Paula the Waldensian Part 9

"Do you mean to say that you don't know, 'Our Father which art in heaven?'"

"Perhaps, but it's some time since I've repeated that prayer. I remember my poor mother. I used to kneel beside her and repeat it when I was your age.

Once in a while since then, I have said my 'paternoster.' But it's been many years since it's pa.s.sed my lips, and I haven't even thought of it for ages. No, no; it's useless. No, Paula, you pray for us. We certainly need it, but as for me praying--a poor sinner like me--I tell you it's useless."

But Paula was not easily discouraged.

"Teresa," and Paula put her cheek against the wrinkled one of our old servant, "you know that Jesus died for us, and do you mean to say, notwithstanding that, you are living like a heathen."

"What's that you say? Like a heathen?" cried poor Teresa.

"Yes, Teresa dear, like a heathen. My father used to read me missionary stories on Sunday, and in these stories I always noticed that the heathen people live without praying to G.o.d, and that they didn't read the Bible, and that they didn't know how to sing any hymns, and they had no church to go to, that is, until the missionaries came. But we are different here in this house from the heathen because they had never heard of G.o.d." And then she added with one of those lovely smiles that always seemed to spread a halo over her, "All the heathen in the pictures that I saw had black skins, whereas you, Teresa, have such a lovely white face."

Poor Teresa, placed her well-worn hands over her wrinkled countenance, and said, "Paula, Paula, you certainly are right. So we are even less worthy of G.o.d's mercy than they are."

Paula looked at her for a moment in silence and then, kneeling down beside her, said, "Teresa, you just pray with me, won't you? I know the Lord Jesus will pardon you, and He'll help you to love Him for He has promised to give you a new heart. I'm only a little girl, but He helps me and He hears me when I pray, for that's what He has promised, Teresa. Once my father taught me a beautiful verse, and when my uncle returns my Bible, I'll show it to you, but this is what it says, 'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.'"

Poor Teresa, with her head hidden in her hands, could not reply.

"Do come and kneel with me," insisted Paula, pulling her by her ap.r.o.n.

After a long silence suddenly Teresa fell heavily on her knees beside the bed. Paula up to this moment appeared to have forgotten the rest of us, but now taking both of us by the hand she invited us to kneel also.

"No," said Rosa, with an offended air, "I'll do no such thing."

"Nor will I." I said, a bit intimidated by my sister's refusal.

And so Teresa and Paula kneeled together, "'Our Father which art in Heaven,'" commenced the clear voice of Paula. Slowly came the repet.i.tion, 'Our Father which art in Heaven,' and poor Teresa's deep voice trembled with emotion.

"'Hallowed be Thy name'"

"'Hallowed be Thy name.'"

And now Teresa, gathering fresh courage, as the words of the great prayer began to return to her memory, the voices now mingled in the same majestic words from, oh, such different hearts--the one, pure and confiding, and the other now contrite and penitent.

Then, as they finished, Paula continued, "Lord Jesus, be pleased to bless my uncle, Teresa, Catalina, Rosa, Lisita and Louis. Oh, bless them, Lord, and help them all to come to Thee. And bless me, also, and give me of Thy goodness, for Thy name's sake, Amen."

"So may it be," sighed poor Teresa.

Paula opened her eyes, but closed them again as she saw that Teresa had not moved, and that she was struggling to add a prayer of her own. Then finally it came.

"Oh, my G.o.d, my G.o.d," murmured poor Teresa. "If you can have pity on a poor sinful woman like me, that has forgotten Thee for so many years, be pleased to pardon me, and change my poor wicked heart, in the name of Thy Son, Jesus Christ, Amen."

For a good while after that, Teresa made no allusion whatever to what had transpired in our little bedroom on that first Sunday after Paula's arrival; but we noticed a great change in her conduct She did not work harder--that would have been impossible--neither was she more unselfish, for a more unselfish person than our dear old servant would have been hard to find. But the thing we began to notice was that she was more patient and tender in her dealings with us children, and more charitable toward the great number of our poor neighbors, who would come to the door from time to time to "borrow" food--these poor, miserable neighbors whom she had despised on account of their laziness and untidiness. Beside all this, we saw no more of her days of bad humor and fretfulness. For instance, she treated our father with much more respect and listened without argument or impatience when, at times, he was unjust in his criticism of the house arrangements. Then we noticed also that all her little lies with which she tried to frighten us at times had completely disappeared.

In the cottages of our poor neighbors, there had existed an atmosphere of discouragement and desperation, brought on of course, through poverty and drink, and it was here that our good Teresa began to be known as a veritable friend. As she pa.s.sed from door to door giving a word of encouragement here, or taking the burden temporarily from the shoulders of a poor tired mother there, we began to notice the under-current of a happy change in the atmosphere of these poor and dest.i.tute ones around us. It was easy to imagine that Teresa might be the cause of the change.

The day following the above-mentioned Sunday, Rosa was sitting by the bedside of Catalina who complained of her usual headache, and Teresa had gone out on an errand.

Paula, a bit exhausted with her emotions of the day before, appeared to have lost all animation, but soon her naturally happy nature a.s.serted itself, and by the time my father returned from his work, she ran to meet him and opened the door as he entered, embracing him as if nothing had happened.

"Well, well," said my father, "I'm glad to see that you have recovered your good humor, Paula." A frank smile pa.s.sed over Paula's face, but she said nothing. "And how has Catalina been today?" he said, turning to me.

"She has a terrible headache. Teresa is afraid she's going to be sick again."

"Poor girl! We must be especially careful then not to make any noise," and he turned to go into Catalina's room, but Paula detained him.

"Please, uncle, have you pardoned me?"

"What for, child?"

"For what occurred yesterday. Surely you remember, uncle. I was a bit stubborn about giving up my Bible."

My father looked down at her, surprised. "And now, you're perfectly willing that I keep it?"

"Oh, yes, of course, for I did not at all understand. Teresa tells me that you had no Bible, and you see I didn't know that. And she said that after you had read it, you would of course be giving it back to me. I am so sorry that I appeared so selfish. Please, pardon me, won't you, uncle dear?"

"I've already pardoned you, so don't worry about that. So you like to read your Bible?"

"Oh, yes; indeed I do, uncle."

"Well, perhaps some day I'll return it to you."

It was not exactly a promise, but Paula was willing to content herself with that much.

"Oh, thank you, thank you so much, uncle," said Paula as she embraced him.

"And so you love me a little, do you? In spite of everything?" asked my father smiling, as he took hold of her chin and turned her face up toward his.

"Oh, yes, indeed; you don't know how much!"

"You do?" said my father. "Well, that certainly gives me great pleasure. I see that soon we shall come to understand one another, you and I. By the way, I noticed that in your Bible there were quite a number of dry flowers.

If you would like them, I will return them to you immediately."

"Oh, many thanks, uncle. I kept them there as remembrances of my father. I shall keep them in some book where I can look at them often--often!"

"That's what I thought, my little daughter. I'll go and get your Bible, and you yourself shall take them out."

But now Paula seemed to have a different idea. "No, I think that I prefer that they remain where they are," she said in an altered voice.

"What's that you say?" exclaimed my father, astonished. "How is it that you have so suddenly changed your mind?"

"Well, you see," explained Paula, trembling a bit, "they'd better remain where they are, for I love my Bible, and I've read it every day, and now if I saw it again, I'm afraid--I'm afraid--" and poor Paula's lip was trembling.

"I understand, I understand," said my father.