Katie Robertson Part 6

The impression made by this sermon upon its hearers was in accord with the character and religious development of each.

James Mountjoy resolved to be more active and energetic in all efforts to improve the condition of his work-people, to raise the fallen, to reclaim the sinful, to set a better example and raise a higher standard of moral excellence, that the human temples over whom he had influence might be better fitted for the abiding presence of their heavenly Guest.

Some of the more thoughtful of his boys resolved that smoking, drinking, and swearing should no longer, even in a slight degree, defile the "temples" entrusted to their keeping.

Eunice Mountjoy made a more entire consecration of herself than ever before to G.o.d's service, praying that there might be no hidden idols in her temple; that self and self-seeking might be forever cast out, even as our Lord cast out the money-changers and traffickers from the temple at Jerusalem; that G.o.d's will in all things might be hers, and that she might devote not a part only, but _all_ her time, all her faculties, all her influence to his service in doing good to others, and thus "worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness."

Katie Robertson felt that she had understood some things to-day as never before. What but the presence of the Holy Spirit in her heart had enabled her to see the right and strengthened her to do it, and thus come off victorious over temptation? She remembered how the Holy Ghost is symbolized by a pure white dove, and she longed that her temple should also be a soft, white nest full of pure desires and kindly thoughts, and that nothing she might do or say in her daily life, among her companions or at home, should grieve that blessed heavenly inhabitant.

Even Bertie Sanderson had been struck with the sermon. If her heart was indeed a temple of the Holy Ghost, how was she defiling it? Envy, hatred, and malice were allowed to run riot there; love of dress and vanity were the idols enthroned on the altar; pride, disobedience, irreverence, contempt of rightful authority, idleness, and unfaithfulness were barring the door and keeping the loving Saviour, who stood knocking there, from coming into his own.

Bertie felt uncomfortable; the Holy Spirit was speaking to her, and she could not help but hear. But to hear and to obey are two very different things. The girl knew that she could unbar the closed door of her heart if she chose. One earnest, sincere prayer would bring the omnipotent aid of the Spirit to cast out the evil things and cleanse the defilement.

But she did not _want_ them cast out; she loved them too well. It would be all very well to have Christ's love, pity, forgiveness, and protection, and to be sure of heaven when she died; but to be a Christian--a saint she would have called it--now, to give up the things that most interested her, and live a life of self-denial and obedience,--she had no idea of doing any such thing. So, to drown the voice that she could not help hearing but did not mean to obey, she went off on a Sunday afternoon's excursion with some of the boys and girls, received a sharp reprimand from her father for so doing, and went back to her work on Monday morning more rebellious, more hardened, more idle, more malicious than before.

The blessed Holy Spirit is always longing to have us come to Christ and walk in his holy and happy ways. He watches for an opportunity to speak to us, and does speak, again and again, inclining us to give up sin and choose holiness, offering us, if we will do so, all the help we need.

But he will not _force_ us to obey his gentle call. If we _will_ not listen and obey, he lets us go off on our self-chosen path, ceases to speak audibly to us, and patiently waits for another and more propitious season. Bertie Sanderson, that June Sunday, greatly "grieved the Spirit."

But not so did Etta Mountjoy. This young lady, ever since that first Wednesday when she attended her sister's tea-party, had thought more seriously than she had ever thought before. The duty of being a Christian had come home to her during Eunice's talk and prayer, and at the same time she had felt that she was not, and had never tried to be, one. She had seen this still more clearly during the subsequent meetings, from which her duty to her own cla.s.s would not permit her to be absent. Dishonesty and hypocrisy were not Etta's vices; she could not pretend to be what she was not, and yet she could not shake off the impression that she _ought_ to give herself to Christ and openly confess his name. She tried to put the subject out of her thoughts; but still, as she listened, day by day, she grew more and more dissatisfied with herself, her own character, her aims in life. The preparation of her Sunday-school lessons became a dreaded task, for it was impossible to minutely consider the sh.e.l.ls of sacred things and not at the same time take cognizance of the spiritual kernels which they envelop, and these spiritual realities made her uncomfortable and more and more dissatisfied with herself.

This Sunday's sermon had gone to the very quick of Etta's conscience, painting as with a finger of light what she ought to be and what she was. G.o.d had made her for his own temple and dwelling-place; made her fair, outside and within; endowed her with intellectual and spiritual gifts, and with wealth, station, and influence, giving her opportunities for culture and usefulness far greater than most of those who surrounded her. It was not chance or accident, but G.o.d, who had given her all this, and he demanded, as he had a right to demand, in return, her love, her obedience, her service. Had she given him these? Never once in her whole life. She had set up upon his altar in the midst of his beautiful temple the idol of self-pleasing, and never in her whole seventeen years had she acted from any other motive than to please herself. It was sacrilege, it was idolatry, it was dishonesty; and so were all the actions which had come from such a corrupt source.

Etta was too clear-headed to suppose that any sudden change of practice, which it was in her power to commence now, would make any difference.

She might obey mechanically, but she could not _make_ herself _love_, and she did not love, G.o.d. His service was a weariness, prayer a formality, the Bible a dull, uninteresting book. She did love a light, gay, frivolous life; she saw no attractiveness in one of self-denial and holy living.

She went directly to her room on reaching home, refused to go down to dinner, sat behind the shaded blinds, and thought till thought became insupportable; and then, having come to one settled determination, put on her hat, covered her tear-stained face with a veil, and walked down the hill to the parsonage, and rang the bell with a nervous jerk.

Whatever Etta did she did with a will; she made no halfway decisions.

The servant who admitted "Miss Etta" showed her into the pastor's study, where after a time he joined her, looking a little surprised at receiving such a visitor on Sunday afternoon. Etta's peculiarities, however, were well known, and he concluded she had some new project in her head, in which she desired his a.s.sistance and, as usual, could not wait a moment to put it into execution. He was rather surprised by the tear-swollen eyes and the resolute expression of face, and after courteously welcoming his visitor, waited somewhat impatiently to hear what she had to say.

"I came," said the girl, with her usual directness, "to ask you to give my Sunday-school cla.s.s to some one else."

"Tired of holding your hand to the plow, and beginning to look back already, eh?" he said.

"No, sir, it isn't that; but I am not fit to teach any cla.s.s; certainly not such a one as this. I don't myself know what those girls ought to learn; besides, I'm not a fit character for them to imitate."

"Not a fit character? What can you mean?"

So far Etta had spoken quite steadily, but now there came a tremor into her voice, a mist before her eyes, and a choking sensation in her throat, that would not let her speak.

He waited a few moments, then said gently: "Try to tell me about it, and I will help you if I can."

Encouraged by something fatherly in the clergyman's voice, the girl at last found courage to commence her story; and having broken the ice, her words came fluently enough, as she tried to make him understand how utterly self-seeking and G.o.dless her life and character were; how the temple that should be G.o.d's was barred against him, and filled with idols and idolatry.

"This must be the Holy Spirit's teachings," said he, gravely; "for, so far as I know, you are no worse or more careless than most girls of your age."

But this thought was no comfort to her thoroughly aroused conscience, nor did the minister suppose it would be. He continued:

"Now that you see how bad things are, you are going to change them, are you not? You will open the barred doors that our blessed Lord wants to enter, and let him henceforth be your one object of worship and obedience, will you not?"

"How can I?" said the astonished girl. "I can't _make_ myself like things."

"No; but it is the Holy Ghost who desires to come into his holy temple, and where he comes he brings healing, cleansing, and regenerating power.

What we have to do is to let him do his work, not hindering him by our self-will and disobedience, not even trying to _feel_ as we think we ought to feel."

"But I am not worthy to have him come to me. For seventeen years I have been sinning against him and grieving him. Even if I were made right all at once, I could not undo all that."

"But Jesus can," he said solemnly. "Have you forgotten the cross, and all that it means? Have you forgotten that he died to bear the penalty of sin, and that for his sake the worst sinners can be forgiven? We are none of us worthy to come to him, or, which is the same thing, to have him come to us; but he is the 'propitiation, sacrifice, and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world'; it is not what you can do or be, but what he has done and is. Believe that he loves you, and died for you, and is your Saviour, and you cannot help loving and trusting him and letting his Spirit do with you as he will."

Was that all? So simple, so easy, and yet an hour ago it had seemed so impossible to be a Christian. She did not speak for some minutes; then she said:--

"Have I nothing at all to do?"

"A great deal by-and-by; only one thing to-day."

"And that is?"

"To be sure that you are in earnest, that you are thoroughly ashamed of, and sorry for, the past, really anxious to be delivered from sin and made holy, and resolutely determined obediently to follow where G.o.d leads the way."

"I believe I am in earnest," said she, simply. "Won't you pray for me, sir?"

"Yes, indeed, my child," said the minister, laying his hand on her head.

"G.o.d bless you, and make you very happy in his love, and useful in his service."

"You will provide a teacher for my cla.s.s?" said Etta, as somewhat later she rose to take her leave.

"Why, no; unless you are really tired of it. I think you had better go on as you have commenced."

"I am not fit to be a Sunday-school teacher."

"I am not fit to be a minister; but G.o.d, in his providence, has seen fit to make me one, and so I trust him to give me the strength and wisdom I need. If you will do the same, you will become a very successful and efficient Sunday-school teacher; and this is a good way in which to consecrate your talents and opportunities to his service. Now, good-by; I must prepare for the evening service. Whenever you want help, advice, or sympathy, be sure you come to me."

Etta went home in a new world of thought and feeling. She seemed to herself scarcely to be the same girl; but in fact she was not thinking particularly about herself. G.o.d's love in desiring to save sinners, Christ's love in dying for them, the love of the Holy Spirit in being willing to come and abide with them, filled all her soul, and she was not _trying_ to love this triune G.o.d, but loving him with all her might, because she could not help doing so. How strange it is that we go on from year to year, trying to be better, trying to feel right, trying to make ourselves holy, instead of just opening the door of the temple of our heart and believing that Jesus Christ loves us, and _because_ he loves us will make us all that he wants us to be.

CHAPTER IX.

UNDER A CLOUD.

Meanwhile there were some changes at the mill. Katie Robertson had been promoted to the folding-room, which was on the lower floor, and where the work was not so heavy, though the payment was much better. She now received seventy-five cents for a regular day's work, and might often have made a dollar if her mother would have allowed her to work a half or quarter day extra. This promotion came soon after the occurrence of the fifty-dollar bill, which, no doubt, had something to do with the higher place in Mr. James's estimation, which the little girl held in consequence. He took occasion to inquire of Miss Peters concerning her work, and heard such a good account of her industry, capability, and faithfulness that he felt sure she might be trusted with pleasanter occupation and that which needed greater skill.

To enable our young readers who have never seen the process of paper-making to understand the change in our heroine's surroundings, we will tell them in a few words how paper is made.

As, of course, is universally known, rags, straw, old rope, poplar pith, etc., are the materials used. The best writing-paper is made of linen rags, which are for the most part imported from Germany. For ordinary writing and printing paper cotton rags are used, while straw and hemp, and even wool, go largely into the construction of manilla and wrapping paper. The linen rags and the woolen ones are generally sorted out in the places where they are gathered, at which time the others are all packed into bales, when, after pa.s.sing through various hands, they are brought to the different paper-mills. Here the bales are hoisted to the top loft of the building, where they are broken and their contents turned over and over and subjected to a fanning process which removes a large part of the dust. They are then pa.s.sed through slides down into the rag-room, where, as we have seen, they are sorted, cut in pieces, and the b.u.t.tons taken off. They are cut again, in the next room to which they are carried, by a revolving cylinder whose surface is covered with short, sharp knives, acting on each other much like the blades of scissors. From here they are pa.s.sed into the interior of a long, horizontal, copper boiler containing a solution of soda and some other chemical substances, and boiled for several days, at the end of which time, the dirt being thoroughly loosened, the boiling ma.s.s is pa.s.sed through a long slide into vats, through which a constant stream of water is flowing, and so thoroughly washed that it becomes as white as snow and looks like raw, white cotton. It is then taken into another room, packed into a "Jordan engine," and ground into an almost impalpable pulp. This pulp is pa.s.sed into other vats thoroughly mixed with water, blueing, and some other substances calculated to give it a hard finish, and then conveyed by pipes to the drying-room, where it is distributed over the surface of fine wire netting stretched on cylinders and looking much like "skim milk." It is now pa.s.sed from cylinder to cylinder, dropping the water with which it is mixed as it goes, and gradually taking, more and more, the consistency of paper. At one stage--if it is to be writing-paper, which was chiefly manufactured at Squantown Mills--a certain amount of glue is poured upon it by means of little tubes which are over the cylinders, and this gradually becomes pressed into the fibre, giving the paper the shining surface to which we are accustomed. This is called _sizing_. At another stage the wire netting is changed for a blanket which pa.s.ses over the cylinders and keeps the weak, wet paper from friction, as well as from any chance of breaking.

Steam is now introduced into the cylinders, and the drying process goes on so rapidly that, at the end of the long room, the pulp issues from between the two last cylinders in sheets of firm, dry, white paper, which are cut off in lengths by stationary knives, and caught and laid in place by two boys or girls who sit at a table just below. So complete and perfect is the machinery that, in addition to the two boys, only one man is needed in the room, and he only to watch lest either of the machines gets out of order, or lest the paper should accidentally break.

It is quite fascinating to watch the thin pulp as it gradually becomes strong paper, and Katie one day overheard a gentleman visitor, to whom Mr. James was explaining the process, say something that she never forgot:--