"THY KINGDOM COME."

A Tale for Boys and Girls.

By the Author of "Little Snowdrop and Her Golden Casket," "The Guiding Pillar," &c. &c.

London:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.

EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.

1886.

Contents.

Chap.

I. A FIRST SORROW

II. FATHER AND DAUGHTER

III. A BAPTISM

IV. LA BELLE GABRIELLE

V. HELPING ON THE KINGDOM

VI. THE LOST CHILD

VII. THE TURNING-POINT

VIII. A DARK CLOUD

IX. OUT IN THE WORLD

X. THE SEARCH

XI. HOME WORK

XII. AT THE GOLD DIGGINGS

XIII. THE SECRET DISCLOSED

XIV. THE CHRISTMAS TREE

XV. NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY

XVI. "AS A LITTLE CHILD"

XVII. BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM

XVIII. HOME AT LAST

XIX. OLD FRIENDS

"THY KINGDOM COME."

CHAPTER I.

A FIRST SORROW.

"I see a spirit by thy side, Purple-winged and eagle-eyed, Looking like a heavenly guide." "If he bid thee bow before Crowned mind and nothing more, The great idol men adore— Though his words seem true and wise, Soul, I say to thee, Arise! He is a demon in disguise."

"PRISCILLA! Priscilla!" The name was repeated again and again, and yet no response was given; indeed the person so addressed seemed not to hear the speaker, if one could judge by the far-away, absorbed look of her eyes, as she stood at an open window with her arm round a curly-headed boy of some three or four years old.

The name seemed as if it ought to have belonged to some grown-up lady, and was suggestive of a Puritan maiden. And so, when at last the one thus addressed was roused to attention, and turned round saying, "Yes, Miss Vernon; what is it?" One did feel surprised to see that the owner of the name was a young girl of only some fifteen years. She was dressed, as was also the child by her side, in deep mourning; and a close observer would have seen that her large, thoughtful, gray eyes were filled with tears, which she was striving to keep from falling.

Her brown hair—the sort of brown which seems always to catch and glisten between every ray of sunshine—was brushed off a finely-formed brow, and hung in natural curls round her neck. She stood now waiting to hear what the speaker required of her. The answer to her question was given in a somewhat querulous tone—

"What is it, indeed? One would think you should know that without asking. Shut the window, of course, and don't keep little Claude standing at it until he catches his death of cold. You must really try, Priscilla, to exercise your wits a little; I can't be everywhere at once, and there is no one else to manage anything now."

The girl made no reply, but turned and shut the window, and her own eyes for a moment also, as if she would have gladly shut out the spring sunshine and everything else in the world just then; for her young heart was aching, oh! so sorely, and she seemed to have but one wish—to be lying in the quiet grave where her loved mother had been laid to rest just three days before.

"No one to superintend anything now but Miss Vernon."

Oh! She knew that well. No one to care much what she did; no one ever to take her into loving arms, stroke back the sunny hair, and call her "Sissy, darling Sissy." No; from henceforth she would have to live without a mother's loving caresses, and learn to answer to the stiff-sounding name of Priscilla. Even her brothers—she had four of them, all younger than herself—only called her Prissy; and her father always addressed her as Priscilla. "Sissy" had been the mother's pet name for her.

As she left the room, the tramp, tramp of boyish feet met her ear, and up the stairs bounded three handsome boys—Lewis, the oldest, nearly fourteen; Austin, about one year younger; and Archie, a delicate-looking child of seven. They all clustered round their sister, their faces bright as if no tears had so lately stained them, fresh from the open air, and their youthful spirits rising, as the spirits of the young, thank God, will rise even after days of deep sorrow.

"Prissy!" they said in one breath, "do come out; it is delightful in the garden. And there are violets in the grove by the river-side; do come and gather them."

But Prissy turned away. What cared she for violets now when the one for whom she loved to gather them was no longer here to receive them? No, there was nothing in the world for her to care for—no one to whom she could give pleasure; and unheeding the pleading looks of her young brothers, she went to her own room. Ah, Prissy! There were hearts as loving as yours waiting for a look of sympathy, a word of kindness; they, too, miss a mother's welcome, a mother's interest in their simple pursuits, and turn away disappointed.

"Prissy might have come," muttered Archie.

"Oh! She does not care," said Lewis.

Only the grave-eyed Austin said kindly, "Poor Pris! I daresay she misses mother more than any of us. She didn't mean to be unkind, I am sure."

In the meantime Prissy had sought the quiet of her own room, and drawn down the blind to shut out the sunshine, which seemed to mock her grief. Perhaps her conscience reproached her; it may be a still small voice whispered she had done wrong, had been selfish; but if so, she did not listen to it long, only bent her head on the table and cried bitterly.

Her Bible lay near, but she did not open it. She had not yet fully learned the comfort God's Word can give in sorrow. Prissy had been taught to reverence the Holy Scriptures as her father and mother did; to recognize God as the Creator and Upholder of the world, as an Almighty King, the Disposer of all events and the Ruler of the universe. But she rested there; not yet had she learned to know Jesus as a personal Saviour, nor God as a Father who cared for her and counted the very hairs of her head.

Only shortly before her death had even the amiable mother of the family learned to love the person of Christ. But that love once experienced, she had spoken words about Jesus to her children which had sunk deep into the hearts of some of them, and would one day bring forth fruit. On one of her last evenings on earth, she had spoken to the three oldest on the words "Thy kingdom come," expressing the earnest hope that they might each of them help on its coming.

It was Prissy who, with flashing eyes, said she would like to do so, adding it would be such a glorious work to be the means of elevating and bettering the world around her. In after days Priscilla remembered the unsatisfied look that crossed her mother's face as she spoke these words, and how she laid her hand caressingly on her shoulder, and was beginning to speak, when the door opened, and her father entering, the conversation dropped, and was not again resumed.

Professor Warner, one of the greatest mathematicians of his day, was a highly respected and in one sense a God-fearing man; but though fully recognizing the wonderful work of redemption, he had overlooked the need of love to the One who had redeemed him.

In family life, the doctor (for the honour of LL.D. had long been his) was reserved and deeply absorbed in his books. Domestic cares had entirely devolved on his wife, to whom he was fondly attached, though as a rule, he considered the whole female sex infinitely inferior to man.

And when the birth of his first child was announced to him, the expressive words, said with a sigh of disappointment, "Only a girl," was the sole remark he uttered.

"Only a girl!" repeated the incensed nurse. "As if a daughter in a house was not the best of blessings, better a hundred times than your great noisy boys. One would think the master was a heathen to speak like that, as if it was not through a woman that the greatest of all blessings descended to earth."

Despite nurse's indignation, the words "only a girl" became a sort of sobriquet to the little one; and when four boys followed in succession, and were warmly welcomed by their proud father, who prophesied great things of each one, whilst he might be said almost to overlook his first-born, friends and relations declared that, save to her loving mother, Priscilla Warner was indeed "only a girl."

A strangely quiet life she led, shut out as she was from all companionship with girls of her own age. Inheriting in no common degree her father's talents, Prissy, while still a child, became absorbed in studies, the nature of which even her mother was unaware of. For Mrs. Warner, busied with her children, husband, and household matters, superintending also many lesser details of her daughter's education, never knew that her spare hours were spent in the study of mathematics, for which she had a perfect passion.

The only member of the family who knew her secret was Austin; and boy though he was, he had been her first instructor in the rudiments of the science in which he as well as his brother Lewis were daily instructed by their father.

"Why not let me tell father you like these sort of things, Prissy?" he said one day.

But she implored him not to do so, having often heard her father express contempt for women bungling away at matters they could never properly understand.

"No, no," he said; "let a woman be a good housekeeper, and if she can read intelligibly, write plainly, keep a few accounts correctly, make shirts properly, and, if she likes, play on the piano or the guitar, and sing, that is all that can be expected of her. A woman has not brains for higher things."

At such a speech, child though she was, Prissy would flush up with indignation, and determine that one day she would prove to her father what a woman could do. To become famous, to do some grand work on earth, this was the girl's ambition, this the only secret she had kept from her loving mother. The day would come when she would constrain the father (whose praise she esteemed more than aught on earth, and for whose love she yearned) to own that she was something more than "only a girl."

But since the death of her mother, all ambitious thoughts had left the girl's head. She was stunned, and had scarcely even gone to the nursery to look at the little infant sleeping in the pretty cot prepared for her by the hands of the mother who had lived but to clasp her to her heart and give her a dying blessing. A sudden low cry from the room next hers now aroused Prissy, and lifting her head she listened. It was the baby, and she remembered with a pang of reproach, that that day she had never even asked after the child.

Ere doing so, she opened the Bible, her mother's last gift to her on her fifteenth birthday, just one fortnight ago. She turned to the page on which her name was written, and read below it the words, "Thy kingdom come," and these other words, "To every man his work."

"Yes," she said, and raised her head confidently as she spoke, "I have a work to do; and I will do it, and make my father proud of me yet. And how about the kingdom of God?"

She hesitated, then said, "Well, of course, if I study earnestly, I will be able to teach others, and thus elevate the thoughts of many, and so, by bettering the world, hasten on the coming of God's kingdom. Yes; that would be one way of doing it, I think so, surely. But I wonder what Austin would say? Mamma's words about the kingdom seemed to impress him so much, although he said little. I am sure that some way or other Austin will help on the kingdom of God; and so, I am determined, shall I. One thing is plain—I must no longer waste my time."

And forgetting her determination of going into the nursery, she went to the window, pulled up the blind, and taking down her slate and books was soon deep in solving some, to her, new and interesting mathematical problems.

She worked on, unheeding all around her, till darkness began to steal over the sky. And just as she was going to stop, a knock came to the door, and a servant said:

"Miss Warner, your father wishes to see you in his study as soon as possible."

CHAPTER II.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

"In the way that he shall choose, God will teach us; Not a lesson we shall lose— All shall reach us."

IT was with a feeling of wonder and reverence that Priscilla Warner entered her father's study.

The room was almost dark, though the parting rays of light lingered longer there than in the rooms at the other part of the house. Dr. Warner still sat, by the window, with an open book before him.

As the girl entered, he rose and greeted her gently, nay even courteously.

Priscilla noted the change the last few days had wrought in his appearance: his hair was grayer, his tall figure more bent than of yore, and when he spoke there was a tremble in his voice strangely unlike that of former times. Fain would the impulsive girl have thrown herself into his arms and tried to comfort him, as a daughter might have done; but the habit of years held her back, and she only stood before him quietly and respectfully, forcing back the emotions that filled her heart, knowing how her father dreaded what he called "women's scenes."

"You wished to speak to me, father," she said at last, breaking a silence which was becoming painful.

"Ah, yes," he said, raising his head; for he had resumed his reading, and apparently become oblivious of her presence. "True, I sent for you to tell you the arrangements I have made."

Then, as he looked at the girl, he said suddenly, "How old are you, my daughter?"

"Fifteen," she answered; "almost a woman now."

He sighed. "True, true, and, one would have said, doubly needing a mother's care. But we must not question the Creator's wisdom. 'His ways are not our ways, neither are his thoughts our thoughts.' 'His will be done.' And since, for his own wise purposes, he has thought fit to remove from you a loving mother—'truly a woman one in a thousand'—just at the time of life when you, as it seems to us, most needed her care, I have thought it necessary to get some one to superintend you and the household. And I am glad to say your cousin, Miss Vernon, has consented to remain with us for some time at least, and carry on your education and that of the younger children."

A flash of contempt passed over the girl's face as her father spoke these words, but she only said, "Yes, father, so I expected."

The tone of her voice sounded rebellious, and Dr. Warner said more decidedly, "I need not say, Priscilla, that I expect you all to show her the greatest respect, remembering that she is giving up her own ease and comfort for our sakes. Of your studies we will speak another day. You are not specially clever, Priscilla, but you are well advanced, and know nearly enough for a woman, I daresay. Go on in the meantime as you have been doing. And be kind to your brothers, Priscilla; they are fine boys, with splendid talents, and please God will turn out great men and an honour to their country. Lewis specially is a brilliant scholar, and has made wonderful progress in mathematics lately; and he is a good boy, too, although his mother seemed latterly afraid of his being easily led by companions. But then even the best of women—and she was one of them—can never be good judges of boys, at least of such a talented one as Lewis. Austin also, though not so clever as his brother, is steady, and will do well."

At these words Priscilla could keep silence no longer. "Austin not so clever, father! Why, he is more so than Lewis, and often helps him with the most difficult problems. Oh, it is Austin, and not Lewis, that will be the great man."

Dr. Warner looked up amazed at his daughter's vehemence, but shook his head. "No, no, Priscilla; Austin is not 'fit to hold a candle' to his brother. But what can a girl like you know about mathematical problems? No doubt both boys help each other, but the real helper, I fancy, is Lewis. Girls cannot understand these things."

It was in Priscilla's heart to tell that the real helper was herself. It was to her that Austin came in his difficulties; and when they had together worked out the problems, he helped Lewis.

A long silence followed this conversation.

Dr. Warner had resumed his book, and still Priscilla remained, awaiting further orders. But her father gave no sign; apparently he had forgotten that she was in the room.

At last she summoned courage to speak again.

"Have you no further orders to give me?" she said.

"Oh, yes," he replied, a shade of pain crossing his face as he did so. "About the babe. It must be baptized, and soon, but not in church. It is not a strong infant, so Mr. Lascelles says he will baptize it here. But its name, my daughter—what shall we call her?"

"Mary," said Priscilla. It was her mother's name, and therefore very dear to her.

But her father shook his head.

"No, no, not that name. My lips would refuse to utter it. Let me think. Scripture names are suitable for girls, and this—alas!—is another maid-child. Stay, we will call her Ruth. I like the character of Ruth. A true woman she was, affectionate and loving; knew her duty, and did it, without much talking either. Yes, the infant shall be called Ruth."

"Now about godmothers and a godfather. Let me see. I wonder if Miss Vernon would be one? We will ask her. And the other? We might get—" But ere he could finish his sentence, Priscilla interrupted him.

"Father, if you have no objection, I would like to be one of my little sister's godmothers."

"You!" The exclamation was not complimentary to her, and the girl was stung by it.

"Yes, father," she said, "though I am 'only a girl,' still I can surely take charge of my little sister as well as Miss Vernon."

"Take charge! Yes, my daughter. No doubt you can do that; but this is not merely a matter of taking charge, it relates to higher things—to train her in the knowledge of God. Can you do that, Priscilla?"

The girl's eyes lowered. "I will try," she said, "God helping me."

"Well," was the reply, "if you desire it, I will not say no. I mean to ask Harry Lascelles to be the godfather."

"Harry Lascelles, father! Do you think he will consent? He is so little at home; and now he is on the eve of setting off for a voyage of some years."

"I know; but I believe he will consent. And though young Dr. Lascelles is not as gifted as my own sons, he has good common sense and high principles, and I will be glad to give my poor motherless babe such a godfather. I expect the child will be baptized between services on Sunday first. See that everything is ready for the ordinance—or wait, I'll tell Miss Vernon about it. You can go now. Good evening, my daughter. God bless you;" and as he spoke he laid his hand gently on her head.

Something in the touch overcame the girl, and, unmindful of her father's dread of "scenes," she sobbed aloud, "O father, father! Don't send me away; let me stay beside you, and comfort you. And oh, father, love me; I have no one to care for me now."

Never had Dr. Warner felt more perplexed; no problem was so difficult for him to solve as this of a "girl's mood," as he termed it. What to do or to say he knew not. His wife had never acted thus.

He raised the sobbing girl, who had thrown herself impulsively at his feet, and soothed her as one would a fretful child. "Love you? Of course I do. And your brothers, Priscilla? You have their love surely. Only you know it is not my way to make a fuss. I never did, even with your mother; and she had too much sense to expect it. Women, Priscilla, are naturally impulsive; and it is a great thing when they learn to control themselves. No true woman gives such way to her emotions as you are doing now, my poor child."

At these words the girl freed herself from her father's arms and stood upright, once more the apparently cold, unimpulsive girl she so often seemed to be. She saw now how hopeless it was to get nearer to her father's heart.

"Forgive me," she said. "I will try and do as you wish; and if I cannot be a comfort to you, will try at least not to be a burden."

And without saying another word, she left the room.