SUNDAY SUNSHINE.

EDITED BY

CATHARINE SHAW.

AUTHOR OF

"Something for Sunday," "Mother-Meg," "Dickie's Secret," etc.

LONDON

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48, PATERNOSTER ROW

CONTENTS.

A Black Sheep.

A Charge.

A Dark Night.

A Decision.

A Favour.

A Lightened Load.

I.

II.—Changed.

An Uninvited Guest.

At Bethany.

A Telegram.

A Wet Day.

Devotion.

God's Messages—Lettice's Lark.

Gossip.

Grand-dad's Advice.

"Hail, King of the Jews!"

Her Sailor Boy.

Hindered.

Hira's Quest.

I.—A Strange Visit.

II.—Hira's Friend.

III.—A Startling Question.

IV.—A Sad Story.

V.—Alone in the Storm.

VI.—Father and Daughter.

VII.—Sukhiya's Scheme.

VIII.—The Old, Old Story.

IX.—"His Great Love."

X.—Rest.

XI.—"Ask, and It Shall Be Given You."

XII.—"He Careth for You."

XIII.—Hira's Quest Ended.

XIV.—Believing and Confessing.

XV.—Hunger and Thirst.

XVI.—Home at Last.

XVII.—Another Prodigal Son.

XVIII.—The Father's House.

XIX.—Sukhiya's Fall.

XX.—Behári Lál.

XXI.—Brought Home.

XXII.—"She Only Touched The Hem of His Garment."

"If Thou Hadst Known!"

In the Prison.

"I Love Him Still."

Jesus Looked round about upon all Things.

Jim.

Looking for Father's Boat.

Making the Best of a Bad Job.

"Master, Rebuke Thy Disciples."

Memories.

"Me Too."

Nellie's Card.

Nora's Message.

On the Moors.

Our Jack-a-Napes.

I.

II.

III.

Out of the Tombs.

"Peter Followed Afar Off."

Pollie's New Mistress.

Pulling.

"Punchinello."

Royalty and Loyalty.

Scripture Clock.

Smoothed Out.

So Much the More!

Sunday Lessons.

Sunset for Jamie.

The Alms-house Inmates.

The Call of Peter.

The First Day.

The Hill above Nazareth.

The New Governess.

The Ringleaders.

The Stay of the Family.

To-day.

Turned Out.

Twenty Times.

Under the Lych Gate.

"What Doest thou here, Elijah?"

When?

"Will I?"

Illustrations.

A blind beggar.

A "boat from the French shore picked him up."

"'Ain't you sold any more than that?'"

"All day she sat quiet and waited."

"A soft hand rested on his shoulder."

"Beatrice fidgeted her hoop backwards and forwards."

Big Bob and Little Bob were carrying Liz in a net between them.

Bring your work, and sit under the trees.

Dick bringing home the wood.

"Eileen stood and waited under the lych gate."

Elijah in the wilderness.

"Geraldine worked in a corner apart."

"Gladys is the little teacher."

"'Go out and stay by the church gate.'"

"Hail, King of the Jews!"

"He only moved his position nearer to the fire."

Her late Majesty distributing gifts to soldiers' children.

"Hira would steal away to this quiet corner."

His mother clasped him in her arms.

"'I don't believe I shall ever learn it!'"

"I never saw such a sweet baby," said Grannie.

"Ivan drew out his little Bible."

"'I will go with them myself,' said Geraldine."

Jesus and the angry Jews.

Jesus and the blind man.

Jesus and the man possessed with a devil.

Jesus at Bethany.

Jesus at Simon's house.

Jesus entering the Temple.

Jesus going up to Jerusalem.

Jesus viewing Jerusalem.

"Jim drew the child nearer and admired her fish."

Joseph interpreting dreams.

Launching the boat.

"Mary went out into the November mist."

Memories.

Milly getting her ticket.

"Minette took Hans by the hand."

Nellie's card.

"'Now I'll put him on his hat.'"

"'Oh, has it!' asked Tommy, looking up surprised."

Peace I leave with you.

Peter in the court of the palace.

"Pollie hardly saw what flowers she gathered."

Pulling.

"Rollo stood looking on."

Scripture clock.

"She lay back exhausted."

"She lay in her arms for her 'cuddle.'"

"She's in the passage, kneeling by the window."

"She stooped and tied a ribbon round her dog."

"She tossed the corn to the fowls."

"'Sleep, lambkin, sleep,' she sang softly."

"Taking the lamp she started back to the child."

The alms-house inmates.

The call of Peter.

"'The "Doris" is to proceed to the Cape, Nellie.'"

The fishing-boat.

"The foam broke up white at the water's edge."

The new governess.

Tommy's grandfather.

"Two laughing girls sat down to a cup of chocolate."

"'What "doesn't" he say?' she responded lightly."

"'What do you want?' Sandy growled."

When she got out into the fields better thoughts came.

"'Why, see, child, it's all coming undone!'"

"'Why, you are reading a story book!'"

"'Yes; and it is all my fault,' sobbed the girl."

SUNDAY SUNSHINE

Edited by CATHARINE SHAW

HIRA'S QUEST.

BY LOUISE MARSTON.

CHAPTER I.—A STRANGE VISIT.

THE sun was just sinking to rest in a mass of soft white clouds which were banked up against a clear blue sky—streaks and waves of crimson mingled with tints of almost indescribable hues showed upon the white background with an intensity of beauty for those who had eyes to see it.

The earthly scene, from which the sun was just hiding itself, was very different to the heavenly; "that" consisted of a few straggling mud houses, which could not be called a village: they were too near to the large Indian city of which they had originally formed a part, but had by some means become separated.

Near by was a muddy pond, which dried up in the dry, hot months, but now afforded a cool, refreshing resting-place to a herd of buffaloes, who wisely showed they knew the best place to be comfortable in. Except for these ungainly animals, which could not be said to add any beauty to the scene, the place looked so silent and deserted that it was difficult to believe it to be inhabited by any human being.

Suddenly the dreary dinginess was brightened by a patch of bright red, which appeared on the roof of one of the desolate-looking mud houses. It moved warily across the flat roof, and then subsided in a corner, where it became a "very" small patch, and kept very still.

A closer inspection would have revealed the fact that this red patch was a sari worn by a little Hindu girl. From between its folds, which were often disturbed by the breeze, could be seen her face, very small and thin, surrounded by black hair, which apparently did not receive much attention. The sad, patient expression of the child's face could not fail to be noticed, and though she sat as if gazing on the glorious sky before her, no sign of pleasure helped to dispel the sadness.

It was not to see the beauties of the sunset that she had crept up to the roof, and sat there so still.

It mattered not to her whether the sun rose or set, except for the heat of its rays, for amidst the brightest glare of a tropical sun she remained in perfect darkness, for Hira was blind.

She had never thought of grieving over this sad fact, but quietly accepted it, as she did everything which came to her. Joy and happiness were words which had no meaning for her, and therefore sorrow and sadness could not be known by contrast—just as, never having seen the light, she could hardly comprehend the dense darkness in which she dwelt.

If she had been asked whether she was happy, she would have been sorely perplexed how to answer, for she knew no more of happiness than she did of the world in which she lived.

If she could have analysed her thoughts and feelings and put them into words, she might have said that what she liked best of all was to climb on to the roof, and sit alone in the dark, and "listen," for though she had no eyes to see, she had ears which no sound escaped.

She loved silence too, and that could seldom be had in the courtyard and verandah below, where children cried, and women talked or quarrelled, and men scolded.

So, as soon as the sun went down, Hira would steal away to this quiet corner, which she knew so well that she never feared as she groped her way to it.

She talked very little, this blind child, but she thought much, though it might be difficult to explain "how," when she had so little to think about.

Her mother was dead, and her father had gone away years ago and never come back; so she lived with her uncle and aunt, who had plenty of children of their own. She never missed the love which she had never known, and it was only when she received an extra hard blow, dealt by some impatient hand, or did not receive enough food to satisfy her hunger, that she would creep away to her corner on the roof, where her tears fell unseen and unknown. Even then she did not know that she was unhappy.

As she sat on that evening with her chin resting on her hands, suddenly she gave a start, for an unusual sound had reached her quick ears.

It was not often she heard anything like this, and a more critical listener than she might have been pleased to hear the clear, full tones of the manly voice which broke the stillness.

Hira was not left to enjoy her delight alone; it suddenly became evident that this was not such a deserted region as it appeared. A small crowd collected round the singer, and several women came on to the roof, that they might hear from there. The words were very simple and oft repeated, and before the hymn was finished, two were clearly imprinted on the blind child's memory, words never to be forgotten, for they were the name of Jesus Christ.

The hymn told how His work was to save souls, and because He had laid down His life that He might be the Saviour, no sinner could ever come to Him and not receive salvation at His hand.

Clear and distinct the words rang out on the still evening air, and were wafted afar on the breeze.

The singer's heart rejoiced, for a stranger in a strange land, as yet separated by an unknown language from those into whose midst he had come to dwell, he had found a means of telling the good news which he had come so far to proclaim.

But he had another message to give before he went on his way, and, not now in tones of persuasive sweetness, but as a command given by one in authority rang out the words, not twice, but again and again, "Prepare to meet thy God."

Then the messenger went on his way, and the astonished listeners never asked him why or whence he came.

For a time, people talked of the mysterious stranger who had come and gone so quickly and sang with such a beautiful voice. Then they forgot.

But there was one who always remembered.

Blind Hira, wrapped in her red sari on the corner of the roof, heard the words of the command, and, perhaps because she could not be so easily distracted by the things of earth, which were hidden from her, they remained written on her memory and heart.

"Prepare to meet thy God." "Prepare to meet thy God."

The words rang on and on, sometimes mixing with the words of the hymn, telling of One of whom she had never heard, and having heard, understood nothing, but yet whose name became so familiar, even Jesus Christ, the sinner's Saviour.

GOD'S MESSAGES—LETTICE'S LARK.

"LETTICE, go out and sit on the form in the shade till I am ready for church," said her mother.

"May I pick some moon-daisies for old Mrs. Robins? She does love them so."

"Very well, but do not make yourself dirty."

So Lettice set forth, and when she had filled her basket, she sat down to rest.

How quiet it all was! How soft the air blew, bringing on it the sound of the distant church bells; while from the field, a lark rose up singing with all its might.

Lettice's eyes followed it far up into the blue sky, and her thoughts went further than her eyes—even into heaven, where angels and the redeemed were praising God.

When she carried the marguerites into the sick chamber of old Mrs. Robins, her face brought a message, though the little girl was quite unconscious of it. As the invalid looked at the flowers that quiet Sunday evening, she said over and over again to herself, "God's little messenger, that's what she was! She looked as if she'd been talking to Him."

AN UNINVITED GUEST.

ONE day when the Lord Jesus was on this earth, He was invited to dinner by a rich man named Simon.

Perhaps this rich man asked the Lord Jesus to dinner because he wished to see Him do some miracle—something wonderful, which no one else could do; or he may have imagined that people would think more of himself if he had Jesus for a guest. At any rate, by what we read afterwards, I am afraid the Pharisee did not invite Jesus because he "loved" Him.

But there was somebody at that feast who did love Jesus, but she was not invited!

In Eastern lands, the houses are not shut up like our houses, but because it is so warm, the dining-rooms are often open to the air on one or two sides.

When a great man makes a feast, people hear of it, and come round the house to look at what is going on.

In the city, there lived a poor sinful and sorrowful woman who had learned to love the Lord Jesus; perhaps she had heard Him say those loving words: "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

When this sorrowful woman heard that Jesus was gone to dinner at the Pharisee's house, she brought a little box made of alabaster, which was filled with some very sweet-smelling ointment, and she made her way into the open dining-hall, and when she saw where the Lord was sitting, on a sort of couch close to the table, she came up and stood behind Him.

And as she stood there and thought of all her sinfulness, and of all His love and compassion, she began to weep, and her tears fell down over His feet as He reclined at the table.

Then she wiped His feet with her hair and anointed them with the sweet ointment.

But the Pharisee who had invited the Lord Jesus looked on with great anger. He thought if Jesus were a great teacher, He would not have allowed a woman from the city to come and wash His feet with her tears.

But Jesus knows all our hearts, and He could see that the poor woman loved Him so much that she would go away and try never to grieve Him any more.

By-and-by, He told Simon to look at this woman, and compare her love with his.

Jesus said words something like this: "Simon, I was tired and dusty when I came in, but you did not give Me water to bathe My feet; but she has washed My feet with her tears; you did not offer Me a kiss, but this woman has not ceased to kiss My 'feet'; you did not anoint My head with oil, but she has even anointed My 'feet' with precious ointment. She has loved Me very much because I have forgiven her very much."

And turning to the woman, Jesus said to her, "Thy sins are forgiven; . . . go in peace."

Oh, the joy of hearing Jesus say those words! And we may have the joy too, if we come to Him with humble, loving heart, and tell Him that we are sorry.

He never turns anyone away who comes to Him; so, dear little children, let us trust His loving heart, and though we know we are very unworthy, do not let us stay away for that, for Jesus longs that we may be forgiven, and so be able to go away "in peace."

JIM.

THE "Sailors' Arms" had held out alluring hands to Jim Adams for many a long day. His was the most familiar figure by its fireside in winter, and in fact, the "Sailors' Arms" saw more of Jim Adams when he was home from sea than the bare, dirty cottage where he lodged.

But one sunny summer afternoon, Jim turned out of the "Sailors' Arms" earlier than his wont.

Somehow he had got thinking of the Lizzie who would have been his wife if she hadn't taken the fever and died. He mightn't have been the Jim Adams he was now if she had lived. Who cared for him? Nobody. Who respected him? Nobody. Who would shed a tear if he never came back from sea? Nobody. They called him a drunken ne'er-do-weel, and they took a drink from him and laughed at him almost openly, and the respectable men and women drew away from him. It was a black picture that Jim drew of himself as he sat on the shingle and looked at the sea.

A sound of voices and laughter came up to him, and he saw Bob Sheppard and his children coming over the sand. Big Bob and little Bob were carrying small Liz in a net between them.

Jim watched them wistfully. He might have had a little laughing daughter like that.

The two bearers deposited the child on the shingle, and Liz, after looking round for something to do, came trotting straight towards Jim.

Jim held his breath. He didn't know what made him think of such a thing, but he decided that if she turned from him, there was no chance of his being different, but if she came past him without fear, he would try to be more like the Jim that the dead Lizzie had known.

Little Liz stooped and picked up a piece of shining seaweed; she came towards Jim and held it out. "That's for you!" she said in her baby voice.

Jim took it. He looked at it, and folded it and put it in his pocket, and the child stood and watched him as he got slowly up and went away.

Big Bob and little Bob were carrying Liz in a net between them.

Three days later, Jim Adams went to sea again, and Liz's bit of seaweed went in his pocket. For three days he had been perfectly sober, and the "Sailors' Arms" had been feeling empty.

Bob Sheppard sailed with him, and sometimes he would look pitifully at his neighbour's lowering, morose face. But Jim was such a well-known character that Bob never once dreamed of his wanting a helping hand or of the wish to be different.

But wish as Jim would, he had no power to make himself different, and when the ship put in at the seaport near his village home, he went on shore and got drunk. He was sitting on deck next morning feeling more ashamed and sorry than he ever remembered feeling before, and there was a terrible depression at his heart. He could never be different, never be good enough to meet Lizzie. He would not try any more. He even took out the little bit of seaweed that he had thought would be a talisman to help him, and was going to throw it into the sea, when a small voice beside him said,—

"Did you like my bit of seaweed? You never said you did."

Jim started violently. There stood little Liz, hugging a great fish, and behind her was her mother, smiling at her. The two had come over as a great treat to see Bob, and Liz had spied her old friend and sought him out.

Jim felt almost too shy to speak to her, but Mrs. Sheppard was talking quietly to her husband, and Jim drew the child nearer and admired her great fish. The two grew quite friendly, and hope began to creep back to Jim's heart. Suddenly looking up, he found Mrs. Sheppard looking down at him with a kindly expression in her eyes.

"My little Liz has taken quite a fancy to you," she said.

"I wish I was a better man," he said huskily. "I did try, but it don't seem no use."

"The Lord Jesus would help you," she answered softly. "He loves you and died for you."

A light came into Jim's bleared eyes.

"Lizzie used to talk like that," he said, "but it's too late now; I'm too bad."

"It's never too late," cried Mrs. Sheppard warmly. "Don't you remember—

"'The dying thief rejoiced to see That fountain in his day; And there may I, as vile as he, Wash all my sins away.'"

Bob called her just then, and she and Liz wished him good-bye. But before she parted from Bob, she said hesitatingly, "You know Jim Adams, Bob? Give him a kind word now and then; little Liz has taken such a fancy to him, and he looks lonely."

Bob looked down into little Liz's clear blue eyes thoughtfully. "He wouldn't take a word from me," he said, "but I'll think of it. You know, we think of those at home when we're out on the quiet nights, and I will see," he added fondly.

He watched Jim curiously after that. He wondered what had made Lizzie take to the man. She was a rather shy, particular little lady, and Jim was not prepossessing in appearance.

Bob watched Jim a good deal that voyage.

Jim was usually morose and taciturn; now, silent as ever, he looked different, less unkempt, less unhappy. But Bob did not find a chance of speaking to him; their duties lay apart, and it seemed as if all things combined to separate them.

One night a wild gale sprang up, and the ship, never very seaworthy in Bob's eyes, strained and tossed, and was beaten hither and thither in an alarming manner. Signals were fired, for they were in sight of the French coast, and as the tardy morning dawned, they saw that a small boat was putting out to them.

The storm had subsided and the sea had gone down, but the wild waves had done their work on the old ship and she was sinking fast, and but one boat was coming out in answer to the signals of distress.