OONE warm, bright Sunday morning, Mrs. Rush came over to the cottage. Old Mr. Duncan was sitting on the piazza reading to the children. On the grass in front of the porch, lay Uncle John, playing with Nellie. She shook hands with the gentlemen, and kissed the children—Bessie two or three times with long, tender kisses—and then went into the sitting-room to see their mother. There was no one there but Mr. and Mrs. Bradford.

"Mrs. Bradford," said Mrs. Rush, when she had bidden them good-morning, "I have come to ask you a favor. This is the first Sunday morning since we have been here that my husband has been able and willing to have me leave him to go to church, but to-day he is pretty well, and Mrs. Stanton has offered me a seat in her carriage. I could not leave the colonel quite alone, and he wishes to have Bessie. Will you let her come over and stay with him while I am gone?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Bradford. "I do not, as you know, approve of Sunday visiting for my children, except when they may be of some use or comfort, then, indeed, I should never hesitate to let them go."

"Bessie can indeed be of use, and oh! I trust a help and comfort to him. Dear Mrs. Bradford," she went on, the tears starting to her eyes, "I think, I am sure, that God's Spirit is striving with my dear husband, and he knows not where to look for help. But he has so long hardened his heart, so firmly closed his ears against all his friends could say to him, so coldly refused to hear one word on the subject, that he is now too proud to ask where he must seek it. I am sure, quite sure, that it has been your dear little Bessie's unquestioning faith, her love and trust in the power and goodness of the Almighty and, more than all, her firm belief that one for whom he had done so much, and preserved through so many dangers, must of necessity have a double share of faith and love, which has touched his heart. He is restless and unhappy, though he tries to hide it, and I think he is almost anxious to have me away this morning, that he may have her alone with him, in the hope that he may hear something in her simple talk which will show him where to go for aid. He will hear and ask from her what he will hear and ask from no one else."

"My little Bessie! That baby!" said Mrs. Bradford, in great surprise. "Do you mean to tell me that anything she has said has had power with him?"

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Rush. "I think the first thing that roused him was one day when he was very ill, and she was in his room. She thought him asleep, and in her pretty, childish way spoke of the love she thought he had for his Saviour, and how he had been spared that he might love and serve him more and more. Horace was touched then, and her words took hold of him I could see, though he tried to seem impatient and vexed, and would not permit me to allude to them. So it was again and again. She was always saying some little thing which would not let him forget or keep his heart closed. She was so fond of him, so pretty and sweet in all her ways, that he had not the heart to check her, even when it annoyed him. And besides, I know he could not bear that her trust in him should be shaken by the knowledge that he was not what she thought him,—a Christian. Then came the day when Bessie fell into such trouble with Miss Adams. Annie came to our room, telling of it, and of the poor child's touching repentance. Horace sat silent for a good while after Annie had gone away; at last he said, 'Poor innocent little lamb! and she is so earnestly seeking forgiveness for the trifling fault which is far more the sin of another than her own, while I—' There he stopped, and indeed it seemed as if he had been speaking more to himself than to me. It was the first word I had ever heard from him which showed that he was allowing the thought of his own need of forgiveness, but I dared not speak. I felt that that baby was doing what I could not do. The tiny grain of mustard seed dropped by that little hand had taken root on a hard and stony ground, it might be; but I could only pray that the dews of heaven might fall upon it, and cause it to grow and bring forth fruit. It is years, I believe, since he has opened a Bible. He made me move mine from the table, for he said he did not want to see it about. I have almost feared he would forbid me to read it, and here I felt I must resist him. Even his wishes or commands must not come between me and the precious words in which I found so much comfort and strength. But the other day I had to leave him alone for a little while. I had been reading my Bible, and left it lying on my chair. When I came back, it lay upon the window-ledge. There had been no one there to touch it but my husband, and he must have left his seat to reach it. With what purpose? I thought, with a sudden hope. Yesterday it was the same. I had been away for a few minutes, and when I came back, the colonel started from the window where he was standing, and walked as quickly as he could to his sofa. My Bible lay where I had left it, but a mark and a dried flower had fallen from it. I was sure now. He had been searching within for something which might help him, but was still unwilling to ask for human or divine guidance. Since then I have left it again on his table, but he has not made me move it, as he would have done a month ago. And this morning, when Mrs. Stanton sent for me, and I asked him if he could spare me, he said so kindly, but so sadly,—

"'Yes, yes, go. I fear I have too often thrown difficulties in your way, poor child; but I shall never do so again. Only, Marion, do not leave your husband too far behind.'

"Then I said I would not leave him, but he insisted, and went back to his careless manner, and said, if you would let him, he would have Bessie for his nurse this morning. I said I would ask, but he had better let Starr sit in the room, lest he should want anything she could not do. But he said no, he would have none but Bessie, and told me to send Starr at once. But I came myself, for I wanted to tell you all I felt and hoped. Now, if Bessie comes to him, and he opens the way, as he may with her, she will talk to him in her loving, trusting spirit, and perhaps bring him help and comfort."

Mr. Bradford had risen from his seat, and walked up and down the room as she talked. Now he stood still, and said, very low and gently, "And a little child shall lead them."

When Mrs. Rush had gone, Mrs. Bradford called Bessie. "Bessie," she said, taking her little daughter in her arms and holding her very closely, "how would you like to go over and take care of your soldier this morning, and let Mrs. Rush go to church?"

"All by myself, mamma?"

"Yes, dear. Do you think you will be tired? We shall be gone a good while. It is a long ride to church."

"Oh, no, I wont be tired a bit," said Bessie, "and I'll take such good care of him. Mamma, are you sorry about something?"

"No, dear, only very glad and happy."

"Oh," said Bessie, "I thought I saw a tear in your eye when you kissed me; I s'pose I didn't."

When the wagon started for church with the rest of the family, Bessie went with them as far as the hotel, where she was left, and taken to the colonel's room by Mrs. Rush.

"Now what shall I do to amuse you, Bessie?" said the colonel, when his wife had gone.

"Why, I don't want to be amused on Sunday," said Bessie, looking very grave. "Franky has his playthings, and baby has her yattle, 'cause they don't know any better. I used to have my toys, too, when I was young, but I am too big now. I mean I'm not very big, but I am pretty old, and I do know better. Besides, I must do something for you. I am to be your little nurse and take care of you, mamma said."

"What are you going to do for me?"

"Just what you want me to."

"Well, I think I should like you to talk to me a little."

"What shall I talk about? Shall I tell you my hymn for to-day?"

"Yes, if you like."

"Every day mamma teaches us a verse of a hymn," said Bessie, "till we know it all, and then on Sunday we say it to papa. I'll say the one for this week, to-night; but first I'll say it to you. It's such a pretty one. Sometimes mamma chooses our hymns, and sometimes she lets us choose them, but I choosed this myself. I heard mamma sing it, and I liked it so much I asked her to teach it to me, and she did. Shall I say it to you now?"

"Yes," said the colonel, and climbing on the sofa on which he sat, she put one little arm over his shoulder, and repeated very slowly and correctly:—

"Isn't it sweet?" she asked, when she had finished.

"Say it again, my darling," said the colonel.

She went through it once more.

"Where is that hymn?" asked the colonel. "Is it in that book of hymns Marion has?"

"I don't know," said Bessie. "Mamma did not say it out of that; but we will see."

She slipped down from the sofa, and going for the hymn-book, brought it to the colonel. He began slowly turning over the leaves, looking for the hymn.

"Why, that is not the way," said Bessie; "don't you know how to find a hymn yet? Here is the way:" and she turned to the end of the book, and showed him the table of first lines. No, it was not there. "I'll ask mamma to lend you her book, if you want to yead it for yourself," said Bessie. "She will, I know."

"No, no," said the colonel, "I do not wish you to."

"But she'd just as lief, I know."

"Never mind, darling; I would rather not," said Colonel Rush, as he laid down the book.

"Shall I say another?" asked Bessie.

"I should like to hear that one again," said the colonel, "if you do not mind saying it so often."

"Oh, no; I like to say it. I guess you like it as much as I do, you want to hear it so many times. I was glad that I learned it before, but I am gladder now when you like it so;" and the third time she repeated the hymn.

"The Shepherd," she said when she was through; "that means our Saviour,—does it not?—and the big people are the sheep, and the children the lambs. Maggie and I are his lambs, and you are his sheep; and you are his soldier too. You are a little bit my soldier, but you are a great deal his soldier; are you not?"

The colonel did not answer. He was leaning his head on his hand, and his face was turned a little from her.

"Say, are you not?" repeated Bessie,—"are you not his soldier?"

"I'm afraid not, Bessie," he said, turning his face towards her, and speaking very slowly. "If I were his soldier, I should fight for him; but I have been fighting against him all my life."

"Why?" said the little girl, a good deal startled, but not quite understanding him; "don't you love him?"

"No, Bessie."

It was pitiful to see the look of distress and wonder which came over the child's face. "Don't you love him?" she said again,—"don't you love our Saviour? Oh, you don't mean that,—you only want to tease me. But you wouldn't make believe about such a thing as that. Don't you really love him? How can you help it?"

"Bessie," said the colonel, with a kind of groan, "I want to love him, but I don't know how. Don't cry so, my darling."

"Oh," said the child, stopping her sobs, "if you want to love him, he'll teach you how. Tell him you want to; ask him to make you love him, and he will. I know he will, 'cause he loves you so."

"Loves me?" said the colonel.

"Yes; he loves you all the time, even if you don't love him. I think that's what my hymn means. Even when we go away from him, he'll come after us, and try to make us love him. I know it's wicked and unkind not to love him, when he came and died for us. But if you're sorry, he wont mind about that any more, and he will forgive you. He will forgive every one when they ask him, and tell him they're sorry. The other day, when I was so wicked and in such a passion, and struck Mr. Lovatt, I asked Jesus to forgive me, and he did. I know he did. I used to be in passions very often, and he helped me when I asked him; and now he makes me better; and he'll forgive you too, and make you better."

"I fear there can be no forgiveness for me, Bessie. I have lived seven times as long as you, my child, and all that time, I have been sinning and sinning. I have driven God from me, and hardened my heart against the Lord Jesus. I would not even let any one speak to me of him."

"Never matter," said Bessie, tenderly. "I don't mean never matter, 'cause it is matter. But he will forgive that when he sees you are so sorry, and he will be sorry for you; and he does love you. If he didn't love you, he couldn't come to die for you, so his Father could forgive you, and take you to heaven. There's a verse, I know, about that; mamma teached it to me a good while ago. It hangs in our nursery just like a picture, all in pretty bright letters; and we have 'Suffer little children,' too. It is 'God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life.' Mamma says the world means everybody."

"Could you find that verse for me, Bessie?" asked the colonel.

"I don't know, sir; I can't find things in the Bible,—only a few; but Jesus said it to a man named Nicodemus, who came to him and wanted to be teached. He'll teach you, too, out of his Bible. Oh, wont you ask him?"

"I will try, darling," he said.

"I'll get your Bible, and we'll see if we can find that verse," said Bessie. "Where is your Bible?"

"I have none," he answered; "at least, I have one somewhere at home, I believe, but I do not know where it is. My mother gave it to me, but I have never read it since I was a boy."

"Oh, here's Mrs. Yush's on the table," said Bessie; "she always keeps it on the window-seat, and she always made me put it back there; but I s'pose she forgot and left it here."

She brought the Bible, and sat down by the colonel.

"I can find, 'Suffer little children,'" she said, turning to the eighteenth chapter of Matthew. "I can yead you a little bit, if you tell me the big words: 'Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' Isn't it sweet?"

"Yes; and I can believe it," he said, laying his hand on Bessie's head; "of such is the kingdom of heaven."

Bessie turned to the fifteenth chapter of Luke. "Here's about the prodigal son," she said, "but it's too long for me. Will you please yead it?"

He took the Bible from her, and read the chapter very slowly and thoughtfully, reading the parable a second time. Then he turned the leaves over, stopping now and then to read a verse to himself.

"If you want what Jesus said to Nicodemus, look there," said Bessie, pointing to the headings of the chapters.

He soon found the third of John, and sat for a long time with his eyes fixed on the sixteenth and seventeenth verses. Bessie sat looking at him without speaking.

"What are you thinking of, my pet?" he asked at last, laying down the book.

"I was thinking how you could be so brave when you didn't love Him," she said "Didn't it make you afraid when you was in a danger?"

"No," he said; "I hadn't even faith enough to be afraid."

"And that night didn't you feel afraid you wouldn't go to heaven when you died?"

"The thought would come sometimes, Bessie, but I put it from me, as I had done all my life. I tried to think only of home and Marion and my sister. Will you say that hymn again for me, Bessie?"

"Shall I say, 'I need thee, precious Jesus'?" she asked, after she had again repeated, "I was a wandering sheep;" "I think you do need our precious Jesus."

"Yes," he said, and she said for him, "I need thee, precious Jesus."

"Shall I ask papa to come and see you, and tell you about Jesus?" she said, when her father and mother stopped for her on their way from church. "I am so little, I don't know much, but he knows a great deal."

"No, dear, I want no better teacher than I have had," said Colonel Rush.

"Who?" asked Bessie.

But the colonel only kissed her, and told her not to keep her father and mother waiting; and so she went away.

But that afternoon there came a little note to Mr. Bradford from Mrs. Rush:—

Mr. Bradford went over directly.

The colonel looked pale and worn, and had a tired, anxious expression in his eye. But after Mr. Bradford came in, he talked of everything but that of which he was thinking so much, though it seemed as if he did not feel a great deal of interest in what he was saying. At last his wife rose to go away, but he called her back, and told her to stay. He was silent for a little while, till Mr. Bradford laid his hand on his arm.

"Rush, my friend," he said, "are you looking for the light?"

The colonel did not speak for a moment then he said in a low voice,—

"No; I see the light, but it is too far away I cannot reach to where its beams may fall upon me. I see it. It was a tiny hand, that of your precious little child, which pointed it out, and showed me the way by which I must go; but my feet have so long trodden the road which leads to death, that now, when I would set my face the other way, they falter and stumble. I cannot even stand, much less go forward. Bradford, I am a far worse cripple there than I am in this outer world."

"There is one prop which cannot fail you," said Mr. Bradford. "Throw away all others, and cast yourself upon the almighty arm which is stretched out to sustain and aid you. You may not see it in the darkness which is about you, but it is surely there, ready to receive and uphold you. Only believe, and trust yourself to it, and it will bear you onwards and upwards to the light, unto the shining of the perfect day."

Colonel Rush did not answer, and Mr. Bradford, opening the Bible, read the 92d and 118th Psalms. Then he chose the chapter which the colonel and Bessie had read in the morning, and after he had talked a little,

"Marion," said the colonel, after some time, "do you know a hymn beginning

'I was a wandering sheep'?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Rush; and in her low, sweet voice, she sang it to him. Next she sang, "Just as I am," twice over,—for he asked for it a second time,—then both sat silent for a long while.

The rosy light of the August sunset died out of the west, the evening star which little Bessie had once said looked "like God's eye taking care of her when she went to sleep," shone out bright and peaceful; then, as it grew darker and darker, came forth another and another star, and looked down on the world which God had loved so much, till the whole sky was brilliant with them; the soft, cool sea-breeze came gently in at the windows, bringing with it the gentle plash of the waves upon the shore, mingled with the chirp of the crickets and the distant hum of voices from the far end of the piazza; but no one came near or disturbed them; and still the colonel sat with his face turned towards the sea, without either speaking or moving, till his wife, as she sat with her hand in his, wondered if he could be asleep.

At last he spoke, "Marion."

"Yes, love."

"The light is shining all around me, and I can stand in it—with my hand upon the cross."

"Bessie," said the colonel, when she came to him the next morning, "I have found your Saviour. He is my Saviour now, and I shall be his soldier, and fight for him as long as I shall live."

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Transcriber's Notes
Minor punctuation errors were silently corrected.
Twenty-nine instances of "wont" were retained as dialect or the author's preference; "won't" was used 13 times.
Six instances of "aint" were retained as dialect or the author's preference; "ain't" was used 2 times.
Page 26: "Mary" and "Mamie" are used interchangeably for the same girl.
Page 216: "affghan" may be a typo for "afghan."
(Orig: lay neatly folded, a tiny affghan.)