Medoline Selwyn's Work Part 40

"Do you not say every day 'Forgive us our trespa.s.ses as we forgive them that trespa.s.s against us?'"

"Yes. But the one who has done the wrong is commanded to do his or her part also, to bring forth fruits showing their repentance."

"Am I not about to do that when I humble myself, as I shall do at the first suitable opportunity, to that proud man?"

"Are you not suing for more than that? Have you come here merely to be forgiven?"

"You must not turn inquisitor. I have not, however, offended against you, therefore you will come to see me again. Shall we say to-morrow? I seem to feel as if Oaklands and Mr. Winthrop were brought near to me when you are present."

"I cannot promise to come again this week, at least."

"Shall we say next Monday then? But it seems such a long time to wait. I was not trained to patience in childhood, and I find it a difficult task, learning it now."

"Unless something unforeseen should happen to prevent, you may look for me on Monday next." I promised, feeling a sort of pity for her in her lonely condition.

"Just one word more. Your guardian, they tell me, does not attend church regularly."

"Mr. Winthrop does not profess to be a religious man."

"Could you not influence him to a better life? Have you ever asked him to accompany you to church?"

"Certainly not. He is a better judge than I as to his duty in the matter."

"I do not think so. I fear he is drifting very far from his boyhood's teachings. His mother was a perfect woman, so far as I have been able to learn."

I looked my surprise; for I had not expected to hear such words from her lips.

"You must not judge me so harshly," she said, with gentle reproach. "I hope I am not quite so bad as you think."

"I am very glad you are interested in Mr. Winthrop, for other than selfish reasons," I said, bluntly.

She bowed her head meekly. "You will try to influence him then in the matter of church going and other pure endeavors--won't you?"

"I will try," I promised, rather uncertainly.

"And begin at once."

"Yes. I have given you the promise and usually keep my word."

"Then good-bye until next week."

The lamps were lighted when I pa.s.sed along the oak walk that was my nearest approach home to Oaklands, and the fact that I had broken my promise to Mr. Winthrop never again to remain out alone after night filled me with alarm and self-reproach. I succeeded in gaining the house unperceived and was in abundant time for dinner, which I feared might have been served.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE CHANGED HEART.

When I entered the softly illumined dining-room, I was surprised to find Mr. Winthrop standing near the fire, and gazing into it with a preoccupied expression. Mrs. Flaxman was sitting in her favorite corner, a book lying open on her knee, her eyes fixed on Mr. Winthrop somewhat anxiously. Instinctively I felt something unusual had disturbed their serenity--the sympathetic influences about me in the air which most of us know something about, acquainted me with the fact. I was almost beside Mr. Winthrop when he began to say, "Medoline must not know"--the sentence was left unfinished, for Mrs. Flaxman seeing me said, abruptly,

"Why, Mr. Winthrop, here is our runaway."

He turned towards me, a startled look in his eyes. "Have you been out?"

he asked, with some surprise at her remark.

"Yes," I looked at him with a pathetic interest never felt before.

"Visiting your Mill Road pensioners?" he said, with a peculiar gesture, as if trying to rid himself of some unpleasant reflection.

"Not to-day, I do not go there every time I am out."

"No, indeed, Medoline does not confine her kindness to those poor folk alone," Mrs. Flaxman interposed.

"You do not seek for the sorrowful elsewhere, I hope?"

"The heavy-hearted are not confined to that locality alone, Mr.

Winthrop."

"You include those also in your ministries of mercy," he said, with that rare smile which strongly reminded me of a bright gleam of sunshine falling on a hidden pool.

"I am not so vain as to think I can reach their case. After I have experienced the ministry of sorrow, I may touch sad hearts and comfort them."

"You are not anxious to suffer in order to do this. Remember, misery sometimes hardens."

"If we take our miseries to G.o.d, He can turn them into blessed evangels,"

I replied softly.

"Where did you learn that secret, Medoline?"

"It was Mr. Bowen who taught me. G.o.d left him in the darkness, and then gave him songs in the night--such grand harmonies, his life became like a thanksgiving Psalm."

"I hope you are not going to indulge in cant, Medoline. It does very well for poor beggars like them; but for the enlightened and refined it is quite out of place."

"The very n.o.blest specimens of humanity who have climbed to the utmost peaks of intellectual excellence thought as Mr. Bowen does; as I hope to think--G.o.d helping me, as I do think," I said, with a strange gladness coming into my heart as if the old, hard heart had been suddenly changed and made clean for the Master's entrance.

"Poor little girl, I wish you had something more tangible than illusions to rhapsodize over."

My eyes filled with such happy tears as I lifted them to him, standing at his side. "If you could only trust G.o.d, believe in Him as Mr. Bowen does, you would find every other delight in life illusive, compared with the joy He would give you."

"Child, is that your own experience?"

"Yes," I murmured softly.

He turned and left the room abruptly. I went to Mrs. Flaxman, and, kneeling beside her, my head on her knee--a posture we both enjoyed--I anxiously asked: "Have I angered Mr. Winthrop?"