinting at 
 busy scenes of life and work far distant from the 
 quiet spot where she stood, — not a worn-out 
 woman, old before her time, but Janet Rowan, 
 once more, a happy light-hearted maiden. 
 
 Suddenly, as she thought, the treacherous Moss 
 quaked under her ; and, losing her foothold, she 
 sank down lower and lower. Black bog mud 
 closed around and held her fast ; dark water 
 bubbled up beside her. And still the summer 
 sun shone bright as ever : the birds flitted and 
 sang, the sea line glittered, as she sank down into 
 the depths of Ashley Moss. 
 
mother's little messenger. 
 
 '21 
 
 In her dream it seemed that the frantic strug- 
 gles she made only hastened her doom. Her 
 father was nowhere to be seen ; and she knew 
 she must die all alone on the beautiful treach- 
 erous Moss, and must say goodbye for ever to 
 her happy life. 
 
 But as she sent forth one last despairing appeal, 
 Father, I am lost ! " her father’s strong arm 
 raised her out of the quagmire, setting her on a 
 firm standing place. 
 
 Then, somehow, it was not her father after all, 
 — but One, thorn-crowned, wound-pierced; who 
 raised her drooping form with pitying love, and 
 said, I am come to seek and to save that which 
 was lost.” 
 
 So she awoke, with feelings solemn and glad, 
 to find last night’s storm passed away, and the 
 golden light of a bright spring morning shining 
 into her attic room. 
 
 To seek and to save that which was lost ! ” 
 Ah, if only her dream might come true ! 
 
 But yesterday’s incessant toil had worked its 
 will on the ailing woman. When she would have 
 risen from her bed she found her strength fail ; 
 her aching head only fit to remain on the pillow. 
 
 Little Elsie was equal to the occasion : a 
 
22 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 nights rest had quite restored her. She had 
 forgotten her troubles of yesterday, and was fully 
 bent upon taking care of mother, so she bestirred 
 herself to light the fire, and to get ready as com- 
 fortable a breakfast as was possible. 
 
 “ Elsie,’' said Mrs. Lovell, ‘‘ I must try to finish 
 the piece of work I left undone last night, then 
 you can take it back for me, and ask Mr. Black, 
 the foreman in the shop, to let you bring home 
 some more. You need not say much about my 
 being ailing, else he won’t let me have the work, 
 and we should starve. Just tell him that my 
 head was bad, and I am resting a bit : ’tis true 
 enough, you know.” 
 
 The work Mrs. Lovell was doing required both 
 skill and care; but at length it was completed, 
 after more than one interval of rest, and with 
 much increase of pain to the aching head. Then 
 Elsie made it up into a bundle, and carried it 
 away to the shop. 
 
 Brave little daughter as she was, she shrank 
 timidly from doing this errand. Hitherto 
 mother had always taken back the work herself, 
 leaving Elsie outside while she transacted her 
 business with the owner of the shop. To go 
 in through the great doors, beyond those big 
 
mother’s little messenger. 
 
 • 23 
 
 plate-glass windows, where she had often stood 
 looking wonderingly at “ the latest novelty from 
 Paris,” was a trying ordeal to the sensitive child. 
 
 Arrived at the shop, she walked in hesitatingly, 
 — an ill-clad little figure, in strange contrast to 
 the wealth of rich material for personal adorn- 
 ment surrounding her on all sides. 
 
 ‘‘Now then, little girl,”* said a smart young 
 shopman, laying by no means a gentle hand on 
 Elsie’s shoulder, “you take yourself off out of 
 this : we don’t harbour tramps, so we’ve nothing 
 to give you.” 
 
 “ Please sir,” said Elsie, trying to be brave, but 
 struggling with her tears, “I’m not begging: I’ve 
 brought mother’s work.” 
 
 “Oh, well,” said he, “you can lay it down here, 
 and go and wait outside: w^e can’t do with such 
 as you in our shop. What would the carriage 
 folk say to such a little tatterdemalion ? ” 
 
 But Elsie had received particular directions 
 from mother, and she meant to carry them out, 
 for was she not mother’s trusty little messenger ? 
 Besides, if she waited outside, how did she know 
 when the work would be looked over, or how 
 soon she should receive the money needed to buy 
 food this very day. 
 
24 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 So she explained that she had been bidden to 
 ask for Mr. Black, the foreman, and to give a 
 message from mother, who was too ill to come 
 herself; whereupon the young shopman, being of 
 an impatient turn of mind, was on the point of 
 cutting short further explanation by a summaiy 
 ejection, when the voice of Mr. Maclean, the 
 master himself, asking, '‘What is it all about and 
 what does the child want, Johnson ? ” caused hiti 
 to disappear behind his counter with a muttered- 
 excuse, that he “ thought she was a beggar, and 
 had no business there.” 
 
 Thus the master and Elsie stood face to face, 
 and she saw a pleasant looking man, with 
 kindly smile, waiting to hear what she had to 
 say. It was not so hard after all to execute 
 mothers commission, and Elsie managed to 
 explain matters and to ask for a fresh supply 
 of work. 
 
 Mrs. Lovelfs work being always well done, and 
 seamstresses being scarce just then, “mother’s 
 little messenger ” was soon provided with a fresh 
 parcel instead of the one she brought back. 
 Moreover, Mr. Maclean himself handed her the 
 money due. Looking pityingly at the slender 
 child, and remembering how ill her mother 
 
MOTHER S LITTLE MESSENGER. 
 
 25 
 
 looked when last she came to his shop, he added 
 an extra shilling “ for wine, or beef tea.'’ 
 
 After the child had gone away, quite overjoyed 
 at her success, he began to wish he had inquired 
 more particularly about Mrs. Lovell. She had 
 been employed there several years, and was one 
 of the best seamstresses. Of late he had noticed 
 that the work she got through, though as well 
 executed as ever, was less in quantity. He could 
 not fail to be aware that many of these poor 
 work -women had a sore struggle for existence, 
 especially if illness came to lessen their earnings. 
 
 Although he was by no means a hard-hearted 
 employer, he never had made a habit of en- 
 couraging his work-people to tell him anything 
 about their home-life and trials. He gave them 
 work: he paid a fair price. What more could he 
 do ? He had a dread of being imposed upon ; 
 and, besides, there were so many of these poor 
 creatures : it was not possible to relieve every 
 one of them. 
 
 So he shut himself into his little office, thinking 
 what a sad world this was after all; and how 
 many folks living in it had a sore struggle to win 
 daily bread. 
 
 But as he turned over the pages of his ledger, 
 
26 
 
 AGNES GRAHAMS. 
 
 or read . the letters that morning's post had 
 brought him, and thought over various promising 
 plans and prospects, little Elsies pale anxious 
 face would come up in imagination before him. 
 
 What if his Gracie or May should look like 
 that ! Here he took himself to task for dwelling 
 on impossibilities, and deciding that next time 
 Mrs. Lovell came to the shop he would ask her 
 how she was getting on, he dismissed the subject 
 from his mind. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 REST FOR THE WEARY. 
 
 “Though I fail, I weep : 
 Though I halt in pace, 
 
 Yet I creep 
 
 To the throne of grace. 
 
 G. Herbert. 
 
 HILE mothers little messenger took back 
 
 ^ ^ the work to Mr. Maclean’s shop, mother 
 herself received' a visit from the lady who had 
 befriended her child the previous evening. 
 
 After Elsie left her, Mrs. Lovell lay back on 
 her pillow completely exhausted. The effort to 
 finish even the small portion of work left over 
 from last night had been almost beyond her 
 power. For days she had been toiling to com- 
 plete it, feeling ill and miserable as could be, yet 
 not daring to stop and think over her troubles, 
 lest she should altogether give way and break 
 down. 
 
 Now the work was finished and sent in, sorrow- 
 
28 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 ful thoughts, refusing any longer to be banished, 
 took possession of her mind. She felt very ill : 
 well-nigh '' sick unto death.” But, then, she had 
 often wished to die : to end a wretched life, a weary 
 struggle, which scarce availed “ to keep the wolf 
 from the door.” If only she might be at rest ! 
 
 But would death bring rest ? 
 
 She had been looking forward, as a matter of 
 course, to a home in that land where the wicked 
 cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” 
 Yet she knew very well that only ‘‘the redeemed 
 of the Lord ” dwell there. Might she count 
 herself among that blessed company who are 
 made " meet for the inheritance of the saints in 
 light ” ? Brought by illness face to face with the 
 realities of eternity, the question would recur 
 again and again, demanding an answer, — Yes,” 
 or ‘‘ No.” 
 
 In those happy days of a well-cared-for, well- 
 taught girlhood, about which she had dreamed 
 only last night, she had quite intended ^‘to be 
 good, and go to heaven when she died.” But 
 death seemed a long way off in those days, and 
 the life she lived afforded everything needed to 
 make her happy. There was time enough yet 
 for religion! 
 
REST FOR THE WEARY. 
 
 29 
 
 Then followed her marriage. That marriage, 
 which she intended to be the sum and height of 
 all earthly happiness, but which had only made 
 shipwreck of her life. Instead of happiness, she 
 had trouble upon trouble. Very early in their 
 married life she found out that her husband was 
 not what she thought him. Once he had won 
 her for his wife he threw off the outward sem- 
 blance of goodness, put on only that he might 
 succeed in his courtship. 
 
 Drink, that fruitful source of misery, caused 
 failure in his trade, and bad companions helped 
 him to tread a downward path ; till at last he 
 brought himself within reach of the strong arm 
 of the law, and, in order to elude justice, he fled 
 (where, she knew not) when Elsie was a tiny 
 child. Nor was this her only sorrow. One after 
 another Elsie's little brothers and sisters were 
 carried to an early grave. For lack of proper 
 food and pure air, they pined away in the un- 
 wholesome dwellings which her husband's im- 
 providence rendered the only shelter available 
 for wife and babes. 
 
 Truly it was a weary alternative of hope and 
 disappointment which the poor wife had ex- 
 perienced, as she followed her husband from town 
 
30 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 to town, where he always promised to get regular 
 employment, and always .broke his promise. 
 
 She was ashamed to write home and tell her 
 good, kind father and mother what misery she 
 endured, for she did not care to own how utterly 
 she had been mistaken in the husband of her 
 choice. So when Mark forsook her altogether, 
 she could not bring herself to go back to her 
 native place. How could she, when the very 
 name she bore was linked with a story of wrong 
 and disgrace ? 
 
 She just let herself drift away out of know- 
 ledge of her old friends : an easy thing to do in 
 the great town where her husband had left her, 
 in loneliness worse than widowhood, to fare as 
 best she might. 
 
 News travelled slowly to the isolated farm 
 house on Ashley Moss ; but at last a report of 
 Mark Lovell's ill-doing reached farmer Rowan. 
 The farmer and his wife would gladly have re- 
 received their daughter in the old home then. 
 They tried every means to find her out, but 
 in vain. 
 
 If she had only known how they wearied for 
 tidings, longing to shelter her from want and 
 care ! 
 
REST FOR THE WEARY. 
 
 31 
 
 When first left to face the world on her own 
 account, she managed, being an unusually clever 
 needlewoman, to make a tolerable living for 
 herself and Elsie. But the misery continually 
 preying upon, her mind destroyed health as well 
 as peace, rendering her after a time almost unfit 
 for work. 
 
 By degrees mother and child sunk lower and 
 lower in the world, till they landed in a wretched 
 attic in Balls' Court. The rent of this, their last 
 and most miserable shelter, Mrs. Lovell was sure 
 she could not long manage to scrape together. 
 
 Thus going the weary round of work, listless- ^ 
 ness, and depair, she had almost come to lose 
 faith in God and man. 
 
 Last night's dream had opened the floodgates of 
 memory, and softened her heart in some measure. 
 
 Besides the thought of a future life which was 
 paramount in her mind, came others crowding 
 in upon her. What would become of her brave 
 and loving little Elsie if she were to die ? What 
 would her own father and mother say, or do, if 
 she were to write and tell them of her destitute 
 condition.^ Could she fancy them coming from 
 the north country farmhouse, where they were 
 living out their peaceful honoured lives, to see 
 
32 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 her in Balls’ Court ? She thought they had never 
 even imagined the existence of a place like it : 
 her mother, who had not been further from home 
 than the nearest market town, — a quiet old world 
 place ; her father, who had been indeed to West- 
 pool itself on business, when a young man ; after- 
 wards telling friends and neighbours the story 
 of his journey, as a traveller might relate his 
 adventures. 
 
 Ah how much more she knew, than they, of 
 the world and its ways! How much less of God' 
 and heaven ! 
 
 Then her thoughts wandered on to her unworthy 
 husband : was he alive or dead ^ In prison, bearing 
 the jiist punishment of evil doing; or at large, 
 setting God and virtue at defiance ? And, lastly, 
 thought came round again to where it started. 
 Was she going to die.^^ and if so, what would 
 become of her when soul and body should part ? 
 
 Meditating thus, in discomfort alike of mind 
 and body, she heard a gentle tap at her door. 
 Unable to rise and see who waited outside, she 
 was compelled, contrary to her usual habit, to 
 invite her visitor to enter. The door opened 
 immediately, and, with noiseless step, a lady came 
 into the room. 
 
REST FOR THE WEARY. 
 
 33 
 
 '' It must be Elsie’s friend of last night,” thought 
 Mrs. Lovell; deciding with the unerring instinct 
 of her class, that this was, as Elsie had said, ‘‘a 
 real lady.” No such person had visited the attic 
 room before : yet her dress was of simplest 
 material, with black bonnet, of by no means the 
 latest fashion. 
 
 It was the gentle, cultivated voice, the graceful 
 self-possessed movements, the courteous greeting, 
 even to the miserable woman lying on the com- 
 fortless bed, which defined her position beyond 
 all doubt. 
 
 Over and above all, the look of quiet happiness 
 and perfect peace which shone on the delicate 
 face, won Mrs. Lovell’s heart, spite of what she 
 had said to Elsie ; so that the poor creature 
 striving jealously to hide her misery from every- 
 one, began to think that she had met with a friend. 
 
 A friend, who, with experienced eye, took in the 
 state of affairs ; perceiving at once that there was 
 a sad story — of sin perhaps — of sorrow certainly 
 —as the root of so much misery. 
 
 Knowing full well that an ailing body must 
 first be cared for, if she might hope to comfort 
 a troubled mind, the visitor spoke with kindly 
 sympathy ; drawing forth in response something 
 D 
 
34 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 of Mrs. Lovell’s woful story. She moved softly 
 about the room meanwhile, setting it to rights, 
 asking leave to make the bed comfortable; settling 
 pillows and arranging coverings in such a manner 
 as little Elsie, with all her good-will to wait on 
 mother, was not capable of. She had brought 
 with her delicately prepared food, and wine, which 
 she persuaded the invalid to take ; tending and 
 caring for her as no one else had done since she 
 lost sight of her own mother. Yet no intrusive 
 question was asked: there was*merely the bestowal 
 of ‘'that most Christlike gift of sympathy;” and 
 of the real help which was the very thing required 
 by the toilworn woman. 
 
 Having done all she could for her bodily com- 
 fort, the visitor drew a chair up to Mrs. Lovell’s 
 bedside, asking if she might read to her. Receiving 
 a willing assent to this proposition, she took a 
 Testament from her pocket and began to read in 
 a sweet musical voice, which had many a time 
 and often soothed a sufferer, or won a hearing 
 from hardened sinners. 
 
 Familiar, in bye-gone days, as had been the 
 rvords of Him “ who spake as never man spake,” 
 they came home now to this weary soul like dew 
 on the parched ground. By and bye she hid her 
 
REST FOR THE WEARY. 
 
 35 
 
 face and wept ; her poor broken heart moved to 
 its very depths by the story of Infinite Love. 
 
 The passage she had chosen ended, the lady 
 put down her book and began to sing ; the words 
 she sang telling afresh of the sinner s need, and 
 the Saviour’s love. 
 
 “ Just as I am : without one plea, 
 
 But that Thy blood was shed for me, 
 
 And that Thou bidd’st me come to Thee, — 
 
 Oh Lamb of God, I come ! ” 
 
 It was not the first time that the melody of a 
 sweet singer had been the means of comforting 
 troubled souls ; or quieting, almost like a charm, 
 rough and godless creatures, who called them- 
 selves women, yet were scarcely human. 
 
 Never before had Mrs. Lovell heard such 
 singing. Though she still covered her face and 
 wept, it seemed to her as if one of God’s bright 
 angels had come down to the bare desolate attic 
 to sing of Jesus and His love. 
 
 As the closing notes died away — 
 
 Just as I am : Thy love unknown 
 Has broken every barrier down ; 
 
 Now to be Thine^ yea Thine alone,”— 
 
 she whispered a scarcely audible Amen ” to the 
 refrain — 
 
 “ Oh Lamb of God, I come ! ” 
 
36 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 A few words of earnest prayer, commending 
 a tired sufferer to Him who gives the weary 
 rest ; then the lady sat down quietly by the bed- 
 side, and presently had the satisfaction of seeing 
 her charge drop off to sleep like a tired-out 
 child. 
 
 Watching the pale face, to which as it lay in 
 the repose of sleep some faint trace of past beauty 
 had returned, she noticed how much more refined 
 it was than most of the faces to be met with in 
 or about Balls' Court. 
 
 She wondered what might be the sleeper s 
 history. Why, and how, she had fallen into such 
 depths of poverty. Doubtless she would know 
 by and bye; for the poor creatures she visited 
 were wont to bestow their confidences upon her. 
 Such melancholy life-stories they told ! Stories 
 adding fresh force to the ancient adage which 
 declares truth to be stranger than fiction. 
 
 Long ago must she, a woman gently reared and 
 tenderly nurtured, have shrunk back appalled 
 from hearing so constantly of the doings of a 
 ‘‘world which lieth in wickedness,” were it not 
 that her work among God's poor had been under- 
 taken solely for love of Him who came “to seek 
 and to save that which was lost” 
 
REST FOR THE WEARY. 
 
 37 
 
 While Elsie’s mother sleeps the sleep which 
 will help to restore her ailing frame; just as the 
 gentle lady’s words have been the means of im- 
 parting a ray of comfort to her weary soul, we 
 may relate so much of Deaconess Grahame’s 
 history, past and present, as concerns our story 
 of life among God’s poor.” 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 CONSECRATED LIVES. 
 
 “ Friendless outcasts on thee call, 
 And the sick and the afflicted, 
 
 And the children more than all. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh, my friend, rise up and follow 
 Where the hand of God shall lead : 
 He has brought thee through affliction. 
 But to fit thee for His need.” 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 HE parish of St. Olave’s, to which Balls’ 
 
 J- Court belonged, numbered its souls by the 
 thousand : among them some of the poorest and 
 most depraved of the inhabitants of Westpool. 
 Well was it for St. Olave’s that its Rector was 
 fitted for such a ^'cure of souls,” — had in fact 
 undertaken it as the one above all others to be 
 desired. 
 
 As a young man he won his measure of name 
 and fame” during a successful University career. 
 What the world would call a brighter prospect — 
 certainly a far easier post — might have been his. 
 
CONSECRATED LIVES. 
 
 39 
 
 had he willed it. But, while taking part in some 
 work carried on by young men among God’s 
 poor, he first learned the sorrows, sins, and dire 
 need, of the masses. There and then he made up 
 his mind to devote his life to work among the 
 worse than heathen, to be found in Christian 
 England. 
 
 By God’s grace he kept steadily to his purpose. 
 First as curate, then as rector, he did what in him 
 lay to bring back wanderers to the fold of Christ. 
 Year after year he laboured on ; through joys 
 and sorrows, storm and sunshine, — enduring, ‘^as 
 seeing Him who is invisible.” God accepted his 
 work, and gave him his reward : souls for his hire, 
 and the love and respect of his people. 
 
 One bright May time, two years before our 
 story opens, the hard working Rector of St. Olave’s, 
 and his equally hard working wife, were feeling 
 the mental and physical strain consequent bn a 
 long winter’s work in such a parish. This being 
 the case, they were nothing loth to accept an 
 invitation to pay a visit at Neston Hall, close to 
 the pretty surburban village of Neston, where 
 Elsie went to search for her water-cresses. 
 
 Mrs. Walton had passed most of her girlhood 
 at Neston Hall. Her own mother dying when 
 
40 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 she was a child, she had been brought up with 
 loving care by her mother’s sister, Mrs. Lyster. 
 Whenever she and her husband felt weary with 
 stress of hard work, the doors of Neston Hall 
 were always ready to open wide in hearty 
 welcome, — the loving heart of ^‘Aunt Margaret” 
 to be the receptacle of many a tale of trouble and 
 perplexity. 
 
 But this visit to Neston was destined to prove 
 quite an eventful one. Mrs. Walton was going 
 there, by special invitation from Aunt Margaret, 
 to meet a dear school friend ; long ago married, 
 but now returning, after the terrible Indian 
 mutiny, a widow and childless. 
 
 The meeting between the Rector’s wife and her 
 old friend was at once glad and sorrowful. Glad, 
 because lapse of years had not cooled a friend- 
 ship commenced when both were light-hearted 
 girls, looking forth with innocent eyes upon the 
 world, and wondering what life had in store for 
 them. Sorrowful, because of the circumstances 
 under which they now met to talk of those times ; 
 and to recall memories of dear ones loved and 
 lost. 
 
 Agnes Grahame’s pale face, and mourning 
 dress, told how deeply she had drunk of sorrow’s 
 
CONSECRATED LIVES. 
 
 4T 
 
 cup. Far away under the burning sun of a 
 trophical climate lay all that was mortal of her 
 husband, and only son. 
 
 True Christian and brave soldier, her husband 
 was faithful unto death ” under a terrible ordeal 
 of treachery and danger, in days of horror such 
 as England little imagined her sons would have 
 to encounter. In a fiery chariot of suffering, sharp 
 though mercifully short, the soldier’s brave spirit 
 went up to God. His son, falling into murderous 
 hands, shared his fate. The widow escaped — a 
 hairbreadth escape, like that of many another 
 mourner — and brought her baby girl safely 
 through the perils of that terrible time; finding 
 after much suffering, safe refuge, and at last 
 setting sail for England. 
 
 But the fatigues and privations of their journey 
 to the coast had been too much for . the little one. 
 Before the voyage was half over, she lay at rest 
 under the ocean wave — till the sea shall give up 
 the dead.'’ 
 
 For awhile the bereaved wife and mother was 
 almost overwhelmed with the weight of sorrow 
 upon sorrow. But by and bye God sent her such 
 comfort as He only gives. Her beloved ones 
 saw the King in His beauty would she recall 
 
42 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 them if she could ? It was but a question of time 
 and place. 
 
 She working and waiting below. 
 
 They called to highest service above. And 
 Jesus ever present with both. 
 
 “ There walked with her the Holy One, 
 
 But Christ the living God with them.” 
 
 Thus believing in the Communion of Saints, — in 
 Him who ^Ts the Head of the Church,’' — she 
 addressed herself bravely to live out her life to 
 the glory of God ; till she too should enter into 
 the Presence, ‘‘ to go no more out.” 
 
 When she became able to plan her future life, 
 she resolved to devote such years as might still 
 remain to direct work among God’s poor. Freed 
 from home ties, she deemed herself at liberty to 
 lay the rest of her life as a glad offering at His 
 feet to whom she had surrendered her loved ones. 
 
 Her friends did not oppose her decision. Only 
 they begged her to wait until health should be 
 re-established, and some way for her chosen work 
 made plain. 
 
 This she was willing enough to do; and in 
 visiting meanwhile among friends of younger days 
 had found^ already plenty to employ her. Was 
 
CONSECRATED LIVES. 
 
 43 
 
 there a mourner to be comforted } Who should 
 do that better than she who had experienced the 
 severance of dearest earthly ties. 
 
 More than one sick nephew or niece had de- 
 clared that no one ever nursed like Aunt Agnes.” 
 Her gentle ways and loving words won alike the 
 little ones, and growing up high-spirited boys and 
 girls. Even in the early days of widowhood she 
 turned from her own sorrows to comfort others 
 stricken like herself ; meeting the reward of 
 
 “A heart at leisure from itself, 
 
 To soothe and sympathize.” 
 
 Where, and when, God would call her to work 
 among His poor had not been decided when she 
 came to visit her husband s old friends at Nesto^> 
 There it was settled for her, in a manner least 
 expected, but so as- to leave no room for doubt, 
 or misgiving, as to the wisdom of her decision. 
 
 In a quiet after-dinner talk, the first evening 
 Mr. and Mrs. Walton spent at Neston, the Rector 
 heard from his wife’s friend the story of all she 
 planned for the future, and of the work she hoped 
 to engage in. 
 
 As she spoke it seemed to him that God had 
 sent an answer to his prayers. Here was the 
 
44 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 very person so sorely needed in St. Olave’s at the 
 present moment : the very helper often longed 
 for by himself and his wife. 
 
 So he told Mrs. Grahame of his densely popu- 
 lated parish, with all its needs — of the claims that 
 often pressed too heavily on his wife — of the sick 
 who needed woman's care — of poor lost women 
 and children, who might be raised from their 
 wretchedness and sin by God’s blessing on a good 
 woman’s work. 
 
 Then he bid her consider if such were not the 
 work she desired. 
 
 After that the matter was not hard to arrange. 
 Mrs. Lyster, who felt a mother’s interest in the 
 orphan niece she had brought up, was glad to 
 hear that her dearly loved Grace would have a 
 helper and friend always at hand, instead of being 
 harassed and overpressed between parish and 
 home duties. 
 
 Mr. Lyster hoped he sho'uld not meet such a 
 weary anxious looking woman sis was his niece 
 last time he encountered her in Westpool. 
 
 came home Grace,” said he, ‘^telling your 
 Aunt that I was sure you would go into a decline, 
 or something of the kind ; and that we really 
 must insist upon your giving up incessantly 
 
CONSECRATED LIVES. 
 
 45 
 
 prowling about in those dens of places you have 
 in St. Olave’s. I could have found in my heart 
 to be angry with the Rector, if I had met him. 
 One cannot hinder him working himself death; 
 but at least he might leave you to take care of 
 the children. Now I hope things will be easier for 
 }^ou ; and remember whenever you or Mrs. Grahame 
 have had enough of St. Olave’s courts and alleys, 
 there is always Neston for a change.” 
 
 Thank you. Uncle Phillip,” said his niece 
 warmly. ‘^You don't know how often the thought 
 of your loving welcome has helped us to get 
 through our work.” 
 
 ‘^Tut, tut, child!” said the hearty old squire. 
 
 The least we can do is to look after you a bit. 
 Sometimes I fear we settle down too easily among 
 our pleasant surroundings ; leaving others to bear 
 the burden and heat of the day. But Pm glad 
 to know that someone will be helping you to 
 bear your burden, Grace, — and that someone the 
 wife of my old friend, Robin Grahame. If there 
 should be anything your aunt and I can do — 
 subscriptions or anything of that kind : eh I 
 Margaret V said the Squire, turning to his wife — 
 ‘‘why you and Walton won't find us behindhand.” 
 
 Thus the arrangement was completed; and 
 
46 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 the Rector and his wife, not forgetting to thank 
 God for having supplied a long-felt need, returned 
 to their parish in excellent spirits. 
 
 The requisite time for preparation and hospital 
 training ended, Mrs. Grahame was duly set apart 
 for her office ; and, at the time our story opens, 
 had already worked through one winter in 
 St. Olaves; proving even to the satisfaction of 
 the doubtful ones among the good Rector’s helpers, 
 how valuable is a trained and efficient worker, 
 untrammelled by those home ties and cares which 
 are, and ought to be, the first duty of most women. 
 
 Best known by the poor creatures to whom she 
 ministered in the streets and courts of the great 
 town parish, as the Deaconess,” she went in and 
 out among them, by day or by night; nursing 
 the sick, comforting the mourner, helping to raise 
 the weak and wandering ; and fearlessly warning 
 the dissolute of the dread consequences of a 
 sinful life. 
 
 Many a sufferer, and many a sinner, had cause 
 to bless the day when “ the Deaconess ” first set 
 foot in an abode of misery or of vice. Not a few 
 loved and respected the gentle lady who devoted 
 her life for service of God’s poor. Even the 
 roughs ” had never been known to molest her. 
 
CONSECRATED LIVES. 
 
 47 
 
 Nor did she confine her labours entirely to the 
 homes of the poor. The same gifts which made 
 her presence a welcome one in humble homes, 
 won for her an entrance into others of higher 
 degree. Wherever she went she did. her Lords 
 work; very quietly, never putting herself need- 
 lessly forward, but careful to let her light shine 
 for the glory of God. Sympathy and help being 
 oftentimes required as urgently by the rich as by 
 the poor, Deaconess Grahame found every 
 spare moment occupied, and abundant oppor- 
 tunity given for advancing the cause of God and 
 His Church. 
 
 Thus did she elect to live out her life — as her 
 very name implies — a servant of the poor, the 
 sick, and the young, for Jesus’ sake.” 
 
 This was how it happened that little Elsie 
 Lovell, fretting over her unsuccessful attempt 
 to help mother,” as well as mother herself, 
 lying sick and miserable in the attic room in 
 Ball’s Court, met with ^‘a friend in need,” who 
 proved a a friend indeed.” 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HELP AT LAST. 
 
 ‘ ‘ And now, O Lord, be near to bless, 
 Almighty, as of yore : 
 
 In crowded street, by restless couch. 
 As by Gennesareth’s shore.” 
 
 LSIE left Mr. Maclean’s shop with beaming 
 
 J ' face, and footsteps far swifter than when 
 she entered it. 
 
 Her success had quite exceeded her expectation. 
 Not only was there more work for mother, 
 which she well knew meant more food and firing ; 
 but there was also the extra shilling, Mr. Maclean’s 
 gift. This she separated from the rest of the 
 money she was carrying home, purposing to lay 
 it out at once, on one, or both, of those good 
 things for mother which he had proposed. 
 
 Wine, did he say ? Well, she thought, it might 
 do her mother good ; for she recollected that long 
 ago a doctor said Mrs. Lovell “needed nourishing 
 food and wine, far more than medicine.” Alas ! 
 
HELP AT LAST. 
 
 49 
 
 a prescription which seemed to the poor woman 
 almost a mockery, so unobtainable was it out of 
 her scanty earnings. ‘"Now,” thought Elsie, '' 1 
 can buy some wine for her.'' But in order to do 
 that she would have to go where mother had 
 strictly forbidden her to enter,^ — inside one of those 
 flaunting gin palaces, or noisy public-houses, "'ores 
 of which she must pass by on her way home, from 
 Mr. Maclean's fashionable shop in High Street 
 to her mother’s attic in Balls’ Court. 
 
 Being an obedient little maiden, she stayed 
 debating with herself whether she should do 
 wrong to go into one of these places for a few 
 moments, in order to buy what she wanted, now 
 mother was ill. 
 
 Pondering the question in her mind, she stood 
 close to the swing doors of a smart- looking 
 ‘‘vaults,” just below the great window full of 
 spirit bottles, set out in tempting array, like web 
 for silly fly. 
 
 Suddenly the swing door flew open, and a 
 woman, with bleared flushed face, stumbled out. 
 Half tipsy, and unsteady on her feeC she almost 
 upset Elsie ; then began to swear at her for being 
 in the way. With white face the child turned 
 and fled down the street. To go in through those 
 E 
 
so 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 swing doors would be far, far more formidable 
 than her errand to Mr. Maclean’s shop had seemed 
 that morning. She never could bring herself to 
 go inside them, — of that she was quite sure. 
 
 Once out of the drunken woman’s sight she 
 went on slowly, stopping before every butcher’s 
 shop she came to. By this time she had 
 arrived in the neighbourhood of Balls’ Court, 
 where butcher’s shops were far less plentiful 
 than gin palaces, — but here and there was one ; 
 the meat put out for sale looking uninviting 
 enough to well-to-do people, but quite up to 
 the mark in the eyes of inexperienced Elsie, who 
 seldom knew what it was to taste “butcher’s 
 meat.” 
 
 After hovering about before more than one 
 stall, alternately watched with suspicious eye by 
 its owner (child thieves were, alas, too common 
 thereabouts) and besought to “ buy ” “ buy,” she 
 did at length make a selection, according to the 
 best of her judgment. With some difficulty per- 
 suading the butcher to spare her a bit of a soiled 
 newspaper wherein to wrap the tiny piece of meat, 
 so as to keep it separate from mother’s parcel 
 of work, she set off towards home in great haste. 
 What between waiting at Mr. Maclean’s shop, and 
 
HELP AT LAST. 
 
 51 
 
 her delay while pondering oyer her purchases, sht 
 had been absent longer than she liked to think. 
 
 Arriving at home, she found her mother still 
 asleep. Such a calm restful sleep as Elsie 
 never remembered to have seen mother enjoy ! 
 Looking round, she soon perceived that some 
 visitor had been to the attic while she was out. 
 Though Elsie always did her best to keep the 
 room in order while Mrs. Lovell was busy at her 
 sewing, somehow it looked very different now ; as 
 if an experienced hand had been at work arrang- 
 ing it. No wonder mother slept so quietly on 
 the poor old bed ; made more comfortable than 
 Elsie ever thought to see it. There too lay the 
 remains of the good nourishing food brought for 
 the invalid. Elsie made sure that the visitor 
 could have been none other than her friend of 
 the previous evening, who, for all her mother said, 
 must have found her way to Balls’ Court, and up 
 to the attic room. 
 
 And in fact it was not Deaconess Grahame’s 
 first visit to Balls’ Court, though Mrs. Lovell and 
 Elsie did not know it. 
 
 When the sick woman awoke, much refreshed, 
 she found her little girl beside her, waiting to tell 
 how she sped on her errand. Joyfully Elsie told 
 
52 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 of the masters kind reception, of his gift, and 
 how she laid it out. 
 
 But the bundle of work, welcome as it was, had 
 to be put away for the present. With the best 
 will to work, Mrs. Lovell’s aching head and tired 
 fingers refused their office just yet. 
 
 ‘‘Never mind, mother,” said Elsie, as Mrs. Lovell 
 after merely opening the parcel was obliged to 
 lay it aside, with a sigh over her incapability. — 
 “ Never mind, mother, our Father in heaven, Him 
 of whom the lady spoke you know, has sent us 
 friends. I knew He would.”. 
 
 “Yes,” returned Mrs. Lovell, “that lady of 
 your’s was worth calling- a friend, Elsie ! ” 
 
 So the poor seamstress rested in peace that day; 
 mother and daughter enjoying a quiet talk, for 
 which there had been neither leisure nor inclina- 
 tion for some time. Mrs. Lovell even told Elsie 
 something about the Great King, and the bright 
 Home, concerning which her little daughter had 
 been longing all day to hear. 
 
 Then night fell on Balls’ Court and its inhabi- 
 tants. Sick and sad were some. Sinful and 
 miserable were others. 
 
 But “our Father in heaven cared for them all.” 
 
CHAPTER VIL 
 
 PLEASANT HOMES AND KIND HEARTS. 
 
 “ In God’s great field of labour 
 All work is not the same ; 
 
 He hath a service for each one 
 Who loves His holy name.” 
 
 Ministry of Song. 
 
 ONFIDENCE in the gentle lady who showed 
 
 herself so true a friend soon induced Mrs. 
 Lovell to unfold the sad life history, hitherto con- 
 fided to no one. 
 
 Then arose the question of her removal from 
 Balls’ Court ; where disease, always lurking in 
 some form, might seize upon her, weak and ailing 
 as she was, before she could be restored to home 
 and friends. 
 
 Already Deaconess Grahame had undertaken 
 to communicate with the father and mother living 
 in their far distant north country farm-house; and 
 Mrs. Lovell herself made shift to add a few lines. 
 
54 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 in a very trembling hand, which told its own tale 
 of pitiable weakness. 
 
 Now the struggle for daily bread was not so 
 incessant, she appeared to sink, instead of gaining 
 ground. A kind physician brought to visit her, 
 looked grave and shook his head, doubting whether 
 the shattered frame would ever regain its forces. 
 
 After a consultation held with the Rector and 
 his wife, as to the best manner of helping Mrs. 
 Lovell and Elsie, Deaconess Grahame might have 
 been seen making her way from St. Olave’s parish 
 to a higher and better part of the town. First 
 she had to pass through streets of shops ; then 
 she came to handsome dwelling houses, — homes 
 of merchants, professional men, and wealthy 
 tradesmen of “ the many-languaged town.” After 
 that to pretty suburban dwellings, each one 
 standing in its own grounds, sufficiently removed 
 from noisy, dusty, road traffic, to secure an amount 
 of retirement grateful to business men, after days 
 passed in the ‘‘infinite activities” of Westpool. 
 
 At the gate of one of these pleasant homes she 
 paused, and entering, passed up a drive bordered 
 by beautiful evergreens ; and so came to the end 
 of her walk, — one of the prettiest houses on the 
 Sandown Road. Admitted by a smiling maid. 
 
PLEASANT HOMES AND KIND HEARTS. 55 
 
 to whom she was evidently well known, she was 
 ushered into a morning room, very simple in its 
 appointments ; and into the presence of a pleasing 
 looking lady, none other than the wife of Mr. Mac- 
 lean, owner of the handsome shop in High Street, 
 where Elsie took '' mother’s work.” 
 
 From Mrs. Maclean she received a very warm 
 greeting indeed. '' I am glad you came to me,” 
 said she, coming forward with outstretched hands, 
 for I have been wanting so much to see you.” 
 
 It is a long while since we met,” returned her 
 visitor ; “ but you must forgive me, for this month 
 has been a busy one; so many of our people 
 have been ailing.” 
 
 I was sure something had kept you near 
 home,” replied Mrs. Maclean. '^But now you are 
 here you must rest awhile, and tell me something 
 about your poor people. I often think of you, 
 hard at work in St. Olave s, and wonder how you 
 are getting on. I wish Robert would let me help 
 you a little ! My mother used to visit the cottagers 
 round our old home ; but Robert says Westpool 
 is quite different, and the houses of the poor not 
 fit for me to visit ; though how that should be, 
 when you can go into them, I don’t understand.” 
 
 '^Well, dear Mrs. Maclean,” replied Deaconess 
 
AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 S6 
 
 Grahame, I can only say to you that when I was- 
 a happy wife I regarded my husband’s lightest 
 wish as law. You, I am sure, will do the same. 
 God gives us all work. Just now your’s is at 
 home, with those dear little ones who are to be 
 trained up for Him. My own dear ones are ‘gone 
 into that school, where they no longer need ’ my 
 ‘poor protection.’ So I am set free for such work 
 as I try to do. Depend upon it that whenever 
 God puts into anybody’s heart the desire to serve 
 Him, He always shows them the way to do so, 
 if they are willing to follow His leading. Only 
 sometimes He trains His workers by teaching 
 them to wait.” 
 
 “ But you would not have everybody wait for 
 such preparation as your own for instance, would 
 you ? ” asked Mrs. Maclean. “ Many of us might 
 do some work among the poor who cannot devote 
 our whole time to it.” 
 
 “Certainly,” replied Mrs. Grahame: “there is 
 work for everybody. You know how sorely help 
 is required in St. Olave’s, and the need is equally 
 great in other parishes. Yet I have often thought 
 that the irregular assistance given, even by earnest 
 workers, is a mistake, and a waste of strength. 
 One will work here and another there, just as he 
 
PLEASANT HOMES AND KIND HEARTS. 5 / 
 
 or she sees fit, quite regardless of order, and of 
 the command, ‘ Obey them that have the rule 
 over you, and submit yourselves : for they watch 
 for your souls.’ ^ 
 
 ^‘But pray do not think that all who work 
 among God’s poor must of necessity have the 
 regular training I thought it right to undergo 
 before I became a Deaconess. In our families 
 and in society, as well as in the parish, may we 
 not all be about our Master’s business ? And 
 whatever be our vocation, each one requires the 
 preparation of heart, which is God given, and 
 which alone can make service acceptable. Are 
 we not all daughters of the King, in training 
 here for life in the Father’s house by and bye ? 
 
 Do you not recollect reading, in that beau- 
 tiful 45th Psalm, among the daughters of the 
 king, the description of ‘the daughter of Tyre,’ 
 who ‘ was there with a gift ’ } And j/our gifts 
 have brought help and comfort to many a poor 
 home since we first knew each other. Indeed it 
 is by Mr. Walton’s desire that I am come to-day 
 to tell you of a difficulty we are in about one of 
 
 ^ See Heb. xiii. 15 — 17. 
 
58 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 your husband’s needlewomen, and to ask help, if 
 you, and he, are willing to give it.” 
 
 Let me hear all about it,” replied Mrs. Mac- 
 lean. Robert often says he is glad to do anything 
 in his power to forward Mr. Walton’s plans : so 
 many of his work-people live in St. Olave’s 
 parish, you know.” 
 
 When Deaconess Grahame told the story of 
 Elsie and her mother, she was surprised as well 
 as pleased to find Mrs. Maclean quite prepared to 
 take an interest in it. 
 
 Contrary to his usual habit of never talking 
 business with his wife,” Mr. Maclean had told 
 her about the sweet-looking child who brought 
 her mother’s work to the shop, and how much he 
 wished to hear more of her. 
 
 A time of sorrow, lately passed through, had 
 left its mark on the mind of a prosperous, yet 
 somewhat selfish, man. By slow degrees Mr. 
 Maclean’s mind was opening to feel for the needs 
 and sorrows of other people. But for this soften- 
 ing of heart he might not have cared to notice 
 or speak so kindly to Elsie, when she came to his 
 shop. 
 
 Deaconess Grahame had but just finished un- 
 folding her tale, and the friends .were proceeding 
 
PLEASANT HOMES AND KIND HEARTS. $9 
 
 to consult as to the best means of remedying its 
 sorrows, when they were interrupted by a patter 
 of little feet outside, the gentle pushing open of 
 the door, and a request, preferred in childish voices: 
 “ May we come in, mother ? '' 
 
 Receiving the desired permission, the door forth- 
 with flew open to its widest extent, and a fine 
 sturdy boy, who was the first comer, allowed, in 
 true elder brother style, two lovely little sisters 
 to push past him, eager to greet a friend they all 
 loved. 
 
 Both darlings were speedily enfolded in a 
 motherly embrace, and enstalled on a well-known 
 resting place, — Mrs. Grahame’s knee. Her arm 
 meanwhile encircling the eldest son, whom she 
 loved, as she did all boys, for the sake of her own 
 son in heaven. 
 
 The children, though now apparently in ex- 
 cellent health, and certainly in first-rate spirits, 
 yet bore traces, in features somewhat sharpened 
 and complexions delicately clear, of severe illness 
 recently passed through. And herein lay the 
 secret of their warm greeting to a beloved friend. 
 
 Not many months previous to the sunny spring- 
 tide when they came so merrily to welcome her, 
 in the fall of the year, when November fogs, 
 
6o 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 following upon long autumn rains, had wrapped 
 Westpool and its suburbs in a mantle of disease 
 and death, ‘^the pestilence which walketh in 
 darkness '' had effected forcible and terrible 
 entrance into the pleasant home on the Sandown 
 Road. 
 
 In an hour of direst distress. Deaconess Grahame 
 had been brought to aid the stricken household. 
 This she was enabled to do ; giving to nurses the 
 help of which they stood sorely in need, and 
 bringing to the sufferers God’s comfort. 
 
 After days and nights of danger and anxious 
 nursing, the dread pestilence withdrew. The 
 father and mother, — thanking God that all were 
 spared, while many a neighbour and friend 
 mourned loved ones stricken down by mortal 
 disease, — gathered their scattered household 
 around them once more, and life went on as 
 usual. But ever since those days the St. Olave’s 
 Deaconess had been known in Mr. Maclean’s 
 household as a dear and valued friend, and a 
 warm welcome always awaited her from every 
 member of the family. 
 
 ‘‘ Tell us where you have been all this while ? ” 
 besought the children. 
 
 ‘'Why have you never been to see us 
 
PLEASANT HOMES AND KIND HEARTS. 6l 
 
 Have you taken care of any more children as 
 sick as we were ? and did they all get well } 
 
 My darlings, how can I answer such a string 
 of questions ? I must put on my considering cap, 
 as nurse says, must I not ? What was your first 
 question, Arthur: ^ Where have I been.^’ Why 
 IVe been in many such places as you can hardly 
 dream of yet, my boy ; but which I hope you will 
 know something about some day, should God 
 spare you to grow up, and put into your heart a 
 desire to help in making them better.’' 
 
 Like the dark room with no window, where 
 you found the little girl ill in bed, just as we 
 were put in May. 
 
 '‘Yes, darling,” returned Mrs. Grahame sadly; 
 " I have been into many rooms as dreary as that 
 one, and have seen many sick little boys and 
 girls, and grown up people too, since I was here 
 last ; and some that were not sick, but very 
 naughty, and very unhappy.” 
 
 *' But to-day I have come to tell your mother 
 about a dear little girl, and her poor sick 
 mother.” 
 
 " Oh, do tell us about it !” pleaded the children. 
 
 So they heard the story of Elsie Lovell’s brave 
 attempt “ to help mother ; ” and about the poor 
 
62 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 room in Balls' Court, where a weary seamstress 
 tried day after day to earn a living for herself 
 and her child. 
 
 The children listened, as children will listen to 
 a story of facts simply related. Can it ever be 
 too soon to tell our darlings something of life’s 
 realities, sorrows, and needs, as they abound in 
 the homes of the poor ; so training them from 
 earliest years to give their meed of help in' 
 lightening that mighty burden of woe under 
 which ^‘the whole creation groaneth, and travaileth 
 in pain together until now " ? 
 
 The tale ended, and voted by Arthur in true 
 schoolboy fashion, an awfully jolly one,” and 
 Elsie ^^a little brick for trying to help her mother,” 
 the children were dismissed to school-room regions 
 again ; and the ladies renewed their discussion as 
 to ways and means of helping Mrs. Lovell and 
 Elsie. 
 
 Mrs. Maclean was quite determined to remove 
 them from Balls' Court. She bethought herself 
 of an old warehouse porter, a trusted servant of 
 her husband, who, having long since put all his 
 lads and lasses out in the world,” now lived quietly 
 with his old wife, who, as he said, kept their 
 house the very moral of neatness and comfort.” 
 
PLEASANT HOMES AND KIND HEARTS. 63 
 
 This seemed just the place where both mother 
 and child might be cared for and nursed back to 
 health. Mrs. Maclean proposed that her friend 
 should remain for luncheon; afterwards they 
 would drive down to Parr Street, in order to find 
 out whether old Stephen Bailey’s wife would con- 
 sent to receive Elsie and her mother as lodgers 
 for a time. 
 
 Early in the afternoon Mrs. Maclean’s pony 
 carriage drew up at number 9, Parr Street. Mrs. 
 Bailey, very glad to oblige the master s wife, cheer- 
 fully consented to receive the sick woman and her 
 little girl; moreover she. promised to do everything 
 she could to help them. They told her Mrs. 
 Lovell’s sorrowful story; in which the kind-hearted 
 old woman speedily became interested, wiping the 
 tears from her eyes with many an exclamation 
 of sympathy and concern, when its melancholy 
 details were unfolded. 
 
 Don’t know whether her man be alive or 
 dead.?^” commented Mrs. Bailey; ''why ’tis worse 
 than bein’ a widow. Such disgrace too! No 
 ’wonder the poor thing couldn’t face her own folk; 
 or think to hold up her head among the neigh- 
 bours, even though she weren’t to blame. Ay, 
 and to think of her and her little lass biding in 
 
64 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 Balls’ Court ! Not that I know it myself. Stephen 
 wouldn’t hold with me going into such like 
 places ; but he often passes that way when he 
 goes to and fro between the docks and the ware- 
 house, and he says ’tis a weary part.” 
 
 Thus Mrs. Bailey ran on, with the talkativeness 
 of old age, while she showed her visitors upstairs 
 into a clean comfortable bed-room in apple-pie 
 order. 
 
 I did not know you took lodgers,” said Mrs. 
 Maclean. 
 
 ‘'No more I do, ma’am,” answered the old 
 woman. “This was my Jane’s and Lizzie’s room. 
 They’ve been married and gone this many a year, 
 but their girls come now and again to bide a bit 
 with the old folks, — liking the stir and bustle of a 
 town after the quiet way they live down in the 
 country ; so I keeps the room ready, and makes 
 them welcome whenever they come. It cheers 
 Stephen up too, for he misses our Jane and 
 Lizzie.” 
 
 After concluding the arrangement, and giving 
 directions to have everything prepared that the 
 sick woman could want, Mrs. Maclean drove away, 
 glad to know that she had the means of bringing 
 comfort to one who stood sorely in need of it; 
 
PLEASANT HOMES AND KIND HEARTS. 65 
 
 while Deaconess Grahame bent her steps to Ball’s 
 Court, anxious to prepare Mrs. Lovell and Elsie 
 for their removal to happier quarters. 
 
 Robert,” said Mrs. Maclean to her husband, 
 meeting him as soon as she heard his footstep in 
 the hall, I can tell you all you want to know 
 about the child who came with her mother’s work 
 that day. Don’t you remember telling me about 
 her .? ” 
 
 Yes,” said Mr. Maclean. have often thought 
 of her : it was such a sweet face, different from 
 any I have seen for a long time. It seems absurd 
 to say so, but the child had quite a look of Grade; 
 that was why I noticed her, I dare say.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, you may see her to-morrow if you care 
 to go to Bailey’s house, — in Parr Street, you know. 
 Deaconess Grahame came this morning and told 
 me all about her and her mother. Oh, such a sad 
 story, Robert : I cannot forget it ! I do hope you 
 won’t think me meddlesome, for I know you 
 never like my having anything to say about your 
 work-people, but I could not bear to hear of this 
 poor thing ill and miserable in Balls’ Court (where 
 our good friend found her) without trying to do 
 something for her; so I went down at once to 
 old Mrs. Bailey, and persuaded her to take in 
 F 
 
66 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 the mother and child until their relations can be 
 sent for.” 
 
 I’m glad you acted so quickly, my dear,” said 
 Mr. Maclean ; rather, it must be confessed, to his 
 wife’s surprise, — only that she had often noticed, 
 since their illness last autumn, how* tender hearted 
 he had become. Be sure the poor woman has 
 all she wants. I’m afraid,” he continued, ‘‘ that 
 I have been sadly deficient in care of my work- 
 people.” 
 
 “And you won’t object to my visiting her, will 
 you Robert } ” said his wife. 
 
 “No, Janie,” said he. “You may go to Bailey’s 
 house with safety ; only, you know, I could not 
 have you going into all the back slums of West- 
 pool ; else we should soon have a visit from the 
 fever again.” 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A QUIET RESTING PLACE. 
 
 “Oh, Saviour ! Thou hast wept, and Thou hast loved 
 And love and sorrow still to Thee may come 
 And find a hiding place, — a rest, a home ! ” 
 
 B oth the Rector and his wife speedily found 
 their way to the attic-room in Balls’ Court ; 
 soon becoming deeply interested in its inmates 
 and their melancholy story. 
 
 At first Mrs. Lovell’s new-found friends began 
 to fear lest their help had been rendered all too 
 late, — that the poor blossom, battered to earth 
 by the storm of life, would never more raise its 
 head, and that another name must shortly be 
 added to the list of shipwrecked lives. 
 
 But when Deaconess Grahame, after her visit 
 to Mrs. Maclean, went to carry her news of good 
 things in store for them, to Mrs. Lovell and Elsie, 
 she began for the first time to hope that brighter 
 
68 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 days might yet dawn for mother and child. She 
 found Mrs. Lovell able to get up, and sitting before 
 a cheery fire; apparently enjoying the comfort- 
 able meal prepared for her by Elsie, who waited 
 upon her ailing mother with a devotion pretty to 
 witness. 
 
 The relief of telling her story to some one 
 whom she could trust had banished the feeling 
 of utter loneliness which preyed upon Mrs. Lovell's 
 mind. Release from hard and constant work had 
 really done more for her than was at first apparent ; 
 and careful nursing, with good food, had helped 
 matters not a little. 
 
 Only one thing still harassed her. What would 
 her father do when he should receive the letter 
 telling of her whereabouts ? Would he write a 
 loving welcome home ? Or would he come to 
 her ? For they had told him how ill she was. 
 
 Glad as she would be to see him, she shrank 
 from receiving him in her poor lodging, and in 
 such a degraded neighbourhood. 
 
 As for little Elsie, a few days had worked 
 wonders in the sweet anxious face, which, freed 
 from care, now beamed and sparkled with happi- 
 ness. Their troubles had ended in such a wonderful 
 way! Kind friends would take care of mother 
 
A QUIET RESTING PLACE. 
 
 69 
 
 till grandfather should come to carry them both 
 to the old farm house, about which mother had 
 told her more during the last few days than she 
 ever knew before. Once there, mother would 
 soon get strong and all would go well with them. 
 Perhaps father might come back too : though 
 Elsie had not ventured even to hint at that pos- 
 sibility to her mother. With the full and un- 
 calculating trust of a child she gladly laid down 
 the burden of care which had been pressing so 
 heavily on her childish shoulders. 
 
 But Elsie’s sweet face brightened yet more when 
 she heard their kind friend telling how, through 
 Mrs. Maclean’s generous kindness, she and her 
 mother were to be moved from Balls’ Court to 
 the comfortable lodging in Parr Street, where 
 mother would be so much more likely to get 
 strong quickly, and fit for the long journey to her 
 old home. 
 
 Very gratefully did Mrs. Lovell accept the 
 proffered kindness ; thanking God for the wise 
 and generous friends raised up by Him to arrange 
 for that future which had appeared to her so 
 terribly hopeless a short time ago. 
 
 If ^Hather” should come to seek her now — 
 though she scarce dared hope for his coming — he 
 
70 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 need not be shocked by finding how very low in 
 the world his long lost daughter had sunk. 
 
 Next morning saw the move to Parr Street 
 happily accomplished ; and Mrs. Lovell and Elsie 
 established, for the first time for many months, 
 in comfortable quarters. 
 
 Their exodus from Balls’ Court was watched 
 with considerable interest by such of its poor 
 inhabitants as had found time to bestow a 
 wondering conjecture upon the mother and child, 
 so different in habit and manner from them- 
 selves. 
 
 Old Sarah Robbins too had come from her 
 little corner cottage to give a hand-shake and 
 cheery farewell to the stranger she had befriended 
 more than once, and would have gladly befriended 
 oftener still, but for her jealous seclusion. She 
 bestowed a very loving kiss upon little Elsie, — 
 always a favourite. ‘^Ah, well,” quoth the old 
 dame, have always found the Lord true to 
 His word, therefore I made sure you would meet 
 with friends somehow, neighbour. He never forgets 
 the needy and sorrowful, however much we may 
 be tempted, shortsighted creatures, as we are, to 
 make Him out as forgetful as ourselves. May 
 His presence go with you, maam,” she added. 
 
A QUIET RESTING PLACE. 
 
 71 
 
 turning with a respectful courtesy to the grey 
 robed figure so well know^n in St. Olave’s parish ; 
 ‘‘and m^y the Lotd’s best blessing rest on those 
 who consider the poor and needy.” 
 
 So, with kindly farewell, and a promise on the 
 part of the Deaconess soon to revisit Balls' Court, 
 the cab, bearing Mrs. Lovell and Elsie away from 
 their life of toil and care, drove to Stephen Bailey s 
 home in Parr Street. 
 
 Arrived there, they found that Mrs. Maclean's 
 thoughtful care had provided many comforts most 
 grateful to an invalid fresh from the miseries of 
 Balls' Court. Some of little Gracie’s simpler 
 garments had even been brought, in order that 
 Elsie might be warmly and decently clad, — greatly 
 to the child’s delight, who entertained but vague 
 recollections of the time when it had been her lot 
 to wear garments both whole and warm. 
 
 The kind heart of Stephen Bailey’s wife over- 
 flowed with pity from the moment she saw the 
 fragile creature handed carefully from the cab, 
 and, exhausted with her drive, laid to rest upon 
 an old oaken settle in her comfortable kitchen. 
 As for little Elsie, she soon made friends with the 
 worthy old couple. The deft handy ways of the 
 child, rendered thoughtful by early acquaintance 
 
72 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 with sorrow, and her devotion in tending her sick 
 mother, astonished Mrs. Bailey, accustomed to 
 the high spirited happy little ones who welcomed 
 a visit to grannie ’’ as a time of much freedom 
 and indulgence ; and who, truth to tell, were wont 
 to show themselves somewhat exacting towards- 
 ‘‘grannie’' on these occasions. But here was a 
 quiet little woman moving noiselessly about ; 
 observant not only of mother’s wants, but of the 
 wishes of every one else, so far as she knew how 
 to fulfil them. Never “making a clatter,” never 
 upsetting or disarranging anything: obedient at 
 a word. 
 
 “Almost too quiet,” decided Mrs. Bailey, hardly 
 aware how heavily life’s troubles had entered into 
 the childish heart, crushing out much of its natural 
 joyousness. 
 
 Old Stephen Bailey himself “took kindly,” 
 to his lodger. He looked upon her with interest, 
 wondering what he should have felt had his own 
 bonnie girls, Jane or Lizzie, thus made shipwreck 
 of their lives. 
 
 Out of interest grew pity; so he would sit by 
 Mrs. Lovell’s side of an evening talking in a 
 gentle fatherly way to the weary creature, who 
 remembered well what it was to be father’s darling. 
 
A QUIET RESTING PLACE. 73 
 
 and who felt glad to be reminded of the love she 
 had so sorely missed. 
 
 In such a quiet shelter Mrs. Lovell waited for 
 an answer to Deaconess Grahame’s letter — or per- 
 haps for the coming of a long-absent father. Who 
 knew ? 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ^‘OUR JANET.” 
 
 “ Letters unto trembling hands.” 
 
 T Ashby Moss Farm, Mrs. Rowan, looking 
 
 from the dairy window where she was 
 getting ready her butter for next day’s market, 
 could scarce believe her own eyes as she saw 
 Isaac Fenton, the Ashby postman, making his 
 way across the fold-yard up to the house door. 
 The arrival of a letter for anybody at the farm 
 was a very rare thing indeed. Farmer Rowan 
 and his wife had no other children beside their 
 long-absent daughter ; and Isaac Fenton had not 
 brought a letter from Janet for years upon years. 
 Time was when they used to watch for her letters, 
 — at first with pleasure, afterwards with sad appre- 
 hension of such tidings as they too often con- 
 tained ; and at length with a great longing for 
 letters which never came at all. But that was so 
 
OUR JANET. 
 
 75 
 
 long, ago, hope had died out of their hearts ; 
 though the same wistful desire for tidings re- 
 mained. 
 
 Even the farmer’s needful business seldom 
 demanded the writing or receiving of a letter : 
 he transacted it all in person on Ashby market 
 days. 
 
 ^‘What could any one have to write to the 
 master about wondered his wife, as she took the 
 letter from Isaac Fenton, holding it carefully in 
 one corner of her apron, while she examined and 
 turned it over, after the manner of one unac- 
 customed to the receipt of letters from unknown 
 correspondents. The handwriting was strange, 
 — not a bit like Janet’s; and the post mark — 
 ‘‘Westpool” — threw no light on the matter. So 
 she stuck it, for safety, into the frame of one of 
 the lozenge-shaped window panes in the big 
 kitchen window: there it would be, she said, for 
 the master to read when he came home from his 
 ploughing at dinner time. She never once thought 
 of opening it herself : she was slow at reading 
 strange writing, — her “specs” were put away 
 upstairs — and the butter in the dairy needed 
 attending to directly. 
 
 Inviting Isaac to rest after his long walk, and 
 
76 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 bidding Dolly, the farm maid, bring him out 
 bread and cheese from the larder and fresh butter- 
 milk from the dairy, she returned to her occupa- 
 tion of butter-making, finishing only just in time 
 to serve up their early dinner to the master and 
 his farming-men. It was a busy time on the 
 farm, so they all came crowding in, hasting to get 
 dinner and be gone again : thus Deaconess 
 Grahames letter escaped notice, and remained 
 where it had been placed until late that evening, 
 when, the beasts being suppered up,” and Dolly 
 and the farm servants gone to rest, farmer Rowan 
 and his wife had a few minutes quiet before their 
 own bedtime. 
 
 Eh ! Andrew, man,” said his wife, as they sat 
 one on each side of the fire, “ I do declare IVe 
 been and forgot a bit of a letter which Isaac 
 Fenton brought this morning. We were so 
 throng at dinner-time it clean slipped away out 
 o’ mind ; but ’tis all safe here in the window.” 
 And taking it down she brought it to her husband, 
 then set a candle on the little round table, found 
 his spectacles for him, and stood by waiting for 
 him to make known its contents. 
 
 Almost as much surprised as his wife, he turned 
 the letter over and over before opening it. When 
 
OUR JANET. 
 
 77 
 
 he did so, a little note enclosed in the larger sheet 
 fell fluttering to the ground. With a sudden start 
 he picked it up quickly. Uncertain as the hand- 
 writing was he knew it directly for Janet's. 
 
 '^What’s the matter, Andrew.^" said his wife 
 anxiously. 
 
 do believe its our Janet," answered he. 
 
 Our Janet repeated his wife, faintly ; and sat 
 down quite overcome. 
 
 ^'Nay, cheer up missus," said her husband; ^‘here 
 is her own writing, though 'tis shaky enough." 
 
 Looking over his shoulder, she tried to follow 
 while he read the trembling lines penned by 
 Janet, asking forgiveness for the anxiety she had 
 caused, and telling how she longed to see father 
 and mother and the dear old home. 
 
 They were but a few lines, very imperfectly 
 expressed, but taking farmer Rowan a long time 
 to master, because his spectacles grew dim and 
 had to be taken off* and rubbed again and again ; 
 and his voice quavered so that his wife required 
 him to repeat the dear words more than once. 
 
 Could it be possible ! All those long years of 
 uncertainty ended! Janet alive, and coming to 
 the old home again. 
 
 Joy bid fair to be too much for the old woman. 
 
78 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 Quiet and self-restrained by nature, with a life- 
 long trust in the God who had been her God for 
 many a long year, she had borne her sorrow 
 patiently, doing her daily round of duties which 
 must be fulfilled, so that few guessed how Mrs. 
 Rowan, and her husband too, — each in the still 
 depths of a loving heart, — had been fretting and 
 wearying for their absent child. The sudden lifting 
 of the dark cloud quite dazzled them, with hope's 
 bright ray shining out so clear. 
 
 Come, come, missus,” said farmer Rowan, 
 ‘^you sit beside me, dry up your tears and keep 
 quiet . while I read this other sheet ; which, I 
 reckon, is to tell us more about our poor lass.” 
 
 Notwithstanding her husband’s entreaties, Mrs. 
 Rowan’s exclamations were multiplied tenfold 
 when she heard the story it had to tell. The 
 misfortunes and privations endured by Elsie and 
 her mother were dwelt upon as lightly as possible. 
 Mrs. Lovell had begged that Mark,” her erring 
 husband might be spared. Yet there was quite 
 sufficient to show that the lot of the forsaken wife 
 had been a bitter one. 
 
 Farmer Rowan marvelled how his girl, so 
 carefully reared, had lived on through all those 
 distressful years. 
 
OUR JANET. 
 
 79 
 
 Finally the letter told how health had failed in 
 the weary struggle to gain daily bread ; how, but 
 for her little daughter’s brave effort, Mrs. Lovell 
 might never more have seen home or friends. 
 
 The letter read, Mrs. Rowan bestirred herself 
 at once. She looked out the travelling bag, which 
 had lain by ever since the ^‘good man’s” last 
 railway journey, long ago; and packed it up 
 carefully. 
 
 She would have dearly liked to go with him, 
 but what would become of farm and farm ser- 
 vants if both were absent at such a busy time ? 
 It was not to be thought of Then she had never 
 been in a railway train in her life, so she felt she 
 should be only a hindrance instead of a help. 
 No : she would bide at home and have everything 
 ready for Janet’s coming, with Elsie, the first 
 grandchild she had ever seen. 
 
 At dawn farmer Rowan called up Ben, the old 
 farm man, who had been with him since he came 
 to the Moss, and was driven away to catch the 
 first train going south from Ashby. 
 
 Gathering from Mrs. Lovell that the simple 
 countryman was quite an unaccustomed traveller, 
 the Rector had caused full directions for his 
 journey to be enclosed in the letter. Thanks to 
 
8o 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 his thoughtful care, no time was lost on the way. 
 As the short spring twilight fell, farmer Rowan’s 
 train came swiftly down the long tunnel into 
 North Street Station. 
 
 Thence he hastened towards Parr Street, arriving 
 just after Stephen Bailey had come home from 
 his day’s work. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 FATHER ! 
 
 “ But for hopes, hearts would break.” 
 
 HILE her father journeyed to Westpool, 
 
 Mrs. Lovell, looking considerably better 
 
 than when she left Balls’ Court, had been 
 spending the afternoon in the cozy Parr Street 
 parlour, — Elsie by her side. She tried to occupy 
 herself with some needlework, but every now 
 and then stopped to wonder what answer the 
 letter sent to Ashby would bring. As the light 
 faded, she put down her work altogether, and 
 gave herself up to all kinds of speculations 
 concerning the future. Elsie, creeping close up, 
 laid her head down on mother’s knee, seemingly 
 intent on watching the embers in the grate as 
 they assumed all sorts of strange shapes, — ‘‘fire 
 castles,” she called them. 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 All of a sudden a loud knock sounded through 
 the tiny house. Mrs. Lovell started and changed 
 colour : then got up and went towards the 
 parlour door. 
 
 She could hear someone speaking to old 
 Stephen and his wife. Could it be? Yes: 
 surely it was — her father's voice. In a moment 
 she had stepped from parlour to kitchen, and had 
 thrown herself sobbing on his bosom ; while he 
 folded her in his arms, soothing and comforting 
 her, as he had often done after some childish 
 mishap. Thoughtful for her, even in the supreme 
 joy of their meeting, he made her sit down in old 
 Stephen's big arm-chair, beside which he stood 
 holding the thin toil-worn hands in his big brown 
 ones, tears coursing down his cheeks. So taken 
 up were they with each other that they forgot all 
 about little Elsie, — looking on wonderingly, yet 
 quite understanding that here was mother's 
 father, who loved mother just as mother loved 
 her. 
 
 But presently Mrs. I^ovell drew her forward. 
 “ Here's Elsie, father, — the only comfort I 
 have." 
 
 Then grandfather kissed Elsie lovingly, looking 
 her in the face with keen but kindly eyes, and 
 
FATHER. 
 
 83 
 
 deciding- that the little lass was nearly as great a 
 beauty as her mother used to be. 
 
 Mrs. Bailey meanwhile bustled about, bent on 
 preparing a comfortable meal for the traveller, 
 who, she was sure, must be clemmed, after such 
 a long ride.” 
 
 She had been a little apprehensive lest this 
 abrupt meeting might injure Mrs. Lovell; but at 
 last decided within herself that '^joy don't so 
 often kill a body.” 
 
 Oh, how much there was for father and daughter 
 to hear and tell ! About mother waiting eagerly 
 for news in the old farm house, where she was 
 longing to welcome her Janet and the yet 
 unknown grandchild. By that very evening's 
 post a letter must be written to her, — a letter 
 which had well-nigh rendered itself illegible for 
 blots, occasioned by tears of joy which would 
 drop on the page, as Andrew Rowan indited one 
 of the few letters his Ruth had ever received 
 from him. 
 
 Not that Mrs. Lovell could yet bear to tell, or 
 her father to hear, a detailed account of all she 
 had undergone in sorrowful years past by. It 
 was enough for him, at present, to have regained 
 his daughter, and to plan how soon he could take 
 
84 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 her to her native place : there to be nursed back 
 to health and strength. But that would not be 
 just yet, as he plainly saw before the evening 
 closed, and his Janet lay back faint and ex- 
 hausted, — fain to go to bed early, though she 
 longed to stay and hear more home news. 
 
 Later on, Stephen was despatched to the 
 Deaconess House with the news of Farmer 
 Rowan’s arrival. Deaconess Grahame paying an 
 early visit next morning to see how Mrs. Lovell 
 had borne the meeting, Elsie shyly introduced 
 Grandfather ; saying that mother was tired, and 
 had not come downstairs yet. 
 
 Farmer Rowan’s gratitude was quite over- 
 flowing ; but she soon turned the conversation, 
 away from her part in the reunion, to his own 
 concerns ; and he, nothing loth, plunged into 
 details about Janet’s girlhood and unfortunate 
 marriage ; hearing in return many particulars as 
 to her hard struggle with poverty since she came 
 to Westpool, the telling of which by letter this 
 kind friend thought well to spare him. 
 
 The good old farmer was charmed beyond 
 measure with ^^the lady,” as he called her; 
 though she could not help being amused at the 
 curious air with which he looked at her once or 
 
FATHER. 
 
 85 
 
 twice, as if there were something about her that 
 puzzled him. 
 
 '' That’s a real good lady ! ” he said to his 
 daughter, when she came downstairs. ‘‘ She’s the 
 sweetest face, — most like an angel’s, to my 
 thinking. No words could express my thanks 
 for her goodness ; but she looked strange-like 
 somehow, and different from the other quality, — 
 didn’t she, Janet ? ” 
 
 ^'Oh, I suppose you mean her dress said his 
 daughter, smiling at her father’s quickness. But 
 if you’d seen her first, as I did, when I was ill and 
 starving, and she came to nurse me, you would 
 not have given it a thought. I don’t think fine 
 gowns would have been fit for all she did for me. 
 They say she couldn’t go into the places where 
 she has to go but for something to mark her out, 
 and let every one know who she is : it wouldn’t 
 be safe. I can well believe it myself. Thank 
 God, you know nothing about such places, father,” 
 she added, with a shudder. 
 
 Fearful of bringing back the memory of past 
 troubles, he quickly turned the conversation to 
 their old home, and all he meant to do when 
 once he got his daughter there. 
 
 She smiled lovingly in reply, stretching out 
 
86 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 her hand to be clasped in her father s firm clasp, 
 which repeated plainly as his words that nothing 
 but death should part them any more. 
 
 But, father,” she said, presently, Tm afraid 
 you'll find me a poor, broken-down woman. I 
 can never be your light-hearted Janet again. 
 Though Mark has got into disgrace, still he is 
 my husband. He was good to me while he kept 
 sober, and I often weary for news of him." 
 
 I can well believe you've had sorrow enough 
 to keep you a grave woman for the rest of your 
 life," replied her father. But you must learn to 
 trust that God will bring good out of evil, and 
 that you may live to see it." 
 
 “ 'Tis no use looking back : best let bygones be 
 bygones, and try to do better in time to come." 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 SUNDAY AT ST. OLAVE'S. 
 
 ** So then neither is he that planteth anything, neither he that 
 watereth ; but God that giveth the increase.” — i Cor. iii. 7. 
 
 HAT do you say to a visitor, Grace } ” 
 
 said Mr. Walton, coming into the 
 
 Rectory drawing room. ‘‘ I have heard from my 
 old friend John Capel, who is returning home, 
 quite well and fit for work, he says. He was to 
 sail from Boston soon after he wrote, and proposes 
 to spend a few days with us before going back to 
 Bramston. His steamer is due on Saturday, so 
 we shall have him for Sunday.” 
 
 ‘‘ I’m very glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Walton. 
 Do get him to preach for you, Bernard. I know 
 you have been dreadfully overdone this week.” 
 
 Oh, you self-interested woman ! ” said her 
 husband, smiling. ‘‘Well, I dare say Capel won’t 
 object to preach for his old schoolfellow : it will 
 
88 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 not be the first time he has helped him. This 
 has been a hard week, and Sunday help will 
 be welcome to us all.'’ 
 
 On Saturday evening the American steamer, 
 arriving in due course, brought Mr. Capel to St. 
 Olaves, just in time for the substantial tea,— 
 always the evening meal at the Rectory. 
 
 The meeting was a very pleasant one: Mr. 
 Walton rejoicing to find his friend quite fit for 
 any amount of hard work." Browned by travel, 
 full of life and spirits, he was indeed a very 
 different individual from the worn-out looking 
 man who came to bid good-bye at the Rectory 
 before sailing away in search of health. 
 
 Of course he had much to tell, that was full of 
 interest, and the evening passed away quickly. 
 They were on the point of separating for the 
 night, when Mr. Capel suddenly turned to question 
 the Rector. Oh, by the way, Walton, who was 
 that in your study when I arrived this evening ? 
 — I interrupted her. I’m afraid : — some lady who 
 looked uncommonly like a sister of mercy, or 
 something of that kind. Is she a new importation ? 
 for I don’t recollect seeing her when I was here 
 before. I thought you didn’t approve of sister- 
 hoods : eh, Walton } ’’ 
 
SUNDAY AT ST. OLAVE'S. 
 
 89 
 
 ^‘Oh, you must mean Mrs. Grahame, our 
 Deaconess ! ’’ put in the Rector's wife. ‘‘ She was 
 a school-friend of mine. She is so charming : 
 you shall be introduced to her to-morrow." 
 
 A Deaconess, is she ! " said Mr. Capel, 
 doubtfully. Of course you know best, Walton, 
 what agencies to employ in your big parish ; but 
 I cannot say I ever cared much for that idea, — 
 'tis “neither fish, flesh, nor fowl,"^ — if Mrs. Walton 
 will excuse my being as plain spoken as our 
 American cousins. And I don’t know whether 
 I approve of women making themselves peculiar, 
 and giving up home life to come out publicly, as 
 they are doing everywhere. But I beg your 
 pardon, Walton.- You know I’m a crusty old 
 bachelor, ever so much behind the age." 
 
 “Oh, but, Mr. Capel," said Mrs. Walton, 
 “ please don’t say that ! Agnes Grahame would 
 never do anything odd. She is just the very 
 person we wanted in St. Olave’s. And she has 
 no home ties, poor thing; for she has lost her 
 husband and children, — besides, the deaconesses 
 don’t take stringent vows, you know. 
 
 “Well, Capel," said the Rector, “we won’t 
 discuss the question just now. I’m sure you’re 
 tired out ; and Grace is such an enthusiastic 
 
90 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 advocate, that if she once begins on the deaconess 
 question she will not let you go away uninstructed 
 in all its merits. Just defer your judgment upon 
 our new importation till you have seen something 
 of her, and of her work.’’ 
 
 Fair and reasonable, my dear fellow,” said 
 Mr. Capel. ‘‘And now I must say Good-night, if 
 you intend me to preach for you to-morrow. 
 After that, I shall be quite willing to be 
 convinced by Mrs. Walton, and introduced to her 
 friend, “the grey lady.” 
 
 Mr. Capel heartily enjoyed his first Sunday in 
 dear old England, as well as the opportunity of 
 recommencing a ministry, which one short year 
 ago seemed only too likely to be drawing to a 
 close, — on earth, at least. For will not the priests, 
 who minister before the Lord “ in the beauty of 
 holiness” now, go on by-and-by to serve day 
 and night in His temple; an unending, perfect 
 service ? 
 
 The simple well-ordered rendering of the grand 
 service, so exactly suited to the needs of the 
 congregation, — the reverent manner of worshippers, 
 taught long ago that they came there not merely 
 to listen to a good sermon, but also to worship 
 in the presence of “ the King, the Lord of 
 
SUNDAY AT ST. OLAVE'S. 
 
 91 
 
 Hosts/— the sweet singing in which all might, 
 and most did, join, — his own gratitude at being 
 once more permitted to fill his sacred office, 
 stirred Mr. Capel’s heart to its very depths, so 
 that the sermon in St. Olave’s Church that 
 Sunday morning was one to be remembered : 
 “ For out of the abundance of the heart the 
 mouth speaketh.’' 
 
 “ Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all 
 His benefits,'^ was the passage he chose for his 
 text. It seemed best to represent his own 
 feelings. How his hearers listened while he 
 dwelt, with the eloquence born of gratitude, on 
 God s creating, redeeming, sustaining mercy ; not 
 a few hearts uniting in the closing ascription 
 of praise tp Him “ whose mercy endureth for 
 ever.” 
 
 Early in the afternoon the Rectory party 
 started for Sunday School. Great schools those 
 of St. Olave’s, both on Sundays and week days. 
 “ Quite a hobby of the Rector s,” people said ; 
 and a very fortunate “hobby” it was, as far as 
 the rising generation of St. Olave’s was concerned. 
 How can our Church expect to evangelize, and 
 civilize, the masses, unless she prove a nursing 
 mother to Christ's little ones } 
 
92 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 After going the round of boys, girls, infants, 
 each in their separate schoolroom, Mr. Walton, 
 having his own part to fulfil, called a respectable- 
 looking old man (none other than Mrs. Lovell’s 
 host, Stephen Bailey), asking him to show Mr. 
 Capel the grown-up scholars.’' That I will, sir,” 
 said Stephen Bailey, with a gratified smile. ‘‘ I’ll 
 be proud to do it.” 
 
 So the grown-up folk go to Sunday School 
 here, do they ? ” questioned Mr. Capel, as they 
 walked along together. 
 
 ^'Yes: they do, sir,” answered Stephen; ‘^but 
 it was not always so. I used to come to St. 
 Olave’s when I was a lad, in the old parson’s 
 time ; but there were no such doings as there are 
 now-a-days, — parsons looking up people, and 
 people crowding into church, and what not. The 
 congregation used to be dotted about in old St. 
 Olave’s, — here and there one, — ^in big square pews, 
 or free seats at the far end of the church; and 
 you saw what it was this morning, sir. I’m sure 
 many a one will think on your sermon ; not 
 but what our own minister do preach to make you 
 think too.” 
 
 We have all much to thank God for in these 
 days,” said Mr. Capel : “ let us try to show forth 
 
SUNDAY AT ST. OLAVE’S. 
 
 93 
 
 our thankfulness, not only with our lips, but in 
 our lives.” 
 
 Under old Stephen’s guidance, Mr. Capel 
 was introduced to large rooms, filled almost to 
 overcrowding with these ‘‘grown-up scholars,” 
 — working men belonging to St. Olave’s parish ; 
 from the young apprentice, not yet “out of his 
 time,” to the white-haired old man, whose working 
 days on earth were almost over. 
 
 After that, Mr. Capel saw the women, taught 
 by the Rector’s wife and her friend. How earnest 
 they looked ! There were maidens standing on 
 life’s threshold; wives and mothers enjoying the 
 reading and teaching, for which their busy week- 
 days left them little or no leisure ; aged women, 
 whose restful expression of countenance, life’s 
 bustle ended, seemed to be saying, “ Lord, now 
 lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace: for 
 mine eyes have seen Thy salvation.” 
 
 Yes: it was altogether a wonderful sight; 
 something to thank God for. 
 
 And soon after Mr. Capel saw fathers, mothers, 
 big sisters, as well as the little ones, come 
 crowding in to “afternoon church ;” where they 
 would have a service and sermon “ all for 
 themselves,” as they liked to say. 
 
94 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 Here he was a listener, while his friend preached 
 to the people in that simple homely way which 
 they loved. 
 
 “ Did you see the grey lady, Capel } ’’ asked 
 Mr. Walton, as they all sat resting in the drawing 
 room after the day's services. 
 
 Yes: Mrs. Walton introduced her, and I was cer- 
 tainly struck with her looks. Her face tells a tale 
 of sorrow^ past, and patience won, unless I am very 
 much mistaken. Its repose was good to see. That 
 was a grand idea of yours, Walton, to get the grown - 
 up folk to school. How did you manage it ? " 
 
 “ It was not easy at first. They were half 
 amused, half offended, at the idea of going to 
 school again ; " but Grace and I went round and 
 talked over the proposed plan with them. By 
 degrees they grew to think it less absurd, or less 
 formidable, than it had seemed at first sight. A 
 very few plucked up courage to attend. They 
 reported favourably, and persuaded others to 
 come ; so, with God’s blessing, the thing grew 
 and increased till it is what you saw to-day, — 
 something to thank God for.” 
 
 ‘‘Do you find your grown-up scholars regular 
 church goers ? One would be afraid of such 
 classes being made a sort of conventicle.” 
 
SUNDAY AT ST. OLAVE'S. 
 
 95 
 
 No : we are careful to avoid that. They are 
 truly handmaids of the church. Some members 
 were already church goers; others have been 
 induced to become so. You saw a good many in 
 church this afternoon, and there is an increasing 
 number at the other services. Our good Deaconess 
 would tell you that many of those you noticed 
 as looking so respectable this afternoon were 
 anything but that a short time ago. Therefore 
 I cannot but hope our adult school has done 
 good service.'’ 
 
 Yes: your Deaconess had quite a formidable 
 number," said Mr. Capel, — ‘‘almost a little con- 
 gregation ; and, ‘ I suffer not a woman to teach : ' 
 eh, Walton .? " 
 
 “ Be generous, and finish the quotation,” rejoined 
 his friend ; ‘“or to usurp authority over the man.' — 
 Now I find Deaconess Grahame most submissive: 
 never putting herself forward in any unwomanly 
 way. But what do you say to the prophetesses 
 of Old Testament history, or to the ‘seven 
 daughters who did prophesy,', of apostolic times 
 
 “We won’t press the matter further, Walton," 
 said his friend. “ If you find your plan answer, I 
 bid you ‘God speed.' You have need of all the 
 helpers you can get in such a parish as yours. I 
 
96 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 am ready to wonder how you and Mrs. Walton 
 manage to keep up, year after year, amid such a 
 stress of work.” 
 
 I think you and I both know the secret, 
 Capel,” replied the Rector : “ Lo, I am with you 
 alvvay, even unto the end of the world.” 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 GENTLE ANNIE.’’ 
 
 ‘ ‘ Day and night they are pressing nigh, 
 
 With tears and sighs, to the heavenly gate, 
 
 Where the Watchman stands in His majesty, 
 
 With a patience which never has said, ‘ Too late.’ 
 
 “ Let the sorrowful children of want and sin 
 Draw near to the gate whence none depart : 
 
 Let the nations arise and enter in, 
 
 For the Lord is willing, with all His heart.” 
 
 Ezekiel. 
 
 EEK a convenient time of leisure for thyself, 
 
 ^ and meditate often upon God s loving 
 kindness,” one has well said. However fully 
 occupied her days might be, Deaconess Grahame 
 always contrived to secure this quiet hour for 
 meditation and self-examination. 
 
 On this Sunday evening she was sitting by the 
 fireside in her pretty little drawing room, going 
 over in thought the events of the day, — thanking 
 God for the blessing He gave on the work done 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 in St. Olave's, and considering how she might 
 serve Him better in days to come. 
 
 Suddenly a ring at the street door startled her 
 in the midst of her quiet meditations. Who 
 could it be at this hour, wondered she. 
 
 It was not an unusual thing for her to be called 
 out late, in aid of some sick or dying one ; but 
 this particular Sunday evening she had been 
 feeling unusually weary, and was glad to think 
 that none of her poor people needed her just 
 • then. 
 
 But she roused herself quickly to put away 
 thoughts of her own weariness. The Lord is 
 never a hard Master : ” when He sends work He 
 gives strength. 
 
 Somewhat to her astonishment, the visitor her 
 maid was ushering in proved to be Mr. Capel. 
 
 Full of apologies for his untimely visit, he 
 explained that he had brought a message from 
 Mr. Walton. 
 
 I hope there is nothing wrong at the Rectory } ” 
 she inquired. 
 
 ‘‘No, no!’’ answered Mr. Capel. “There came 
 a summons to visit a sick woman in a distant 
 part of the parish, and as Walton seemed 
 completely tired out with his day’s work, I 
 
GENTLE ANNIE. 
 
 99 
 
 volunteered to supply his place. Of course he 
 was most unwilling. But here am^ I, strong and 
 fit for work, while he, I fear, has-been over-doing 
 himself : so I insisted. 
 
 “Walton used to be my school fag once upon 
 a time, and I believe he hasn’t lost the habit 
 of obedience to his former senior ; so I put 
 him into the study arm chair, left Mrs. Walton to 
 keep guard, — and here I am. 
 
 “ I should not have thought of troubling you ; 
 but it seems you are wanted as well, so the Rector- 
 asked me to come round this way. Here is the 
 poor woman’s name and address : he said you 
 would know all about her. 
 
 “ But are you sure you are fit to go } ” he asked, 
 looking pityingly at her pale face, as she stood 
 listening to his account. “You have had a long 
 day, .and I understand this poor creature lives in 
 one of the lowest parts of the parish. Had you 
 not better let me go on now, and you might 
 follow to-morrow ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, no, thank you ! ” she said, smilingly. 
 “ Don’t you know I am ^ a servant of the Church,’ 
 though a very humble one. Wherever I am sent 
 for I am bound to go. I know the place well : 
 you need not be afraid for me. I was there only 
 
100 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 last night with this very woman : she has been 
 ill some time ; but I did not think the end so 
 near. It is the old story, — drink, and a dissolute 
 life, followed by rapid decline. She has been a 
 dreadful creature, — the terror even of that rough 
 neighbourhood.'' 
 
 Mr. Capel could not help looking at the speaker 
 anxiously. Such a gentle refined-looking woman, 
 yet quite ready to brave fatigue and all other 
 disagreeables in pursuit of her duty ! 
 
 She was ready directly. And as she walked by 
 his side, telling him more of the sick woman’s 
 history, unconsciously showing how well she 
 was acquainted with many a wandering sheep 
 belonging to the Rector's flock, he began to 
 think that Mrs. Walton had been right : here was 
 the very person wanted in St. Olave’s parish." 
 
 Leaving quiet Bruce Street, Mr. Capel and his 
 companion had made their way along' great 
 thoroughfares, crowded with returning holiday 
 makers and belated walkers, to the lower part of 
 the parish, where, as they passed, through one 
 wretched street after another, vice, raising its 
 hydra head, confronted them unblushingly. 
 
 Miserable drunkards, many of them women, 
 reeled homewards. Degraded creatures in faded 
 
GENTLE ANNIE. 
 
 lOI 
 
 finery, or ragged week-day garments, — too low in 
 the social scale to attempt even an appearance of 
 respectability on one day in the week. 
 
 All days were alike to them: a round of sinfnl 
 pleasures, alternating with trouble or remorse. 
 
 Although such scenes had been often enough 
 witnessed by both these earnest workers, to-night 
 they seemed sadder than ever in contrast to the 
 peace and joy of a blessed Sabbath day. 
 
 Living in a Christian country, within sound 
 of the Gospel, — its message brought to their 
 very doors by one and another, — these men 
 and women, — aye, and children too, — '^sat in 
 darkness’' and the shadow of death, ‘^tied and 
 bound ” by the chain of their sin. 
 
 Yet for these sin -stained creatures Christ had 
 died. And was not the good Shepherd, who 
 of old sought His lost sheep along a painful 
 blood-stained way, seeking them still ? Surely 
 the strong man armed ” must relinquish the 
 captives, ‘Hhat in all things He, might have the 
 pre-eminence.” 
 
 But now they had nearly reached their desti- 
 nation, and Mr. Capel’s guide turned down a 
 narrow entry leading into a squalid-looking court, 
 where, under ordinary circumstances, it would 
 
102 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 have been neither wise nor well for a lady to 
 venture. Compared to “ Druitt’s Alley,” even 
 Balls' Court might almost be called respectable.” 
 
 To Mr. Capel's astonishment, his companion 
 was recognized even here. Many a riotous group 
 hushed for an instant the evil joke or profane 
 word while she passed by. More than once some 
 uncouth attempt at a civil acknowledgment of 
 her presence was made by poor creatures whom 
 she had befriended in an hour of need. 
 
 Half-way up Druitt’s Alley she turned into a 
 house looking very much out of repair, and 
 proceeded up a dilapidated staircase, where 
 progress to be safe must of necessity be slow and 
 careful. 
 
 Knocking at the door of a room on the third 
 floor, it was opened by a neighbour, somewhat 
 less degraded in appearance than the dying 
 woman she was tending without hope of reward. 
 
 She’s gone off into a doze since we sent for 
 the minister,” explained the woman. ‘^She was 
 so bad this evening we thought she must have 
 died ; but she came to a little, so we couldn’t let 
 her die without sending for his Reverence to make 
 a bit of a prayer over her, seeing as she’s been 
 none of the best, poor thing.” 
 
GENTLE ANNIE. 
 
 103 
 
 May be you’d bide with her, ma’am,” added 
 the neighbour, while I go and put the children 
 to bed.” 
 
 Receiving a willing assent, she went away, 
 leaving the new comers to keep their watch in 
 sadness and silence beside the dying woman’s 
 bed. 
 
 A single dip candle burned and flickered with 
 uncertain light, making the wretchedness of the 
 room dimly apparent. The uncomfortable bed, 
 everything in and about it, telling a tale of want 
 and a ruined life. 
 
 Already the solemn shadow of death brooded 
 over the hollow face of the sufferer, who began 
 by-and-by to stir and murmur in her sleep. 
 
 Quite suddenly she opened her eyes, to fix them 
 with a beseeching look on her visitor, who made 
 haste to moisten the dry lips tenderly. With a 
 great effort she managed at length to speak : 
 '' Will you say again what you told me last night, 
 lady,” she panted. I’m dying I know. I’ve 
 been a vile woman. I never could tell a lady 
 like you how bad I have been. Once I had a 
 happy home, and a husband who loved me, — 
 but ’tis no use to speak of that now. I dare not 
 think God’s mercy is for such as I am ; yet, 
 
104 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 somehow, I cannot die without hearing those 
 words again/' 
 
 Having contrived, with feverish energy, to say 
 so much, she sank down on her pillow quite 
 exhausted. 
 
 Would she hear the blessed words even if they 
 were spoken ? Or had death already closed the 
 dull ears ? 
 
 They could but try. 
 
 Bending close to her, Mr. Capel spoke : — 
 
 ‘‘"The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth 
 us from all sm. If we say that we have no sin, 
 we deceive ourselves.' " 
 
 “ No sin ? " interrupted the poor creature, 
 rousing herself at the sound of the words she 
 had longed to hear. “Why I’m all sin, — every 
 bit of me. While I’ve laid here my sins have 
 come back to me. Sin ? Its torme^it ! ” 
 
 Very quickly Mr. Capel went on : — 
 
 “‘But if we confess our sins. He is faithful and 
 just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from 
 all unrighteousness.' " 
 
 “‘Faithful and just?’" murmured the dying 
 woman. “ Oh, how He must hate me ! ” 
 
 “No: He loves you,'^ said Mr. Capel. “Loves 
 you, and died for you. 
 
GENTLE ANNIE. 
 
 I OS 
 
 “ I know you have been a sinful woman, and 
 God hates sin; but He loves j/ou, and sent Jesus 
 to die for you, to take away the sin, — ‘ to cleanse 
 us from all unrighteousness.’ Jesus waits to save 
 you now. Only you must ask Him to save you. 
 Say this prayer : — 
 
 '‘‘Jesus have mercy upon me, a sinner.’” 
 
 “‘Jesus have mercy upon me,’” repeated the 
 poor creature. 
 
 It was a last effort. With the words still on 
 her lips, her spirit took flight. 
 
 At this moment the neighbour who had been 
 helping to nurse her returned. One glance at 
 the bed sufficed to show what had happened. 
 “ Gentle Annie ” would need no more nursing. 
 
 “Ah, poor thing,” commented she, “’tis what 
 we must all come to, and I hope she made a 
 good end at the last ! Though she’s been none 
 of the best, she never gave me a bad word. 
 
 “ She would come in now and again, and take 
 up my poor Johnnie, — who can’t walk, though he’s 
 nigh upon three years old,- — and she’d rock him off 
 to sleep, singing in a soft voice, such as no one in 
 the Court would believe was Gentle Annie’s 
 voice. Johnnie was never afraid of her, not he ! ” 
 
 “ Once she let drop a word or two about a 
 
I 06 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 little one of hers as he was like; but I dare'nt 
 ask no more, for she was not one to be questioned. 
 
 Don’t I know her name, sir ? 
 
 '‘No: nor any one else hereabouts. 'Gentle 
 Annie,’ that’s the name we knew her by. Some- 
 body gave it her who saw her in her tantrums, 
 I suppose. 
 
 "Bad as she was she’s suffered enough, so I 
 reckon Him as made her won’t be too hard upon 
 her.” 
 
 "We know that God willeth not the death of 
 a sinner,” said Mr. Capel, gravely ; "and therefore 
 He sent His Son to die for sinners. But sometimes 
 the sinners for whom Christ died turn away from 
 Him : they will not ask Him to forgive their sins. 
 
 " And there is no other way to heaven ; for 
 sinners cannot go there their sins.” 
 
 "Well you put it plain, sir,” returned the 
 woman, sadly. " But we’ve a weary life hereabouts, 
 with little time to mind our religion.” 
 
 "But it is just such as you Jesus Christ wants 
 to save,” urged Mr. Capel. 
 
 " ' Come unto Me, and I will give you rest,’ ” 
 He says. 
 
 " ' Rest,’ sir,” returned the poor woman, " thafs 
 what I don’t look for this side the grave.” 
 
CxENTLE ANNIE. 
 
 107 
 
 No more could be said just then ; but maybe 
 the arrow shot at a venture would be guided to 
 its mark by the Holy Spirit of God. 
 
 When they came to perform the last sad offices 
 for Gentle Annie, they found lying on her bosom 
 a locket, — beautiful once, but now battered and 
 almost shapeless. 
 
 Opening it, in the vague hope of obtaining 
 some clue to her belongings, a sweet childish face 
 was brought to light, and a curl of dark hair, with 
 the words, ''My Johnnie,” written in a clear firm 
 hand. 
 
 Further trace of friends, or of the home she 
 had vaguely alluded to, was not forthcoming, and 
 no one thereabouts could tell " Gentle Annie’s ” 
 story ; only the sweet baby face pointed to happy 
 days long past away. 
 
 They reverently replaced the locket where they 
 found it, and the parish provided a last resting 
 place for "Johnnie’s ” mother. Life with its sins 
 and sorrows ended. One who " is able to save to 
 the uttermost ” could receive even this " woman 
 that was a sinner.” 
 
 The Rector was up and waiting for his friend. 
 
 "Well he said, inquiringly. 
 
 " The poor thing is gone,” returned Mr. Capel. 
 
io8 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 was a sad death-bed, with just one ray of 
 light at the closing scene. One can only say, — 
 
 ‘ His mercy endureth for ever.’ ” 
 
 The friends sat silent after this, each recalling 
 scenes of a like nature, so often witnessed by 
 God’s ministers, — miserable death-beds following 
 upon wasted lives. Presently Mr. Capel broke 
 the silence. 
 
 " What a wonderful woman that Mrs. Grahame 
 is!” he said. '‘You may dress her in blue, red, 
 or green, and call her whatever you please, but you 
 certainly are blessed in having such a helper. I 
 began to wish I had the like. To see her 
 making her way unflinchingly, tired as she was, 
 through parts of the town where one could 
 scarce expect a gently-reared woman to venture, 
 however courageous she might be ! Many of the 
 poorest appeared to know her well, and were 
 quite inclined to be civil. Then how she tended 
 the dying woman, remaining afterwards to see all 
 done that should be done. I call it perfect 
 devotion. And, best of all, it was so quietly 
 done : just as if it were an every day-occurrence.” 
 
 "Yes,” said Mr. Walton: "that quiet manner 
 and complete abnegation of self is exactly what 
 one thanks God for. She is a woman of 
 
GENTLE ANNIE. 
 
 109 
 
 considerable force of character, and of strong 
 will too, underlying that gentle exterior; but 
 every thought and action seem to be brought 
 into subjection to a higher will. She reminds 
 me of the old proverb: ‘Never hasting, never 
 resting.’ 
 
 “ Amid the bustle and anxiety of work in such 
 a parish as this, one is apt to lose sight of the 
 rest of the worker in Him who is ‘ Head over all 
 things to the Church.’ You remember: ‘So is the 
 kingdom of God, as if a man should cast seed 
 into the ground ; and should sleep, and rise night 
 and day, and the seed should spring and grow 
 up, he knoweth not how.’ (Mark iv. 26 — 29.) 
 
 “ She seems to realize that fully, and I am sure 
 it helps her on her way. 
 
 “ I think we are sadly too much inclined to do 
 our ‘planting’ and ‘watering,’ and then to stop 
 short of the faith which looks for God to give the 
 increase.” 
 
 “There is just one thing I should like to ask,” 
 said Mr. Capel: “Do you find having a regular 
 worker makes the ladies of your congregation 
 draw back from helping; or feel released, as it 
 were, from care about parish affairs ? ” 
 
 “ On the contrary,” replied Mr. Walton, “ Mrs. 
 
no 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 Grahame’s influence in persuading others to work 
 has been most happy. Several whose time used 
 to hang heavy on their hands are now our 
 valued helpers. Of course a deaconess is the 
 fittest person to go to infectious cases, or low 
 parts of the town, where many ladies would not 
 have courage to penetrate, and whence mothers 
 of families might justly fear to bring infection 
 to their own households. 
 
 ‘‘Herein lies one strong reason for the distinctive 
 dress. It is a positive protection to the worker ; 
 and also points her out as one to whom the poor 
 may apply. They never make any objection 
 to it. 
 
 “Before you leave us you must go with our 
 deaconess to St. John’s Hospital, where there are 
 two probationers undergoing their training as far 
 as regards nursing ; for we hope to make this the 
 nucleus of a regular Deaconess Institution for all 
 Westpool, with a staff of nurses, and I don’t 
 know what Reside. Only we must go on step by 
 step ; first endeavouring to overcome any lurking 
 prejudice on the part of those who think the 
 movement savouring of a party, by demonstra- 
 ting that these women are really ‘servants of 
 the sick, the poor, and the young, for Jesus’ sake.’ 
 
GENTLE ANNIE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 We shall do it in time, please God. Already we 
 are better understood. You are a case in point, 
 Capel." 
 
 ‘‘Yes: I shall have to own myself a convert 
 when I see Mrs. Walton to-morrow.’’ 
 
 “ It is no more than she expected, I believe,” 
 said the Rector. 
 
CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 SERVANTS OF THE CHURCH. 
 
 “ Sow ye beside all waters 
 
 Where the dew of heaven may fall ; 
 Ye shall reap, if ye be not weaiy, 
 
 For the Spirit breathes o’er all. 
 
 # # # # . * 
 
 “ Sow ye beside all waters : 
 
 With a blessing and a prayer 
 Name Him whose hand upholds thee, 
 And sow thou everywhere.” 
 
 Lyra Anglicana. 
 
 HEN Mrs. Grahame passed through her 
 
 ^ ^ preliminary course of training in St. 
 John’s Hospital, her aptitude for nursing became 
 so evident to all with whom she had to do, that 
 more than one offer of a position, quite as useful 
 in its way as that of a deaconess, was made to her. 
 
 But she had fully made up her mind to work 
 under Mr. Walton, in St. Olave’s Parish, where she 
 knew full well that a skilful nurse for poor sick 
 
SERVANTS OF THE CHURCH. 
 
 II3 
 
 bodies was quite as much needed as an earnest 
 worker wise to win souls for Christ. She 
 regarded her gift for nursing as a very precious 
 one. It 'was often the means of giving her an 
 entrance into homes whose doors would otherwise 
 have been closed against her. 
 
 For the love she bore to the work, she continued 
 to visit St. John’s Hospital long after her training 
 time was ended. Many of St. Olave’s poor folk 
 were to be met with, from time to time, within its 
 walls. 
 
 She made a habit of going there always on one 
 particular morning, — well aware that, amid the 
 claims of a busy life, ^‘any day” often resolves 
 itself into '' no day at all.” So the patients used 
 to be on the look-out (sure of her arrival at the 
 well-known hour) for the gentle lady who knew 
 how to soothe them, sick and weary as they 
 were ; and who seldom failed to leave those to 
 whom she ministered better in mind if not in 
 body. 
 
 The two probationers just now in training at 
 St. John’s looked forward as gladly as anyone 
 else to Deaconess Grahame’s hospital morning. 
 She always had a cheery word of encouragement 
 to give them, which dispelled many a cloud, or 
 I 
 
1 14 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 made a ^^mole hill” of many a ^‘mountain” of 
 worry and anxiety in their busy life. 
 
 As she crossed the noble vestibule of St. John's, 
 in company with Mr. Capel, who had come on 
 purpose to see the hospital, they encountered the 
 two probationers, just then ‘‘off duty.” 
 
 First to come forward, with glad words of 
 welcome, was Lucy Blythe, a brisk-looking little 
 woman, with round merry face full of life and 
 health. She was the eldest daughter of a country 
 surgeon, — a good man, but not a very successful 
 one. “ Lucy ” was her father's right hand. She 
 kept his books, took messages to his poor patients ; 
 even compounded his prescriptions, report said. 
 
 After his death she found herself at liberty 
 to choose her own career. There were younger 
 daughters ready to take her place at home ; and 
 “ One less in the little house would be something,” 
 said Lucy ; though her mother, and brothers and 
 sisters, would sorely miss the cheery eldest 
 daughter, who knew so well how to make the best 
 of everything. 
 
 Accustomed to face the world, to plenty of work 
 and plenty of bustle, from morning till night, 
 Lucy Blythe enjoyed her hospital experiences. 
 She “ loved nursing,” she declared ; and meant. 
 
SERVANTS OF THE CHURCH. 
 
 II5 
 
 when her training should be finished, come 
 and help nurse St. Olave’s sick folk, if Mr. Walton 
 would have her.’’ 
 
 Though she had not the gift of sympathy in 
 such full measure as the friend she loved and 
 looked up to ; nor the same repose of manner, 
 winning confidence at first sight, yet Lucy Blythe 
 would make a valuable deaconess in time to come. 
 
 She was a thoroughly capable little woman, if 
 somewhat hasty in judgment. She was full of 
 courage : skilful as a nurse ; and so bright that 
 the sick people said she made them laugh whether 
 they would or no. And, in fact, she did laugh 
 away many fretful humours and attacks of low 
 spirits, of which she herself had no experience 
 whatever. 
 
 The other probationer, Christian Gordon, was as 
 different as possible. Older than Lucy, silent 
 and reserved to a degree, few people found out 
 her real worth on first acquaintance. Deaconess 
 Grahame first met her while they were visiting at 
 the house of a mutual friend. Her ready sympathy 
 was exactly what was needed to overcome such 
 shy reserve. Soon they became fast friends, and 
 Christian had told all her story. 
 
 The daughter of a clergyman, and left mother- 
 
ii6 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 less while yet a girl, she had devoted her life to 
 taking care of her father, and trying to make 
 herself of use in his parish. Now he was dead, 
 she found herself, in middle life, almost alone in 
 the world. She had income enough for her 
 simple wants, yet could not bring herself to lead 
 a life without regular occupation. Shy as she 
 seemed, she knew what it was to love and be 
 loved by God’s poor. When she heard about the 
 work in St. Olave’s, she began to wish she could 
 go and do likewise, and finally made up her mind 
 to try. Yet it required considerable effort on her 
 part to undergo the needful training. Living for 
 years a secluded life, accustomed to have her 
 goings out and comings in very much under her 
 own control, she found the stir and bustle of a 
 town, as well as the hospital discipline, rather 
 irksome at times. But she faced both bravely, 
 determined, with God’s help, to fit herself fully 
 for her work. Having laid, with willing mind, 
 her gift upon the altar, what mattered it to her if 
 it should prove a living sacrifice.” 
 
 Last night, for instance, it was her turn to 
 watch in the accident ward, — always a trial to a 
 woman of shrinking nerve. But she was learning 
 bravely to conquer herself. Her calm manner, 
 
SERVANTS OF THE CHURCH. 
 
 II7 
 
 and gentle yet firm touch, had been grateful to 
 more than one sufferer during long painful hours 
 of the past night. 
 
 Doubtless such experiences were God’s way of 
 testing her steadfastness of purpose, and it 
 redounded greatly to His glory that she bore 
 them unmurmuringly. Nobody, except Deaconess 
 Grahame and one white-haired surgeon, famous 
 alike for skill and tenderness, knew how great 
 an effort she was making to fulfil her duties 
 thoroughly and conscientiously. 
 
 Surely both probationers might hope to do a 
 good work for their Lord in years to come. 
 There are diversities of gifts, but the same 
 Spirit.” Many a self-sacrificing woman, who is 
 not a born nurse,” has • learned to tend the sick 
 and dying with Christian devotion. And the 
 Church of God has sorest need of the labour of 
 such devoted women, acquainted with the needs 
 and habits of the poor. 
 
 Yet must we never lose sight of the fact that 
 there are true and noble workers beside those 
 who feel themselves at liberty to devote their 
 whole time and strength for such service. All 
 the daughters of the king may be there with a 
 gift,” — the gift of a consecrated heart, which 
 
ii8 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 turns even trivial daily tasks into service fit for 
 the King of kings. From the active housewife 
 of Bethany, to the wrapt listener at the feet of 
 Jesus, there is work, and plenty of it, for everyone. 
 
 After Deaconess Grahame left St. John's Hos- 
 pital, the two probationers went back with fresh 
 courage to their work. A time was coming when 
 both were to feel the full value of those months 
 spent in hospital : a time when nurses would 
 need nerve and skill, and God-given courage ; a 
 time when the poor of Westpool would know 
 stirring Lucy Blythe and quiet Christian Gordon 
 for sisters of mercy" in deed, though not in 
 name. 
 
 Before another Sunday came round, the Rector's 
 old friend had returned to his parish, lovingly 
 welcomed by the flock who had sorely missed 
 their pastor. 
 
 ‘‘ If ever you get tired of that wonderful woman, 
 Walton, just send her to Brarnston," were his 
 parting words to his friend. 
 
 ‘'Not much chance of that, my dear fellow," 
 replied the Rector. “But if ever you summon 
 up courage to introduce a Deaconess to your 
 people, we will try to find you one." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 SOUGHT AND FOUND. 
 
 “ Oh, let me, when Thy roof my soul hath hid, — 
 Oh, let me roost and nestle there ! 
 
 Then of a sinner Thou art rid, 
 
 And I of hope and fear. ” 
 
 G. Herbert. 
 
 IS no use looking back: best let bygones 
 
 be bygones,” was Farmer Rowan’s advice 
 
 to his daughter ; and she strove hard to follow it. 
 For his sake, and Elsie’s too, she did earnestly 
 desire ^‘to get strong,” as they bid her, if such 
 were God’s will. 
 
 Nursed and cared for by loving hands, cheered 
 by the constant visits of kind friends, she began 
 at length to revive, and to lift up her head like 
 a flower aftdr storm,” as old Mrs. Bailey said, 
 quite delighted to find her care for the sick 
 woman rewarded. 
 
 As for Farmer Rowan, he sat down, with glad 
 
120 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 heart, to write the good news to his wife ; holding 
 out a hope that his next letter would fix a time 
 for their return to the old farm-house, where even 
 bright spring days seemed dull and tedious to 
 the mother waiting and longing to see her 
 daughter once more. 
 
 So the dream Janet Lovell dreamed in her 
 attic room, in Balls' Court, had come true after 
 all ! The lost was found. 
 
 Yes : all these years, though she did not know 
 it, Jesus had been seeking a lost sheep, who only 
 wandered further and further away from Him ; 
 and was brought home at last, well-nigh spent, 
 but hoping to abide in Him for evermore. 
 
 During the time she waited for returning 
 strength in the comfortable home in Parr Street, 
 God’s Holy Spirit spoke to her heart, bringing to 
 her remembrance the teaching of past days, — her 
 mother’s teaching, — which had once seemed only 
 a pleasant tale, but was now becoming a life- 
 giving reality. 
 
 The religion of her girlhood, being but head 
 knowledge, had never touched or moved her 
 heart ; therefore, when it came to be proved by 
 fires of sorrow, it was scorched and withered, 
 instead of being purified and strengthened. Thus 
 
SOUGHT AND FOUND. 
 
 121 
 
 it was that her troubles drove her away from 
 God, instead of teaching her to cast all her care 
 upon Him. But now she was coming, humbly 
 and simply as a little child, to learn of Jesus, and 
 so to find rest unto her soul. 
 
 Sometimes she could not help brooding sadly 
 and self-reproachfully over the past. It might 
 have been so much better for her husband, as 
 well as for herself, had she learned all this sooner. 
 
 St. Paul wrote of unbelieving husbands to be 
 won by the conversation ” of the wives. And if 
 only her religion had been real religion, showing 
 itself in holy words and a patient daily following 
 of His footsteps who has left us an Ensample of 
 holy living, might not Mark have taken know- 
 ledge of her that she had been with Jesus, and 
 thus have been won to follow Jesus too.? All 
 she could do now was to ask God to forgive her, 
 and to hope in His mercy for Mark as well as for 
 herself. 
 
 The same Saviour who sought her, a lost sheep, 
 was seeking Mark, her poor disgraced husband, 
 who had set the laws of God and man at defiance, 
 and wandered away, no one knew whither; yet 
 never out of sight of Him who ‘‘gave His life for 
 the sheep.” 
 
122 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 Little Elsie learned, with amazing rapidity, all 
 about the bright Home, and the Saviour who bids 
 little ones come unto Him. 
 
 She could sing the children’s hymn to grand- 
 father now : grandfather, who had insisted upon 
 being taken to see the little ones in the sheltering 
 room where his Elsie found a friend after her 
 fruitless attempt to help mother.” 
 
 Only when he got there, he was entirely over- 
 come by the sight of so many homeless and 
 uncared-for children. 
 
 He sat down on a chair they placed for him, 
 and looked, and looked, at the thin faces before 
 and around him, — sharpened by want, or grown 
 cunning with unchildlike care and crime, — till 
 tears blurred his eyes, and he was fain to cover 
 his face with his hand to hide them. 
 
 Oh, such mites as some of these were, to be 
 beaten and made to beg and steal by drunken 
 parents ! Oh, such unkempt-looking girls, verging 
 on womanhood ; or boys, from whose hard evil- 
 looking faces all trace of honour and truth had 
 disappeared ! 
 
 And to think that his own grandchild was 
 once almost as poor — though, thank God, not as 
 uncared-fpr — as these destitute children ! 
 
SOUGHT AND FOUND. 
 
 123 
 
 He watched ‘Hhe lady,” as he still called 
 Deaconess Grahame, moving about among them 
 with loving word and look, just as she had done 
 that night she found Elsie ; and saved, from worse 
 sorrow than he dared to think of, his own beloved 
 ones. 
 
 Some among these she might hope to save 
 too ; but there were so many of them, and so 
 few to help them. 
 
 Our Father, which art in heaven,” said the old 
 man to himself, taking this trouble where he had 
 taken all others for three-score years and more, — 
 “ Our Father, which art in heaven, look down 
 upon these poor children, and send someone to 
 save them from growing up to be bad men and 
 women, lest they wander away from Thee and be 
 lost for ever.” 
 
 Then taking Elsie by the hand, and bidding the 
 lady “Good even,” almost reverently, as if she were 
 some bright angel sent to help the perishing, he 
 went away to Parr Street again. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME! 
 
 “ Hand in hand close pressed, 
 
 Arm never trusted in vain ; 
 
 Hearts in each other at rest : 
 
 Home, all home again ! ” 
 
 M rs. MACLEAN had been heartily thanked 
 by t'amier Rowan for her kindness to his 
 daughter ; thanks which she received with tearful 
 eyes, for they recalled many such visits from 
 grateful recipients of her mother’s charity, in the 
 dear old days at home. 
 
 The masters wife had found out for herself 
 now how much more blessed it is to give than to 
 receive ; how much better to lay up treasure in 
 heaven than to add luxury to luxury, arid pleasure 
 to pleasure, when “the fashion of this world 
 passeth away.” 
 
 She had quickly availed herself of her husband s 
 permission to visit Mrs. Lovell and Elsie. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 125 
 
 More than once the pretty pony carriage had 
 been drawn up at Stephen Bailey's door, and the 
 invalid, carefully tended and wrapped, placed in 
 it, and driven gently up from town into a purer 
 atmosphere, or to spend an hour in the pleasant 
 home on the Sandown Road, where Elsie had 
 experience for herself of the comforts and good 
 things to be found in one of those ^^big houses" 
 where she had been so unsuccessful a saleswoman 
 on the day of the watercress gathering, — dis- 
 covering, too, that ‘'rich folk" can be “kind folk" 
 as well, when the Lord opens their hearts to feel 
 for the need of their poorer neighbours. 
 
 Artie, and Grace, and baby May, were delighted 
 to see the brave little girl, whose story they knew ; 
 and to show her wonderful toys, and picture books, 
 which simply made her mute with delight. Or 
 to lead her through greenhouse and conservatory, 
 where the child’s natural love of flowers caused 
 her to fall into an entranced state of admiration, 
 quite amusing to the rich man’s children, who had 
 hitherto looked upon these possessions as a mere 
 matter of course. 
 
 It was their first experience of the enjoyment 
 their riches might bring to others less favoured 
 than themselves. An experience which, once 
 
126 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 gained, they never forgot ; but made use of, in 
 after life, to lighten the burden of many a 
 sorrowful soul. 
 
 And now Farmer Rowan has written to tell of 
 his home-coming ; and Isaac Fenton, the postman, 
 carries his letter one bright spring morning across 
 the fold-yard to the farmhouse door. Mrs. 
 Rowan’s specs ” are kept close at hand now ; 
 and as for the butter in the dairy, — why, if Isaac 
 should appear, it must take its chance, or be 
 confided to Dolly’s less experienced hands. 
 
 Quickly she takes the letter he holds out to 
 her, breaks its seal, and begins to read forthwith ; 
 while Isaac stands by, expecting to share its news. 
 Dolly, too, has come in ; and old Ben, always 
 on the look-out about post time, stands waiting 
 to hear when the Master and Miss Janet ” mean 
 to come home. 
 
 They are sure that the letter contains good 
 news, though the mistress is slow in reading it, 
 because of the smiles which come rippling over 
 her face. 
 
 ‘"Yes,” she says, looking up at last: ^They 
 will be here to-morrow. And, Ben, here is a 
 message for you from the master: ‘Tell Ben to 
 take the trap to Ashby Station by four o’clock. 
 
^ HOME, SWEET HOME. 12/ 
 
 We shall start early, so as to be home before 
 dark.’"- 
 
 Away goes Ben to impart the good news to 
 every one he meets. Isaac too goes on his 
 round, telling, at one house after another, how 
 Farmer Rowan is bringing home his daughter 
 and her little girl, at last. 
 
 Then Dolly and her mistress resolve themselves 
 into a committee of w^ys and means. There are 
 finishing touches to be put to preparations for 
 Janet’s home-coming, long since begun. There 
 is the bed to be made in the low-raftered 
 bedroom, which used to be her’s so long ago. 
 Soft fleecy blankets have to be taken out of the 
 great oak chest; and fine linen, spun by Mrs. 
 Rowan’s grandmother, and laid by with lavender 
 and rosemary years since. The very best of 
 everything must be prepared for the long-lost 
 daughter. 
 
 Then there is the cooking, and getting ready 
 of such country fare as only country folk know 
 how to set forth ; while old Ben, rising with dawn 
 next day, washes his “ trap ’’ and furbishes up 
 his harness, remembering how particular “ Miss 
 Janet’’ used to be. 
 
 Full three hours before the train is due at 
 
128 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 Ashby he drives away to meet it ; in order, as he 
 says,, to give himself plenty of time. 
 
 Dolly, going into the sheltered farm garden, 
 picks great posies of spring flowers, which she 
 arranges according to the best of her ability in 
 old china jugs, which would set china-mad folks 
 a longing. 
 
 After that, there is nothing more to do; and 
 Dolly and her mistress are fain to spend their 
 time in expeditions to and from the garden gate, 
 which, opening into the road, gives a look-out 
 to the foot of the hill. 
 
 Here they come at last! Just when Dolly's 
 patience is exhausted, and even Mrs. Rowan has 
 begun to express her hope that nothing has 
 happened to the train ; for she aye thought it 
 an awsome thing to see it going along those bits 
 of irons, with never a horse to take it safe I ” 
 
 A sight of the trap at the bottom of the brow 
 is the best answer to her fears. She can make 
 out that Andrew is driving, with Janet sitting 
 beside him ; and Ben, with little Elsie, on the 
 back seat. Sending Dolly to make sure that the 
 kettle boils, and nothing is burning in the oven, 
 she stands ready, when the farmer draws rein, to 
 receive her long-absent daughter in her arms. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 I2g 
 
 Only once since she went away a happy bride^ 
 to come back to the old home a still happy wife, 
 had Mrs. Rowan held her Janet in those loving 
 arms. 
 
 What a moment it was ! 
 
 The answer to hours of such prayer as only a 
 mother prays over a lost child. An ending of 
 years of patient waiting, but of dull unceasing 
 heartache. The full reward of trust in Him who 
 “ doeth all things well.” 
 
 She never thought of noticing that the bonnie 
 girl, the bright young matron, was a faded woman 
 now, battered and bruised in life’s battle. God 
 had sent her the daughter whom she scarce hoped 
 to see again in this world, — that was enough, and 
 more than enough, for the present moment. 
 
 There was Elsie too, the little grandchild, 
 Having her she would always possess a picture 
 of Janet as she used to be in her childhood. Elsie, 
 
 . — to whom the sight of the beautiful country they 
 passed by in the train had been as the continual 
 unfolding of some fairy panorama, till she grew shy 
 and silent from sheer delight, and the thought that 
 she and mother were to live out the rest of their 
 days among these very mountains, green fields, 
 and lakes. 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 There would be no more want. No need for 
 Elsie to wonder what would become of them if 
 mother grew ill and unfit for work.’’ No need 
 for her to bear any more the burden of their 
 sorrowful life upon her childish shoulders. 
 
 She thought she could even imagine what the 
 bright Home would be like. 
 
 Ah, little Elsie, ‘‘Eye hath not seen nor ear 
 heard, neither have entered into the heart of man 
 the things which God hath prepared for them 
 that love Him ! ” 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FOR HIS name’s sake 
 
 “Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye 
 did it unto Me.” 
 
 HE evening before he was to leave Westpool, 
 
 Farmer Rowan went up to the Rectory 
 and asked to see Mr. Walton. 
 
 Both the Rector and his wife had been down 
 to Parr Street that afternoon to bid good-bye to 
 Elsie and her mother, therefore this visit caused 
 some surprise. 
 
 Is there anything more I can do for you } ” 
 asked Mr. Walton. 
 
 Well, there is, sir,’’ replied the old countryman, 
 looking very bashful, and standing first on one 
 foot, then on the other. 
 
 Whatever it may be, rest assured that I will 
 do it if I can,” said Mr. Walton, encouragingly. 
 
 ** I know it, sir, — I know it,” said the farmer ; 
 
132 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 ‘^and God bless you a thousand-fold for what 
 you and your lady have done already.” 
 
 Then he began to fumble in his pocket ; and 
 at last drew out an old-fashioned moleskin purse, 
 took from it two bank notes, and laid them on 
 the study table. 
 
 brought these, and more beside them,” he 
 said, hesitatingly, ‘'in case there were aught to 
 pay for my poor lass ; but it appears they’re not 
 wanted. If I could make so bold, sir, would you 
 let them go towards saving of one or two of 
 those little things I saw in the school-room where 
 the lady found my Elsie, — taking of ’em away 
 from the street, I liiean, and putting of ’em to 
 learn a trade, or what not, — ^just as you and the 
 lady think best ? I couldn’t make it up anyway to 
 speak to her about it, but I thought maybe you 
 would speak for me. I should be more contented 
 when I take my girl and her little lass home, if 
 I knew that but one of those children might 
 find a home, and do well perhaps, in years to 
 come.” 
 
 Deeply touched by the practical sympathy of 
 the simple-hearted man, to whom the sins and 
 sorrows of the great city were such a revelation, 
 Mr. Walton looked at the notes, intending to 
 
FOR HIS name’s sake. 
 
 133 
 
 assure him of his willingness to carry out his wish. 
 But when he saw their value, he hesitated. 
 
 '‘Forty pounds!” he exclaimed, in great sur- 
 prise. " That is a large sum for you to give. 
 Are you sure you can afford it ? In all probability 
 you will have your daughter and her child to 
 provide for : I am afraid her husband will never 
 turn up again.” 
 
 " There’s been only me and my wife at the old 
 place this many a year,” said Farmer Rowan. 
 " The Missus, she’s a real good manager ; and the 
 stock and the crops have done well too. It seems 
 like as if the Lord had prospered us. My father, 
 and His father before him, and I’ve heard tell his 
 father too, lived on Moss Farm ; and we’ve every 
 one done well. (Praise be to God !) So Janet 
 and Elsie will have enough and to spare. You’ve 
 no need to be uneasy, sir, or backward at taking 
 it, if that’s all.” 
 
 "And I’d like to say one other thing,” he con- 
 tinued, as if anxious fully to unburden. his mind: 
 " that is, if ever you should come across Mark 
 Lovell, — for he left Janet here to go away to sea, 
 as far as I can make out, — why maybe you’d do 
 as much for him as you did for her ; always 
 remembering that the old man at Moss Farm has 
 
134 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 enough and to spare. And that’s what I never 
 thought to say for Mark Lovell, after the way 
 he’s treated my girl. But the Lord has had a 
 deal to forgive me, and I’ll forgive Mark if ever 
 I get the chance; and so I’ve told Janet, poor 
 lass!” 
 
 God bless you 1 ” said the Rector, shaking the 
 old man’s hand heartily. ‘‘‘Forgive, and ye shall 
 be forgiven : give, and it shall be given unto you ; 
 good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, 
 and running over, shall men give into your 
 bosom.’ ” 
 
 “Thank you kindly, sir,” said Farmer Rowan, 
 and went his way. 
 
 Neither Elsie nor her mother were ever likely 
 to forget their kind friends at Westpool. Very 
 frequent were the visits of Isaac Fenton, the 
 postman, now-a-days, — a constant communication 
 being kept up between the Moss Farm and 
 Westpool ; telling, as time went on, how Mrs. 
 Lovell regained health and strength far more 
 than she or any one else had ventured to expect, 
 and that Elsie had become the very joy and 
 pride of everybody at the farm. 
 
 Simple letters they were, but brimful pf 
 affection for the friends they had left ; and more 
 
FOR HIS name’s SAKE. 13$ 
 
 than once containing a wish, fervently expressed 
 by Farmer Rowan, that some day ‘^the lady” 
 would come and see them all, at the old farm-house 
 on the Moss. 
 
 Such good news of those for whom she had 
 cared was a great source of thankfulness to 
 Deaconess Grahame. Even in this life God 
 permitted her to see some fruit of her labour for 
 His sake : here and there a waif and stray 
 rescued from want, and set forward on life’s 
 pathway : here and there a brand snatched from 
 the burning, by a feeble woman’s hand, to be a 
 bright jewel in the Saviour’s crown. 
 
 And thus she went on her way rejoicing; by 
 patient continuance in well-doing striving to serve 
 God day after day. Days made up, not of stirring 
 exciting scenes, but of humble work little known, 
 and less spoken about : only a round of visits to 
 the poor and sorrow-stricken always with us; a 
 chapter of God’s Word read, a simple prayer 
 offered, a familiar hymn sung. Or, in humbler 
 offices still, for benefit of those who were suffering, 
 as well as poor : the better arranging of a couch 
 of pain, the dressing of a wound, a night-w^atch 
 kept, — such were the round of duties allotted to 
 ‘‘Deaconess Grahame.” Gladly did she fulfil 
 
136 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 them, for Jesus’ sake, and in His strength. And 
 those she taught and tended loved and blessed 
 her, — from the ignorant Romanist, whose babe 
 her nursing had saved, and who called down upon 
 her head best blessings of the holy mother,” to 
 the Methodist cobbler and local preacher, who 
 did her ‘^God speed,” because he saw she was 
 “ about the Master s business.” 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 FRESH INTERESTS. 
 
 “ He liveth long who liveth well ! 
 
 All other life is short and vain : 
 
 He liveth longest who can tell 
 Of living most for heavenly gain. 
 
 “ He liveth long who liveth well ! 
 
 All else is being flung away : 
 
 He liveth longest who can tell 
 
 Of true things truly done each day.” 
 
 Rev. H. Bonar. 
 
 HOSE early summer days which Elsie and 
 
 her mother were spending so happily at 
 Moss Farm, were busy days — and trying days 
 too, sometimes — for the workers in St. Olave’s. 
 
 Even Deaconess Grahame, as she read Mrs. 
 Lovell’s last letter, thought longingly of mountain 
 breezes, fresh green fields, and all the . sweet 
 country life it told of. But more than one visit 
 had been paid, by the Rectory party and their 
 friend, to Mrs. Lyster’s beautiful home at Neston. 
 Thence they returned, comforted and cared for 
 
AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 138 
 
 by ‘^Aunt Margaret,” with fresh strength for their 
 work. 
 
 From Neston Hall, week by week, came beau- 
 tiful flowers and fruit, — sweet reminders of the 
 fair country, and showing that the Squire and 
 his wife thought often of the busy toilers on 
 sultry days in town, gladly making them sharers 
 in their own pleasant possessions. 
 
 As harvest time drew near. Deaconess Grahame’s 
 work was increased by care for a constantly 
 changing stream of field labourers, on their way 
 to English hay and harvest fields. 
 
 In their passage through the great sea-port 
 town, they found a lodging in back street or court 
 where she was a frequent visitor. Work among 
 them was truly bread cast upon the waters ; ” but 
 she laboured on hopefully, sure that it would be 
 “ found after many days.” 
 
 When they had returned home safely again 
 with their earnings, more than one grateful if 
 very ill-spelt letter reached her, telling how the 
 writer would never forget what the lady said, 
 and the words she read out of the Book ; ” and he 
 had told the same to the wife and children, as 
 near as he could remember.” 
 
 Thus the changeful current of human life ebbs 
 
FRESH INTERESTS. 
 
 139 
 
 and flows in the busy town : days, weeks, and 
 months, passing by, each one laden with its 
 burden of joy and sorrow; every hour of every 
 day bringing life's voyagers nearer to their 
 journey’s end. 
 
 The two probationers in St. John’s Hospital, 
 having finished their training time, are both at 
 work in Westpool. 
 
 Christian Gordon (Deaconess Gordon, as she 
 is now called) is settled in the next parish to 
 St. Olave’s : much to her satisfaction, as it enables 
 her still to go on living with her friend in Bruce 
 Street, whence she can easily reach the places 
 where her work lies. 
 
 The little house in Bruce Street has become a 
 Deaconesses Home. A very unpretending one, 
 with only one or two probationers and a small 
 staff of nurses. But who shall despise the day 
 of small things ? Certainly not the Rector of 
 St. Olave’s ; who never ceases to thank God for 
 that meeting with his wife’s old friend at Neston 
 Hall. Certainly not the Rector’s wife, who is as 
 energetic as ever in advocating the plan by which 
 she herself has so largely benefited. No longer 
 an over-worked woman, for ever weighing con- 
 flicting claims of household, parish, and society ; 
 
140 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 she and her friend work on lovingly together, 
 bearing one another’s burden. 
 
 And Lucy Blythe, the surgeon’s daughter, has 
 her wish of helping to nurse St. Olave’s sick folk. 
 This by Mr. Maclean’s desire, who has found out 
 how many of his work-people live in St. Olave’s 
 parish, and thinks he cannot do better than to 
 provide for them, especially, such a helper as 
 Deaconess Grahame once proved to Mrs. Lovell 
 and Elsie. 
 
 In the pleasant home on the Sandown Road 
 there have been changes too. Artie has grown a 
 great boy, and gone away to school ; Grade and 
 May are busy. all day with their governess: but 
 for all that, Mrs. Maclean does not find time 
 hang heavy on her hands. Mr. Maclean has 
 quite broken through his resolution never to talk 
 business with his wife, and in the pretty morning 
 room where Deacohess Grahame told Elsie’s 
 story, frequent consultations are held between, the 
 husband and wife, — if not directly concerning 
 business carried on in the shop in High Street, 
 yet about the hands ” employed there. 
 
 That visit of Elsie Lovell bringing her mother’s 
 work, insignificant as it seemed at the time, was 
 in truth the commencement of a new era in 
 
FRESH INTERESTS. 
 
 I4I 
 
 Robert Maclean’s life, — the first thing which 
 opened his eyes to the fact that his work- 
 people were something more than mere animated 
 machines, from whom so much work was to be 
 got for so much money. Moved by Mrs. Lovell’s 
 story, which he heard for himself when he went 
 to visit her at old Stephen Bailey’s house, he 
 began to inquire into the condition of others in 
 his employ. Many a melancholy story he had to 
 hear ! Sometimes of unsuccessful striving to 
 keep poverty at bay ; sometimes of large wages 
 cleverly earned only to be wastefully spent ; 
 sometimes of thoughtless youths and maidens 
 going astray from paths of wisdom and virtue. 
 What he heard made him anything but comfort- 
 able. Had he been using all these people as 
 stepping stones to prosperity, regardless of their 
 moral welfare ? So it seemed. Prompt and 
 practical always, he set to work directly to try 
 and mend matters. Finding his wife as much 
 interested as himself, he talked over the subject 
 with her, discovering for the first time what a 
 wise head guided the loving heart he knew so 
 well. Hitherto the master’s wife had been 
 regarded in High Street as somewhat of a fine 
 lady, half-ashamed perhaps of the shop,” — albeit 
 
142 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 it kept the pretty house on the Sandown Road 
 well supplied with every comfort. Now she 
 began to be known there for what she really was, 
 — a simple, kind-hearted woman, ready to enter 
 into all her husband’s plans for the benefit or 
 supervision of his work-people; always willing to 
 help in time of difficulty or trouble, yet quick to 
 discern between the deserving and undeserving. 
 Her pretty pony carriage might often be seen at 
 the door of the shop in High Street nov/; and 
 the quiet influence of a Christian woman was 
 beginning to make itself felt throughout the 
 establishment. 
 
 Deaconess Grahame’s words had come true. 
 God had found her the work she had waited for 
 so patiently. 
 
 By degrees there sprang up a connecting link 
 between the shop in High Street and the home 
 on the Sandown Road, which added, in the long 
 run, to the prosperity as well as to the comfort of 
 their owner. Few of those employed in High 
 Street failed to make acquaintance with the 
 lovely garden sloping down to the river, where 
 the master s wife entertained them occasionally, 
 to their great enjoyment and refreshment. Arthur 
 and Grace had shown greenhouse and con- 
 
FRESH INTERESTS. 
 
 143 
 
 servatory to many a tired apprentice, who 
 went home again with pleasant recollections of 
 the master’s children and the flowers they gave ; 
 lasting long after the flowers themselves withered 
 away, or were lying pressed in a book as 
 memento of a happy visit. 
 
 The comfort and good order of work-rooms, 
 where coarse jokes and unseemly behaviour were 
 no longer allowed, soon attracted a superior set of 
 work-people. The tone of the workers raised, 
 their work became better, besides being done 
 with a will for so kind a master. In a press of 
 business Mr. Maclean could always reckon on 
 the ■ hearty co-operation of the hands ” he 
 employed. He had been a prosperous man 
 before ; but he was still more prosperous now, 
 and far happier. A blessing seemed to rest upon 
 all his undertakings. Friends who did not know 
 the secret began to say that everything Maclean 
 touched turned to gold.” 
 
 As years went on, few men became more 
 respected, few masters more beloved, than honest 
 Robert Maclean, whose yearly profits in the 
 handsome shop in High Street were no longer 
 expended almost entirely for ^^self,” or on the 
 things of this world. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOR EVER. 
 
 “ Let us with a gladsome mind, 
 
 Praise the Lord for He is kind : 
 
 For His mercies aye endure, 
 
 Ever faithful, ever sure.” 
 
 Milton. 
 
 T WO years have passed away in a peaceful, 
 almost uneventful, life at Moss Farm. The 
 very repose of such a life, made bright by father’s 
 and mothers love, doing. more than anything else 
 could have done to restore Mrs. Lovell. 
 
 The neighbours, warm-hearted country folk, 
 received Mark Lovell’s wife with tender pity. 
 Never a word did they say to remind her of her 
 husband’s disgrace; so by degrees her wounded 
 spirit began to recover itself. For her father’s 
 and mother’s sake she tried to appear as cheerful 
 as possible, insisting upon taking her share of 
 household and dairy work, and striving by every 
 means in her power to be a comfort to them in 
 
HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOR EVER. 145 
 
 their declining years. It was all she could do in 
 return for their loving care of her and of Elsie. 
 
 But though she strove thus to be cheerful, and 
 was in fact happier than she ever thought to be 
 since Mark got into trouble, she could not help 
 longing for news of him. Neither word nor sign 
 had reached her for years, yet her thoughts were 
 continually wandering to her husband. Her 
 mind being set at rest as to her own troubles, she 
 had all the more time to think about him. 
 
 Had he forgotten her } 
 
 He did not treat her kindly for some time 
 before he forsook her, but she scarcely thought of 
 that now. She only recollected that he was the 
 husband she had chosen, to love and to honour ; 
 though, alas, he had proved himself so early in 
 their married life unworthy of both affection and 
 respect ! Still, having loved him once, she knew 
 she should love him always. 
 
 Living at the old home, there returned to her 
 all sorts of recollections of their courting days, — 
 of walks they took together here or there, — of 
 words of love Mark spoke, while yet she and 
 everyone else believed him to be good and true. 
 
 If she might only know what had become of 
 him ! Was he ill and friendless in some strange 
 L 
 
146 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 place ? Ah, she knew full well what that meant ! 
 Perhaps, in some far-away spot, he too was 
 longing for her to comfort him, just as she longed 
 for her mother when first he went away and 
 left her. 
 
 Thoughts like these began to haunt her night 
 and day. 
 
 Possibly Mrs. Rowan, hearing her daughter 
 sigh even amidst all the plenty and peace of the 
 old home, guessed dimly at what was troubling 
 her ; but she did not like to ask, or to reap up 
 old sorrows. Mark’s name had never been men- 
 tioned since Farmer Rowan told his daughter he 
 would forgive him if he ever got a chance. 
 
 So she kept her thoughts to herself, and carried 
 her burden of care to her Father in heaven. He 
 had watched over her and Elsie. Would He not 
 watch over Mark as well, wherever in the wide 
 world he might be ? for she always thought of 
 ' him as still alive. 
 
 More than once grandmother has asked Elsie 
 , to tell that story of the watercress gathering. The 
 old woman thinks it most wonderful, and marvels 
 .again and again however the child managed. 
 
 And Elsie, as she recalls the weary trudge to 
 Neston, and then up and down Westpool Street 
 
HIS MERCY ENi:)URETH FOR EVER. I47 
 
 in all the cold and wet, wonders too, not fully 
 understanding as yet how God ‘‘fits the back to 
 the burden.” 
 
 The recollection of past straits and troubles is 
 fast passing away from Elsie’s mind. Since she 
 came to Moss Farm life has seemed to her like 
 some delightful dream ; only she has the satis- 
 faction of knowing that it will not fade away 
 with morning light, as dreams do. 
 
 In the eyes of Farmer Rowan and his wife, 
 Janets youth is repeated in their grandchild. 
 While tracing all sorts of resemblances between 
 Janet as she was, and Elsie as she is, they almost 
 feel themselves grow young again. 
 
 Released from that weight of care and want 
 which saddened her early years, Elsie seemed to 
 be enjoying now the merry childhood she missed 
 then. 
 
 Mrs. Bailey would not have pronounced her 
 “ almost too quiet,” could she have seen her, full of 
 life and spirits as .she was. Sometimes her 
 mother, grave with sorrowful recollections past 
 and present, would try to check her fun and 
 laughter, bidding her “be more steady now she 
 was growing a big girl.” But grandfather always 
 protested against such attempts. 
 
148 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 Don’t check the lassie, Janet,” he would say, 
 '' but let us thank God who has given her health 
 and happiness. Grave thoughts will come soon 
 enough.” 
 
 And indeed Elsie was the sweetest and most 
 serious of small maidens, as she walked on 
 Sundays through the lanes to Ashby Church, 
 hand in hand with grandfather; or at the still 
 evening hour, when she sat on a low stool at his 
 feet, reading to him out of the big picture Bible, 
 and listening afterwards to his wise and holy talk 
 about the chapter she had read. 
 
 The bright Home was just as much a reality 
 to her, here at Ashby, as it had seemed in con- 
 trast to their dreary attic in Balls’ Court; the 
 dear Saviour, just as dear as when she first learned 
 to know and love Him, while yet the dark shadow 
 of a sorrowful life lay on her childish heart. But 
 certainly it would have been hard for any one 
 who knew Elsie Lovell in those days of want 
 and trouble, to recognise in her the bonnie lassie 
 who crossed the farm yard one sunny afternoon, 
 singing gaily as she went, and carrying to the 
 reapers cooling drink, carefully prepared for them 
 by her grandmother. 
 
 This year they had had a grand harvest time ; 
 
HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOR EVER. 149 
 
 plentiful crops, and fine weather to house them. 
 The reaping went on gaily, Elsie helping to bind 
 sheaves after the reapers, as she knew quite well 
 how to do, or taking to the field food and drink, 
 needed by the harvesters this hot weather. Most 
 of the men had worked on Farmer Rowan’s land 
 for years ; but here and there would be a strange 
 harvester. To such Elsie, with the thoughtful 
 care born of past trouble, was most attentive of 
 all. She knew what it was to be a stranger in a 
 strange place. 
 
 Many kindly looks followed her this afternoon as 
 she smilingly handed her can to one thirsty reaper 
 after another, receiving grateful thanks in return. 
 
 Harvest fields on Moss Farm were never scenes 
 of uproarious merriment, arising out of intoxi- 
 cating drink. Long ago the men had learned tc 
 value such cool refreshing drinks as Mrs. Rowan 
 prepared for them, far beyond the best beer that 
 ever was brewed. 
 
 Soberly and steadily they worked to the last ; 
 and after the bountiful harvest supper, Farmer 
 Rowan gave them the ‘^beer money” to carry 
 home to their wives, — much to the satisfaction of 
 the wives, who never had to dread the home 
 coming of a husband made “ fractious ” or stupid 
 
150 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 with too much beer, but had instead, money 
 enough to buy new shawl or bonnet, — or perhaps 
 the pig which makes plenty in a working mean’s 
 home. 
 
 But Elsie has bound her last sheaf for this year, 
 — has been the bearer of grandmothers bounty 
 for the last time : towards evening the last load 
 will be brought home from the harvest field. 
 
 Even now, Mrs. Rowan, with her daughter and 
 Dolly the farm maid, are as busy as they can be 
 preparing a harvest supper in the big barn, which 
 Elsie and her mother decorated with green boughs 
 this morning. 
 
 It was Elsie’s fancy to place a tiny posy beside 
 each man’s plate, along with the little parcel of 
 beer money, carefully put up by herself and 
 grandfather. To her great delight she had been 
 allowed to write the name on every packet, so 
 that there could be no mistake for whom it was 
 intended. 
 
 Coming back from the field she went down to 
 the barn once more to see whether all was in 
 readiness there, then ran off in high spirits to 
 meet the last load now being drawn up the brow, 
 — the harvesters following, and singing their 
 Harvest Home.” 
 
HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOR EVER. 151 
 
 No one remembered such a harvest for years 
 past. God had opened His hand and filled all 
 things living with plenteousness. 
 
 Following into the rick-yard, Elsie stood beside 
 grandfather to watch the unloading. Scarcely 
 could the men pitch the heavy sheaves of golden 
 grain within reach of others standing on the top 
 of the tall rick to receive them. 
 
 It was the biggest stack built in his time/* 
 said old Ben, the farm man. 
 
 While* they were busy unloading, Elsie’s 
 favourite playrnate, — a half-grown puppy, one of 
 Shot,” the sheep dog’s numerous family, — came 
 capering up, persuading her to a game of play. 
 Nothing loth, she chased him round and round 
 the tall corn rick, until he took refuge among the 
 brick and iron pillars upon which it stood. 
 There was just space enough underneath for a 
 child to creep in. Elsie had often chased Bob in 
 and out of that very place before the corn began 
 to be housed : it was cool and shady enough in 
 there this afternoon, with the great rick towering 
 overhead. So, apparently, thought Bob; for he 
 stood within, yelping at Elsie, challenging her to 
 a game at hide and seek among the pillars. 
 Away she went after him, creeping right up to 
 
152 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 the centre pillar, where she crouched, laughingly. 
 All in a moment Bob turned tail, and, with a 
 howl of fear, rushed away into the open air. 
 Wondering what could be the matter with her 
 play-fellow, Elsie followed, running away to look 
 for him. 
 
 What was that strange creaking noise coming 
 just after Bob's sudden rush,^ Surely not the 
 great rick tottering, — old Ben's experienced hands 
 must have built it up far too firmly for such a 
 thing to happen. And so they had. The 
 golden sheaves stood firm and compact together, 
 only settling down slowly upon the ground as 
 both iron and brick supports gave way under 
 the extra weight of the biggest stack that Ben 
 had built for years. But where was Elsie ? 
 
 Grandfather, who had seen her chasing Bob in 
 and out, turned deadly pale: his trembling lips 
 tried to speak the child's name; but no sound 
 passed them. 
 
 Elsie ! " shouted old Ben, hoarsely. And 
 “ Elsie " was re-echoed by voice after voice. 
 
 ‘‘Here!" called she, gaily; running in among 
 them, with Bob still at her heels, but looking 
 very much scared. 
 
 “Why, grandfather," she cried, “what has 
 
HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOR EVER. 1 53 
 
 happened to the stack ? It looks ever so much 
 smaller.” 
 
 ‘‘ My own lassie ! ” said Farmer Rowan, putting 
 his arm round her. Thank God you are safe. 
 We thought you might be underneath it.” 
 
 The reapers came crowding around with ex- 
 clamations of surprise and thankfulness ; and 
 then Elsie began to understand the danger of 
 which Bob must have had some inkling, and her 
 own hair-breadth escape. 
 
 News was quickly carried to the farm kitchen ; 
 and Mrs. Rowan, with her daughter and Dolly, 
 came running out to see the. big rick settled 
 down on the ground, and to assure themselves of 
 their darling’s safety. Of course the sheaves 
 must all be moved, and Ben’s work done over 
 again. But who thought of that amid the joy of 
 Elsie’s deliverance from a death too dreadful to 
 think about! The harvest supper that night was 
 more than ever a thanksgiving feast As the 
 men admired the pretty posies laid beside each 
 plate, and took up their little packets of money 
 with the name written in Elsie’s clear handwriting, 
 tears rose to many an eye. How nearly the hand 
 that plucked the flowers, and wrote each familiar 
 name, had been laid silent and cold in death 1 
 
154 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME, 
 
 When the harvesters were all gone home, and 
 the great harvest moon had risen, and was 
 shining down upon reaped fields and farm-house 
 with all its wealth of ingathering, Elsie came 
 to read her evening chapter to grandfather. He 
 opened the big Bible, and found the place for her 
 himself : — 
 
 Bless the Lord, O my soul : and all that is 
 within me, bless His holy name. Bless the Lord, 
 O my soul, and forget not all His benefits : who 
 redeemeth thy life from destruction ; who crown- 
 eth thee with loving kindness and tender mercies.’' 
 
 I 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A BRAVE WOMAN. 
 
 “ Earth has angels, though their forms are moulded 
 But of such clay as fashions all below ; 
 
 Though harps are wanting and bright pinions folded, 
 
 We know them by the love-light on their brow. 
 
 “ I have seen angels by the sick one’s pillow, — 
 
 Their’s was the soft tone and the soundless tread, — 
 Where smitten hearts were drooping like the willow : 
 They stood between the living and the dead.” 
 
 Lyra Ai^iglicana. 
 
 D uring harvest time, while everybody about 
 the farm had their hands quite full of work, 
 Mrs. Lovell scarce gave a thought to the long 
 interval that had passed since Isaac Fenton, the 
 postman, brought a letter to Moss Farm. But 
 now harvest was over, and there came a little 
 breathing time before next season, she had begun 
 to wonder whether there could be any reason for 
 the long silence of her well-loved friends at 
 Westpool.' 
 
156 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 Coming in from Ashby one market day, Farmer 
 Rowan brought a Westpool newspaper. In it they 
 read the first tidings that reached them of a fresh 
 outbreak of that terrible epidemic which had 
 once before created such havoc in Westpool. 
 
 Mrs. Lovell began to feel uneasy, for she knew 
 very well how much would be added to her kind 
 friend’s work. 
 
 In her last letter, written during the height of a 
 burning hot summer. Deaconess Grahame had 
 owned that she stood in need of rest: now she 
 would not be able to leave Westpool. How 
 would it be with her if she had to go, jaded and 
 weary, into fever dens of the great town ? 
 
 Farmer Rowan was quite ready to share his 
 daughters anxiety. His gratitude to ‘Hhe lady,” 
 as he still called Deaconess Grahame, was quite 
 as fresh as when he first thanked her for finding 
 his daughter. Ever since he saw her moving 
 about among the destitute children in the ragged 
 school-room, he had looked upon her as little less 
 than an angel; so he and Janet both watched 
 anxiously, day by day, for the coming of the 
 postman. 
 
 Elsie always ran down to the garden gate at 
 the well-known hour, looking out down the long 
 
A BRAVE WOMAN. 
 
 157 
 
 road to the very foot of the hill ; but still no 
 postman came in sight. 
 
 After watching in this way for about a week, 
 one morning her patience was rewarded, and she 
 had the great pleasure of running down the lane 
 to meet Isaac, and getting from him a letter for 
 mother, which she carried indoors with far fleeter 
 footsteps than old Isaac’s. 
 
 With trembling hands, Mrs. Lovell broke it 
 open ; half afraid lest it might contain bad 
 news. 
 
 It was only a very few lines, in the well-known 
 handwriting, telling how fever had broken out 
 again in Westpool; laying hold with terrible viru- 
 lence on the lower parts of the town. Deaconess 
 Grahame knew well that the warm loving hearts 
 at Moss Farm, would be heavy with anxiety on 
 her account ; but she bid them trust in that God 
 who can shield alike from ‘'the pestilence that 
 walketh in darkness,” as from “the destruction 
 that wasteth at noonday.” 
 
 After this Mrs. Lovell could do little else but 
 think of the brave woman, so calm and trustful, 
 taking her life in her hands as she ministered 
 beside miserable fever-stricken beds, in such 
 courts and back streets as Janet Lovell could 
 
158 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 well picture to herself, — but of which her father 
 had little idea, and her mother still less. 
 
 How would she ever pull through, worn out 
 and weary with long months of hard work ? 
 
 Sitting beside her father in the deepening 
 twilight of a peaceful Sunday evening, his 
 daughter summoned up courage to put. a question 
 she had been longing, yet not daring to ask, for 
 days. 
 
 Father,’’ she said, ‘^will you spare me to go 
 and help them in Westpool ? I’m not at all 
 afraid of the fever : ’tis mostly taken by such as 
 drink, and live as too many poor people do live 
 in a town like that. I got to know their ways 
 while I was so poor myself, and I think I could 
 help them. Besides, I can’t bear to go on living 
 here in comfort, while the best friend Elsie and 
 I ever had is, maybe, slaving herself to death in 
 places such as I know of” 
 
 Now she had made her request, she was half- 
 afraid lest he should take it amiss. After all he 
 had done for her, might it not appear to him a 
 thoughtless whim that she should desire to risk 
 her life in Westpool ? He sat a long time silent, 
 looking out over the valley beneath, and on to 
 the “everlasting hills” in the distance. She 
 
A BRAVE WOMAN. 
 
 159 
 
 began to fear that he was, in truth, angry with 
 her. 
 
 Father!” she said, gently, laying her head upon 
 his arm. 
 
 “^He that spared not His own Son,’” mur- 
 mured the old man in a low tone. With such 
 an example before me, shall I keep back my girl, 
 though she be well nigh the dearest thing I have 
 on earth } ” 
 
 “ Go my lass,” he said aloud : ‘‘ and God be 
 with you ! ” 
 
 When may I go, father } ” she asked. 
 
 “ To-morrow,” he said : gave her one kiss as if 
 to seal the sacrifice, and stepped out through the 
 open door to commune with God and his own 
 heart, in the still darkness outside. 
 
 Then Mrs. Lovell spoke to her mother, who 
 shed many tears over her daughter s resolve ; yet 
 was not the woman to try to shake it. . Besides . 
 she had seen for a long time that Janet was 
 • growing restless with ceaseless longing for news 
 of her husband. Dangerous as she knew the 
 errand to be on which she was bound, it might be 
 good for her to have something to turn her mind 
 away from her own trouble. 
 
 Elsie and her . mother found the parting hard 
 
i6o 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 enough; but the child was buoyed up by the 
 importance of a charge mother confided to her, — 
 to take care of grandfather and grandmother till 
 she should return. 
 
 Once again at early dawn the farm trap was 
 got ready by old Ben ; and Farmer Rowan himself 
 drove his daughter to Ashby Station, and sent 
 her away to help the fever-stricken people at 
 Westpool: though, as he clasped her hand in one 
 long loving good-bye clasp, it seemed to him that 
 he scarce could part with her after all. 
 
 Arrived at her journey s end, Mrs. Lovell went 
 on quickly to the well-known house in Bruce 
 Street. How changed her life had become since 
 she passed along the familiar streets poor and ill ! 
 In some of the smaller ones, which she took to 
 shorten her way, she thought she could perceive 
 traces of the pestilence. Blinds drawn down, 
 windows closed, many people in mourning dress. 
 How close the town air felt too after the mountain 
 breezes of Ashby ! 
 
 At Bruce Street Mrs. Grahame’s faithful old 
 servant opened to her as to a stranger. She did 
 not tell her errand, but asking for the Deaconess, 
 was shown in at once. 
 
 “ IVe come to see if you will let me help you,'’ 
 
A BRAVE WOMAN. 
 
 l6l 
 
 she said, falteringly ; for after all she was not 
 sure whether she could be of any real use. 
 
 Father and I, we couldn’t rest down at Ashby, 
 so he let me come.” 
 
 Deaconess Grahame was both touched and 
 thankful : they needed all the help they could get 
 in Westpool just then. 
 
 But are you not afraid ? ” she asked. 
 
 ^‘No, ma’am,” said Mrs. Lovell, simply. 
 never was one to take things, and I’m stronger 
 now than I ever thought to be.” 
 
 “You do indeed look a different creature,” 
 returned her old friend ; “ and if you offer help of 
 your own free will I shall accept it gratefully, 
 feeling sure that God Himself has put it into 
 your heart to come.” 
 
 So it was settled that Janet Lovell should stay 
 in Bruce Street, and be of what use she could as 
 nurse in St. Olave’s Parish, while the fever lasted. 
 
 Most of the rich people had fled before the 
 pestilence ; but of course the Rector and his wdfe 
 remained at their post. The children from the 
 Rectory were fetched away to Neston by aunt 
 Margaret. “ She had no little ones of her own,” 
 she said ; “ and as she could not come and help 
 them to nurse, Grace and Bernard must let her 
 
 M 
 
AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 162 
 
 take care of the children, and thus set their 
 minds at rest as far as possible.” Right thankful 
 were the Rector and his wife. As for the children, 
 they were delighted to go to Neston, — a very 
 paradise to them. But their mother bid them 
 good-bye with a pang. Everyone realized the 
 uncertainty of life in those days ; and she did 
 not know when she might see her children again. 
 
 Everything was done that could be done to 
 stay the progress of the epidemic ; but it showed 
 no sign of abatement at the time Mrs. Lovell 
 came to help in St. Olave’s. Day and night 
 almost the band of devoted nurses were at work ; 
 often in houses hardly fit for human beings to 
 live in at all, and still less fit when invaded by 
 the pestilence. But they kept up bravely, faced 
 the danger, and trusted in God ; though Mrs. 
 Lovell was sorely grieved to see that the head 
 nurse of all, the one to whom everybody turned 
 in an emergency, was daily growing more and 
 more worn. She never could be persuaded to 
 spare herself : wherever she was most needed, 
 there she was, advising, arranging, encouraging 
 the workers by her own calm demeanour and 
 unfailing trust in God. Certainly to her the 
 promise was fulfilled : Thou wilt keep him in 
 
A BRAVE WOMAN. 
 
 163 
 
 perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, 
 because he trusteth in Thee.’' 
 
 Somehow it had come to pass that Mrs. Lovell’s 
 work lay principally in and around Balls’ Court. 
 She knew the neigbourhood best, and was full of 
 sympathy for the poor creatures among whom 
 she once lived. Few who had known her then, 
 recognised her now. The well-clad superior- 
 looking woman, who bid them call her Nurse 
 Lovell,” was so very different a person from that 
 poor sickly seamstress who lived in Balls’ Court 
 two years ago. But Sarah Robins knew her, and 
 welcomed her heartily. Poor old Sarah had 
 been trying her very best to help the fever- 
 stricken people in Balls’ Court ; but it was not 
 much she could do ; and she hailed with great 
 relief the advent of a nurse who set herself 
 specially to work amongst them. 
 
 Deaconess Grahame had no reason to regret 
 her acceptance of the help so nobly offered. 
 She was astonished as well as pleased to find 
 that the woman she once thought driven almost 
 to death by want and trouble was not only 
 restored to health, but able to lay aside her own 
 sorrows to become the capable sympathizing 
 nurse : grave and quiet still ; but never known to 
 
164 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 lose her presence of mind, or to shrink from any 
 duty, however disagreeable. Even Farmer Rowan 
 would have been surprised to see how ably his 
 daughter fulfilled the duties she came to Westpool 
 to perform. 
 
 Of course the postman was watched for at 
 Ashby Moss more eagerly than ever. Janet 
 knew it would be the best comfort she could give 
 her father and mother to let them hear constantly 
 from her. However busy she might be, she 
 always found time for the few lines which would 
 set their minds at rest on her account. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AT length! 
 
 “ All was ended now : the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow ; 
 All the aching of heart, — the restless, unsatisfied longing ; 
 
 All the dull deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! ” 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 URSE LOVELL,’' as she had come to be 
 
 ^ ^ universally called, went one afternoon to 
 rest for an hour in old Sarah Robins’ little cottage, 
 in one corner of Balls’ Court. 
 
 The good woman’s comforting words, gathered 
 fresh day by day from the Bible, always helped 
 her to fresh courage for her labour of love. 
 
 She had had a long anxious day, with a long 
 night-watch preceding it. 
 
 In one of the rooms of that very house in Balls’ 
 Court where she once lodged lay a young 
 mother at death’s door. Touched by the grief 
 of the husband, and the utter helplessness 
 of six little children, who cried ceaselessly for 
 
AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 1 66 
 
 “mammy/’ lying unconscious among them, she 
 had striven and prayed to save this life; and now 
 it seemed as if it would pass away. 
 
 Towards afternoon a kind neighbour came and 
 offered to watch while the tired nurse went to get 
 food and rest, so sorely needed. Glad of some 
 relief, if only for a time, she went away across 
 the court to old Sarah’s ; sitting down there 
 wearily on the first seat she came to. 
 
 It was not merely her nursing work, just now 
 heavier than ever, which depressed her, but the 
 sight of the drunkenness and godless living, by 
 means of which poor people were striving to 
 drown their terror of the pestilence; thereby 
 laying themselves more than ever open to its 
 attacks. 
 
 “ I’m sure I don’t know whatever is to be the 
 end of it,” she said to old Sarah, who was busy 
 building up her fire and getting ready a cup 
 of tea. 
 
 “ Now, now, dearie,” remonstrated the old woman, 
 “what’s come to you, so brave as you’ve been all 
 this time ? Don’t you be for losing heart, and 
 letting in doubts and fears which the devil has 
 always ready. Things do seem dark and drear 
 enough at present, but ’tis darkest before dawn. 
 
AT LENGTH. 
 
 167 
 
 you know. God has not forsaken us, though He 
 has stricken us sore ; may be, as you say, on 
 account of the wicked lives of many a one in this 
 big town. But in wrath He will remember mercy. 
 Never doubt that. Sometimes foolish sheep must 
 be driven into the fold when they won’t be led.” 
 
 **But now you get this cup o’ tea, and then 
 have a rest in my big chair. I’ll go and tend 
 Mrs. White: you can trust me for that, so your 
 mind ’ill be at rest. And look you, dearie, I was 
 readin’ over again that Psalm about the pestilence: 
 I read it most days now. See here’s a verse for 
 you : — 
 
 “‘He shall cover thee with His feathers, and 
 under His wings shalt thou trust : His truth shall 
 be thy shield and buckler.’ 
 
 “ What more could we have ? Doubts and 
 such like soon disappear before God’s truth.” 
 
 Saying this, Sarah Robins went out, closing her 
 cottage door and leaving nurse Lovell to rest in 
 quiet. 
 
 After enjoying the comfortable cup of tea, so 
 thoughtfully prepared, she sat down for a few 
 minutes in old Sarah’s big arm chair. Though 
 comforted in some measure by the good woman’s 
 words and kindly care, she still felt an unaccount- 
 
AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 I68 
 
 able sense of depression. Was she too going to 
 be ill, and only a burden on those she came to 
 help ? Struggling bravely against what she called 
 foolish fancies, she looked at the big Bible, left 
 open on the table, and read once more the well- 
 known words ; then sat pondering over them. 
 Weary with her night watch she fell into a doze, 
 but before long was roused by the opening of the 
 cottage door, and saw Tommy, poor Mrs. White’s 
 eldest little boy, looking in upon her. 
 
 ‘Ms it your mother. Tommy.?” said she, start- 
 ing up directly. 
 
 “No,” said the child. “Mrs. Jones sent me 
 to say you must please to come directly : there’s 
 a man taken bad.” 
 
 Following Tommy across the court, she en- 
 countered Mrs. Jones the landlady. 
 
 “ I’m real sorry to trouble you, nurse,” she 
 explained; “but I was forced to send Tommy 
 across : there’s a man that bad in the top attic, 
 I’m at my wits’ end to know what to do with 
 him. He only came in last night, and begged so 
 hard for a lodging, — offering me double money 
 too, — so I couldn’t turn him away. He seemed 
 very down like, and said he’d got a berth to sail 
 to Ameriky this week end. The top attic hadn’t 
 
AT LENGTH. 
 
 169 
 
 been used for ever so long, and I guessed he’d 
 some reason for keeping hisself quiet till his ship 
 sailed ; so I give him leave to lie there for a 
 night or two, thinking no harm.” 
 
 How could you take in a fresh lodger while 
 the fever is so bad in your house, Mrs. Jones 
 asked nurse Lovell, reproachfully. 
 
 Well,” returned the landlady, folks must 
 live, I reckon, fever or no fever. ’Tis hard enough 
 to .get your rents now-a-days, so I couldn’t refuse 
 good money. If / hadn’t taken him in, he’d a 
 got hisself took in somewheres. But I wish I 
 hadn’t done it now: it’s just like my luck. If 
 he dies, who knows whether he’ll leave enough to 
 bury him 1 And then we shall have the Overseer, 
 and all sorts of bother. I would have got him 
 taken off to the hospital, but I couldn’t rouse 
 him nohow.” 
 
 At her best the landlady of No. 7 was but a 
 rough coarse woman, and now familiarity with 
 disease and death seemed to have hardened 
 instead of softening her heart. Having told her 
 story, she turned away quite coolly into her own 
 room, leaving nurse Lovell to go to the sick man. 
 
 Hastening away, she only stayed a moment to 
 look in upon the young mother in the room on 
 
170 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 the second floor. Old Sarah held up her finger 
 warningly : — 
 
 She's asleep, and I do believe she’ll take a 
 turn yet,” she said. 
 
 . So Mrs. Lovell went on, up one flight of the 
 well-remembered stairs after another, till she came 
 to the very room where she and Elsie once lived. 
 
 Oh, how miserable it looked ! Bare as she 
 recollected it: but certainly not clean now. Since 
 they left, it had had many tenants : the last a 
 little family,” who had left behind them evident 
 trace of their habitation. 
 
 On a mattrass hired from the landlady, and 
 placed in the corner where her own bed used to 
 be, lay the sufferer. 
 
 Before she could attend to him, she had to go 
 across to the window and take out some of the 
 miserable rags put in to stuff up broken window 
 panes, so as to let fresh air into the stifling room. 
 Then she came back to the bedside, and looked 
 down on the sick man, who lay with closed eyes, 
 breathing heavily. 
 
 Ill as he was, old looking as he had grown, 
 spite of the squalor with which he was surrounded, 
 she knew him at once. 
 
 It was her husband, Mark Lovell ! 
 
AT LENGTH. 
 
 171 
 
 The blood rushed back to her heart with one 
 great bound, then she turned sick and faint But 
 she had learned self-command to some purpose 
 lately. Rousing herself directly, she knelt down 
 beside him, calling him by his name ; but he gave 
 no sign that he either, heard or knew her. 
 
 Experienced in the various forms and stages of 
 the epidemic, she perceived that it had laid hold 
 of him with deadly force, as it often did on such 
 wanderers, poisoning life’s very springs. 
 
 It was too late to get him carried away to the 
 hospital, as the landlady had said. Hurrying 
 downstairs, she called little Tommy White, and 
 bid him take a message from nurse Lovell, which 
 she knew would bring a doctor to her aid. Then 
 she summoned the landlady, asking her help to 
 bring across from old Sarah’s cottage various 
 comforts for the sick, kept there in case of sudden 
 emergency. 
 
 Mrs. Jones looked at her curiously, wondering 
 at the eager haste and agitation, which she could 
 not suppress, try how she would. 
 
 Maybe you knew him ? ” she asked. 
 
 ‘‘ Yes,” said nurse Lovell : I know him.” And 
 the tone in which she spoke prevented any further 
 question, evea from rough Mrs. Jones. 
 
1/2 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 The doctor came, but soon turned away from 
 a patient whose state he saw at a glance to be 
 hopeless. Nothing more was to be done than 
 nurse Lovell had already learned to do in many 
 like cases. 
 
 ‘‘Would there be an interval of consciousness 
 she inquired, anxiously. 
 
 Little guessing why she asked, he answered 
 that he could not tell, — perhaps there might be, 
 just at the last : and, being a young man, and not 
 very observant, went his way, wondering what 
 there could be to make nurse Lovell, usually so 
 quiet and collected, seem so very urgent about one 
 poor stranger dying, as he thought, with no one 
 about him to know even who he was. Such 
 death-beds were too common in Westpool, at 
 that time, to occasion more than a passing sigh 
 of regret in the hurry of going from one sick bed 
 to another. 
 
 Mrs. Jones, the landlady, reported to Deaconess 
 Grahame, who came into Balls’ Court shortly after 
 the doctor left it, how very much put about nurse 
 Lovell seemed to be after her visit to the strange 
 lodger upstairs. Unlikely as it seemed, — only 
 that all sorts of unlikely things happened in 
 those days at Westpool, — the thought flashed 
 
AT LENGTH. 
 
 173 
 
 across Deaconess Grahame’s mind that here 
 might be the end of Janet Lovelhs sad story. 
 She went up directly to the attic room, opened 
 the door softly, and looked in. There sat nurse 
 Lovell beside the sick man's bed, looking a very 
 picture of hopeless grief Mark, — her Mark, — 
 was passing away without one good-bye word : 
 worse still, — without being able to tell her whether 
 he had repented of his sins, and asked pardon oT 
 his Saviour; so that, although their lives had 
 been all but shipwrecked in this world, they 
 might still hope to come, battered and storm- 
 driven, yet safe at last, into the harbour of 
 everlasting rest. Looking at the white sorrowful 
 face watching the sick man so earnestly, it was 
 not hard to perceive that this was the closing* 
 chapter of a life story : the poor tangled skein 
 of two broken lives, gathered up at last in the 
 loving hands of the great Father. 
 
 Would He grant to the almost heart-broken 
 wife the boon she was craving, with agony of 
 supplication too great for words, — mercy, even at 
 the eleventh hour, for the husband who had 
 sinned so deeply against God and herself.^ 
 
 “Yes, ma'am: yes," she whispered, in reply to 
 an inquiring look from Deacoriess Grahame, “ it's 
 
174 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 Mark, my husband; but he does not know me. 
 Oh, do speak to him, or pray for him, — anything, 
 if only he might be able to tell me whether he is 
 a changed man ! Whatever shall I do if he die,s 
 like this ? ” 
 
 Hush ! ” said Deaconess Grahame, gently. 
 
 God knows what is best. Trust Him, and let 
 us pray for your husband.” 
 
 If ever heart-felt prayer ascended up before 
 God, it went up frorh the poor room in Balls' 
 Court, where Janet Lovells husband lay at 
 death's door. And the answer came sooner than 
 either of the watchers dared to hope. 
 
 It seemed as if the clear earnest tones of the 
 speaker, pleading with God in words of prayer 
 once familiar to him, entered into Mark Lovell's 
 clouded brain. His breathing grew quieter, con- 
 sciousness was returning. As he moved his lips 
 they perceived that he was trying to repeat some 
 of the well-known words: — 
 
 We have erred and strayed from Thy ways 
 like lost sheep, — have offended against Thy holy 
 laws : there is no health in us.’ '' 
 
 When the prayer ceased, he opened his eyes 
 and fixed them upon his wife. 
 
 "What, Janet! is that you.^'' he asked, faintly. 
 
AT LENGTH. 
 
 175 
 
 IVe behaved badly to you : but it’s almost over, 
 and I shall be out of your way.” 
 
 ^'Mark, Mark,” she cried, ^MVe always loved 
 you ! but don’t think of me now. You arc 
 dying, Mark. Have you asked God to forgive 
 you ? ” 
 
 ^ Done those things we ought not to have 
 done : left undone those things we ought to have 
 done.’ Somebody said it just now, Janet, and 
 I thought it was Sunday, and we were back in 
 Ashby Church. It’s a weary time since then ; 
 and now ’tis too late to mend. As I’ve sowed 
 so I must reap.” 
 
 ^'But, Mark,” she urged, almost at her wits’ 
 end to convince him, the time was so short, 
 I love you, though you left me and Elsie to 
 shift for ourselves ; and I am but a poor sinful 
 woman, yet you don’t doubt my love ; do 
 you.?” 
 
 ‘^No, no,” he said : ‘^you were always too good 
 for me, Janie. I hope your father will be good 
 to you when I’m gone.” 
 
 ‘^Why there’s father too,” she went on: 
 forgives you, Mark. He said, ^ I’ll forgive Mark 
 Lovell if ever I get a chance, even as God has 
 forgiven me.’ Oh, Mark! if we can forgive,— 
 
176 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 father and I, — won’t you believe that God is 
 ready to forgive ? ” 
 
 ‘Til try, Janet, if you wish it,” he answered, 
 faintly. 
 
 “Don’t let him talk any more now,” said 
 Deaconess Grahame, who had been getting him 
 to swallow a cordial, drop by drop. “He has 
 revived wonderfully. Sit down beside him again, 
 and I will read. We cannot tell how much the 
 dying understand ; and things he knew long ago 
 may come back to his mind.” 
 
 Contrary to all expectation, Mark Lovell re- 
 vived and lived on some days, tended with 
 ceaseless care by his wife, and also by old Sarah 
 Robins ; to whom she confided her secret that 
 the lodger in the attic room was none other than 
 her unhappy husband. 
 
 The Rector, too, came to visit him ; and to 
 him he spoke as freely as his weakness allowed, 
 — telling the melancholy story of a sinful life 
 rendered miserable by continual upbraidings of 
 conscience. He had never, he said, been able to 
 rest long in one place ; but had roamed up and 
 down the world, meeting with all sorts of strange 
 adventures, till at length he found his way to 
 Westpool, — only to die. In short, Mark Lovell’s 
 
AT LENGTH. 
 
 177 
 
 life was a comment on the verdict of Holy Writ : 
 
 The wicked are -like the troubled sea when it 
 cannot rest.” There is no peace, saith my God, 
 to the wicked.” 
 
 At the close of such a life it appeared as if he 
 hardly dared hope for mercy ; only he clung to 
 that one thought, If Janet could forgive me, 
 bad as IVe been to her, maybe God will forgive 
 me.” 
 
 For a day or two after his wife first found him, 
 he seemed so much better that they began to 
 hope he would pull through the fever after all ; 
 but it proved only the last flicker of life in a 
 strong frame, arid soon the flame died down again. 
 There was not, even to the last, any bright assur- 
 ance of hope ; no such glimpses of heaven’s glory 
 as God gives to faithful souls. After he had come 
 with reverent humility to ask forgiveness of his 
 Saviour, the cloud and burden of a misspent life 
 still hung heavy on his spirit, only to be lifted in 
 that blessed land where there is no sin-blight. 
 
 Notwithstanding this, the watchers beside the 
 dying bed knew that '^at evening time” it was 
 light.” The same Saviour who opened the gate 
 of paradise to a dying thief would not close 
 it against Mark Lovell, though all he had to lay 
 N 
 
178 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 at His feet who died for him, would be a life- 
 burden of sin and sorrow: ‘^a withered sheaf,'' 
 which might have been golden grain." 
 
 And so the end came at last. Very humbly, 
 and very peacefully, a poor weary spirit went 
 home to Jesus ; and they laid a worn-out body to 
 rest, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection 
 unto life eternal." Neighbours wondered at the 
 stranger's decent funeral," and at nurse Lovell's 
 black gown ; but she satisfied nobody's curiosity, 
 so all they could do was to make up their minds 
 that he must have been something of kin to her 
 somehow." 
 
 At Mrs. Lovell's request the Rector wrote the 
 whole sad story to Farmer Rowan and his wife. 
 They grieved sorely over their daughter's trouble ; 
 but yet the farmer thanked God, who had 
 enabled him to say he would forgive Mark 
 Lovell if ever he got a chance." 
 
 Elsie's sweet face was very grave for a few 
 days, and she wrote a long loving letter to 
 mother, sad and sorry, so far away from the 
 little daughter she had once named her only 
 comfort. 
 
 As for Mrs. Rowan, while grieving with all a 
 mother's sympathy for a dearly-loved child, she 
 
AT LENGTH. 
 
 179 
 
 could not help feeling that Janet would be better, 
 and more content, in time to come. The cloud 
 of mystery which overhung her husband’s fate 
 dispelled, she would think of him as safe home at 
 last. And they could all look forward to ‘‘the 
 resurrection of the dead, and the life of the 
 world to come.” 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 CROWN AFTER CROSS. 
 
 “ God never sends a sorrow 
 Without the healing balm, 
 And bids us fight no ba1;tles 
 But for the victor’s palm.” 
 
 Lyra Anglicana. 
 
 FTER Mark Lovell’s death, his widow still 
 
 continued at her post. ‘^To try and help 
 the sick would be the best way of comforting 
 herself,” she said. And her kind friend, knowing 
 she was right, let her work on. 
 
 The time of Lovells death proved to be the 
 climax of the epidemic. By degrees sick folk 
 began to grow fewer and fewer, till most were in 
 a fair way of recovery. Mrs. White, the young 
 mother, tended so carefully by nurse Lovell and 
 Sarah Robins, being among the number. But 
 before the fever left Westpool, it struck down 
 one; who, though she was but an insignificant 
 
CROWN AFTER CROSS. 
 
 I8l 
 
 person, would be missed by many as humble as 
 herself. 
 
 Old Sarah Robins, the Missionary of Balls' 
 Court," the Rector called her, sank very quietly 
 and peacefully to rest ; her aged frame worn out 
 by hard work, as well as those anxious months of 
 nursing at the close of her life. They scarce 
 knew whether to call it the fever or not, so very 
 gently were the cords of this earthly tabernacle, 
 unloosed, till it was taken down altogether and 
 one more of Christ's faithful servants, absent 
 from the body," had gone to be present with 
 the Lord." 
 
 The poor people in and about Balls' Court 
 mourned for her as for a dear friend. She had 
 lived there so many years, — had watched by so 
 many sick beds, — had tried with such sweet 
 unfailing patience to win careless or hardened 
 sinners to think of God and a world to come, — 
 had been so tender and loving to all the little 
 ones ! 
 
 Quite a long funeral procession followed to the 
 cemetery, ^‘to see the last of a true friend," as 
 they said. It was a very motley crowd : not 
 clad in decorous mourning garb at all, — only 
 here and there a black bonnet ribbon, an old 
 
AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 182 
 
 black gown, or a bit of shabby crape. But 
 many an apron was raised to hide a weeping 
 woman’s eyes ; many a working man’s face 
 looked grave and sad ; many a child, awed for a 
 moment and sorrowful, understood dimly that a 
 well-loved face would smile no more upon him 
 yet awhile. 
 
 Who would not covet such a following ? 
 
 Thus they carried to her burial the Missionary 
 of Balls’ Court,” and made great lamentation over 
 her.” In her humble way, she too had been ‘‘a 
 servant of the sick, the poor, and the young, for 
 Jesus’ sake.” Now, having fought a good fight,” 
 and finished her course, she entered ‘Tnto the joy 
 of the Lord.” 
 
 Just when everybody began to think all danger 
 past, and to breathe freely again, when even the 
 fever-wards at St. John’s were all but empty, 
 when people began to return to their deserted 
 homes, and, but for the numerous black dresses 
 and sad faces to be met with on all hands, 
 Westpool became again much as it had been : it 
 seemed as if a fresh trouble were still in store for 
 St. Olave’s Parish. The brave woman, who 
 thought and cared for everybody except herself, 
 who had waited upon the sick and cheered the 
 
CROWN AFTER CROSS. 
 
 183 
 
 nurses, lay seriously ill : worn out and exhausted 
 by the long heavy strain of work and anxiety. 
 It was not that she had taken the fever, — merely 
 a reaction after all she had undergone during the 
 past two months. Loving hearts cared for her, 
 loving hands ministered to her ; but, spite of all 
 they could think of or do, they began to fear 
 that she was slipping away from their grasp, to 
 go home to Jesus and to the dear ones she 
 loved long since, and lost awhile.'’ 
 
 From how many aching hearts in St. Olave's 
 went up the appeal : Lord, behold," she whom 
 Thou lovest is sick ! " 
 
 Day after day her poor people besieged the 
 door of the little house in Bruce Street with their 
 inquiries. The Rector's wife hardly ever left her 
 friend, and Janet Lovell was her devoted nurse. 
 They wondered at her calmness, while they were 
 all so anxious about her. 
 
 Did she not wish to live ? " they asked. 
 
 She only smiled, and said, ‘^The will of the 
 Lord be done." Whether she were to arise and 
 minister unto Him on earth, or in the more perfect 
 service of heaven, it must be ^^well.” Her very 
 calmness helped her back to life, giving the over- 
 wrought powers, both of mind and body, that 
 
184 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 complete rest required. The prayers of the 
 Church prevailed. Slowly she came back from the 
 ‘^border land/’ and knew that it was God’s will 
 that she should serve yet awhile among His poor. 
 She was ready and eager to take up the scattered 
 threads of her work ; but neither doctor nor 
 friends would hear of such a thing till she had 
 had a long rest. So Mrs. Lyster came and 
 carried her away from Bruce Street, to be nursed 
 and cared for in her own beautiful home at Neston. 
 
 And nurse Lovell, as they still could not help 
 calling her, settled to remain for a time longer in 
 Westpool, in order to help Deaconess Blythe, — as 
 active now as when we first met her in St. John’s 
 Hospital, and quite ready to take part of her 
 friend’s work as well as her own. So this trouble 
 was spared St. Olave’s, and before very long the 
 well-known grey-robed figure was going up and 
 down its streets as usual, blessed and a blessing 
 wherever she went. 
 
 The object of her visit to Westpool accom- 
 plished, Mrs. Lovell returned to the old farm 
 house at Ashby Moss. Now the miserable 
 uncertainty about her husband was ended she 
 felt herself able to settle down there quietly. 
 She had still the comfort of caring for her dear 
 
CROWN AFTER CROSS. 
 
 I8S 
 
 old father and mother, and of training, in all 
 good ways, the one earthly treasure God had left 
 her, — her daughter, Elsie, fast growing into a 
 beautiful girl. 
 
 Mrs. Rowan had wondered that Janet did not 
 return to Ashby directly Mark was dead; and 
 was, in truth, not a little anxious about her. But 
 when she did come, her miother was quick to 
 perceive a change for the better in the daughter 
 so dearly loved, and to recognise that patience ’’ 
 had indeed had her perfect work.'’ 
 
 First, the teaching and example of that kind 
 friend who found her out in her miserable 
 Westpool lodging, — then, the effort made on her 
 first return to Ashby, to rouse herself for the 
 sake of a loving father and mother, so long 
 neglected, — and, finally, her noble act of self- 
 sacrifice in leaving home to go and nurse the 
 fever-stricken poor of Westpool, — had made of 
 Janet Lovell quite a different woman. Self and 
 her own sorrows were no longer uppermost : she 
 had learned to think for others. 
 
 Who would have recognised the gentle sweet- 
 looking woman in her simple widow's dress, 
 telling of such deep sorrow past, for the once 
 high-spirited wayward beauty, determined to go 
 
AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 I86 
 
 her own way in life ; or the indignant wife, 
 mortified beyond measure to find the husband 
 she chose unworthy of her love; or, later still, 
 the lonely despairing seamstress, almost worn out 
 by toil yet refusing comfort, and intending to 
 die as she had lived, according to her own 
 untutored way and will ? 
 
 At last she had learned that lesson which often- 
 times the Master can only teach in sorrow’s school : 
 
 If any man will come after Me, let him deny 
 himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me.” 
 True, she mourned for her lost husband, — her 
 broken life ; so different from what it might have 
 been had he proved steady, and the little ones 
 they had lost grown up around them. Past 
 sorrows must always leave their mark while life 
 shall last. But she had learned to endure, — to 
 leave broken hopes and plans, which all came to 
 nothing, in His hands who had led her these 
 forty years in the wilderness,” to humble her and 
 to prove her. 
 
 ‘‘You must trust God to bring good out of evil, 
 and that you may live to see it,” had been Farmer 
 Rowan’s words of hope to his daughter, when 
 first he came to her at Stephen Bailey’s home in 
 Parr Street. Those words had come true now. 
 
CROWN AFTER CROSS. 
 
 187 
 
 “Behold in the cross all doth consist, and all 
 lieth in our dying thereon ; for there is no other 
 way unto life and unto true inward peace.” 
 
 “ Go where thou wilt, seek whatever thou wilt, 
 thou shalt not find a higher way above, nor a 
 safer way below, than the way of the holy cross.” 
 
 “Both above and below, without and within, 
 which way soever thou dost turn thee, everywhere 
 thou shalt find the cross ; and everywhere of 
 necessity thou must hold fast patience, if thou 
 wilt have inward peace and enjoy an everlasting 
 crown.” 
 
 “ If thou bear the cross cheerfully, it will bear 
 thee, and lead thee to the desired end, — namely, 
 where there shall be an end of suffering, though 
 here there shall not be.” 
 
 Those words, written ages before by one of 
 God’s saints, were read and reread by Janet 
 Lovell. She had learned their signification at 
 last ! 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 “calm after storm.’’ 
 
 “Patience, and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, — 
 This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 
 So was her love diffused ; but, like to some odorous spices. 
 Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 
 Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 
 Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.” 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 O the great satisfaction of Mrs. Lovell and 
 
 Elsie, as well as of all the party at Moss 
 Farm, Deaconess Grahaine had consented to 
 spend a few days there, on her way to visit 
 friends in Scotland. 
 
 On a glorious autumn evening, about a year 
 since that memorable harvest day when Elsie so 
 narrowly escaped being buried under the great 
 corn rick, she and her mother stood at the gate 
 'watching for the first sight of the carriage which 
 was to bring their dearly-loved friend from 
 Ashby Station. Within, Mrs. Rowan and Dolly 
 were, as they said, taking a last look round, in 
 
CALM AFTER STORM. 
 
 189 
 
 order to make sure that everything was as fit as 
 they knew how to make it for the reception of so 
 honoured a guest. Upstairs, the best bedroom, 
 with its oak furniture black with age, and polished 
 by Dolly’s strong arms till it shone like ebony, — 
 its quaint china and oak-framed mirror, all 
 placed as they had been for generations past. 
 Downstairs, the best parlour, full of curious old 
 furniture too, with the best tea service set out 
 ready. So busy are Dolly and her mistress 
 putting finishing touches, arranging and rearrang- 
 ing, that they even forget to look out for the 
 carriage, and are surprised when Elsie and her 
 mother come in, proud and pleased to introduce 
 the Deaconess, who is received by Mrs. Rowan 
 with an old-fashioned courtesy, good to see. 
 
 Farmer Rowan was delighted with their visitor’s 
 evident appreciation of the comfortable old house, 
 and enjoyed unspeakably her undisguised amaze- 
 ment in finding Elsie, the quiet pale little girl she 
 parted with at Westpool, grown into a tall lassie, 
 fair to see, and full of spirit and merriment. She 
 was fain to re-echo Mrs. Bailey’s assertion : ‘^’Tis 
 like magic.” But the farmer said there was 
 nothing like the fresh breezes coming straight over 
 the moss from the sea, whether for man or beast ! 
 
AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 190 
 
 As they sat round the tea table, Mrs. Lovell 
 had many questions to ask about Westpool 
 friends, and the poor people nursed through the 
 dreadful fever time. 
 
 And Deaconess Grahame had a wonderful 
 piece of news to tell Farmer Rowan. That forty 
 pounds he brought to the Rector the day before 
 leaving Westpool, to carry back his long lost 
 daughter, was not to be the means of saving one, 
 or even two, homeless little children from a life 
 of want and sin ; but, with God’s help, many more. 
 
 When they heard of the farmer’s gift and 
 sympathy for their destitute little ones, some 
 wealthy Westpool merchants (Mr. Maclean fore- 
 most among the number) determined not to 
 be outdone by the simple north-countryman’s 
 liberality. So they made his gift the nucleus of 
 a much larger sum, which they subscribed to 
 build a home for such poor waifs and strays as he 
 saw that night in the ragged schoolroom. It 
 would be built close to the schoolroom itself, 
 right in the midst of the children’s haunts, so 
 that they will never look upon it as strange or 
 out of the way. The foundation stone is to be 
 laid before winter, and their friend has brought a 
 message from the Rector asking if Farmer Rowan 
 
CALM AFTER STORM. 
 
 I9I 
 
 will come to Westpool to see it done. But the 
 old man shakes his head, and says, “No: with 
 many thanks to his reverence, all the same.’’ 
 
 Except that it stirred up others to give, he 
 would rather his gift had been kept secret. He 
 is getting on in years, and does not think of 
 leaving home any more, until he leave it for the 
 last journey of all. But he never has forgotten 
 those poor children in his prayers, both night and 
 morning. Now he can thank God for His 
 goodness to them. 
 
 Deaconess Grahame’s visit had been so timed 
 that she should spend a Sunday at the farm ; 
 Mrs. Lovell desiring above all things that she 
 should worship in Ashby Church, and see the 
 good old clergyman who had known her in her 
 beautiful girlhood, and in sorrowful days since 
 then had been so true a friend. 
 
 Notwithstanding sorrows past, a very happy 
 party went away, through picturesque country 
 roads, to Ashby Church that Sunday morning. 
 The complete repose of nature, after growth of 
 spring and summer followed by ingathering of 
 autumn, was like a very “sabbath of the fields:” 
 a listening and waiting time. There was “ neither 
 speech nor language : ” even the birds had ceased 
 
192 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 their song, — as if nature herself would reiterate, 
 ''The Lord is in His holy temple: let all the 
 earth keep silence before Him.” 
 
 The quiet yet heartfelt service in the old, old 
 church, — the plain earnest words of God’s servant, 
 grown grey in his Master’s service of a lifetime 
 spent among the simple north-country people, — 
 all seemed to the active worker, fresh from a 
 town’s life and whirl, and sin and sorrow, like a 
 glimpse of heaven’s restful worship. 
 
 By the special desire of the clergyman and his 
 wife, to whom Deaconess Grahame’s promised 
 visit had of course been made known by Mrs. 
 Lovell, it had been arranged that the farm party 
 should spend the interval between morning and 
 afternoon service at the Vicarage. Though he 
 had lived all his life (except his few years at 
 College) among the mountains and moors of that 
 north country, the good old Vicar had not grown 
 self-absorbed or narrow-minded. He was always 
 eager to hear about the Master’s work, wherever 
 it might be doing in the world. 
 
 More than one of God’s servants had found 
 rest of body and refreshment of soul in that 
 quiet old-world Vicarage, learning from the wise 
 and holy man, who had spent almost a lifetime 
 
CALM AFTER STORM. 
 
 193 
 
 there, many a lesson which they went away to 
 put in practise afterwards; verily a '^communion 
 of saints held on earth. 
 
 With infinite pleasure he listened to Deaconess 
 Grahame’s account of her work in Westpool, — its 
 Rector being known to him by name already ; 
 and she, like many another worker in the busy 
 world, went away cheered by the good man’s 
 words of encouragement. 
 
 Altogether those days spent by their friend at 
 Moss Farm were very happy days for Mrs. 
 Lovell and Elsie. 
 
 When far away at her work in busy Westpool, 
 she would be able to picture to herself their 
 pleasant country life, with its various occupations : 
 thus there would be another cementing link to 
 their friendship. 
 
 As she accompanied Mrs. Lovell to see the 
 various points of interest round about Ashby, 
 she was glad and thankful to find the farmer’s 
 daughter heartily welcomed by the neighbours, 
 whether farmers’ wives on the surrounding farms, 
 or cottagers living in their humbler homes. She 
 seemed to know all about the sick and troubled 
 ones among them, and to be universally consulted 
 as a wise and valued friend. 
 
 O 
 
194 
 
 AGNES GRAHAME. 
 
 "'Why, Janet/’ Deaconess Grahame said to her 
 one day, half laughing, ‘‘ I do think you will have 
 to take your name of nurse Lovell again. That 
 old woman whose cottage we have just left tells 
 me you are as good as a doctor any day.” 
 
 Mother was always famous for knowing about 
 herbs and such simple medicine as the country 
 people use,” replied Mrs. Lovell, simply ; and 
 she tells me what to give them. But since I 
 came back from nursing at Westpool, I believe 
 they think I ought to know what to do whenever 
 anybody is ill.” 
 
 '^And are you not much happier now, Janet 
 asked her friend. 
 
 ‘‘Yes, indeed,” she answered. “ It is quite won- 
 derful how contented I feel, and how good God 
 is to me. Even during that dreadful time in 
 Westpool, when I found my husband only to lose 
 him directly, I used to wonder at the restful 
 feeling which came to me.” 
 
 “It was that you were learning to do and to suffer 
 God’s will,” returned Deaconess Grahame. “You 
 know now that it is the secret of true happiness.” 
 
 “Yes: I see it all now,” she said. “The only 
 thing that grieves me is to think how slow I was 
 in learning the lesson God wanted to teach.” 
 
CALM AFTER STORM. 
 
 195 
 
 Mrs. Rowan had a long talk with the lady,” as 
 she and Farmer Rowan still called Deaconess 
 Grahame. She told of the blessing and comfort 
 Janet was to every one about her. How her 
 sweet unselfish devotion brightened, not only her 
 parents' life, but that of many others to whom 
 she made herself useful. She told too how 
 carefully Elsie was being trained and taught ; 
 But that’s an easy task,” the old woman declared, 
 for the child is the sweetest-natured child I ever 
 did see.” Having watched her care for an ailing 
 mother long ago. Deaconess Grahame could 
 easily believe it. 
 
 Thus the pleasant visit came to an end, and 
 their dearly-loved friend went away thanking 
 God, who had changed what seemed a ruined 
 wasted life into one full of blessing and comfort 
 to everybody. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 And as the years rolled on, the workers worked 
 on, in the busy town, or in God’s fair country. 
 Each in their several place and degree seeking 
 for Christ’s sheep that are dispersed abroad, and 
 for His children who are in this naughty world, 
 that they may be saved through Christ for ever.” 
 
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