'_Suppose_ the labor of the olive shall fail!'

'_Suppose_ the fields shall yield no corn!'

'_Suppose_ the flock shall be cut off from the fold!'

'_Suppose_ there shall be no herd in the stalls!'

'_Suppose! Suppose! Suppose!_'

I very well remember a conversation I once had at Mosgiel with old Jeanie McNab. Jeanie subsisted on a mixed diet of smiles and songs.

'But, supposing, Jeanie----' I began one day.

'Now don't you have anything to do with _supposings_,' she exclaimed. 'I know them all. "_Suppose_ I should lose my money!" "_Suppose_ I should lose my health!" And all the rest. When those _supposings_ come knocking at your heart, you just slam the door, and bolt it, and don't let any of them in!'

It was excellent advice; yet the prophet acted on a diametrically opposite principle. When the _supposings_ came knocking at his door, he cried 'Come in!' and in they came!

'_Suppose_ the figs are barren!'

'_Suppose_ the vines wither!'

'_Suppose_ the olive fail!'

'_Suppose_ the corn perish!'

'_Suppose_ the sheep starve!'

'_Suppose_ the cattle die!'

The prophet invites them all to come in. They jostle each other as they throng his little room. He hears all that they have to say, and then he answers them.

'Whence came all these things?' he demands. 'Whence came the figs and the vines and the olives, the corn and the flocks and the herds?' And, having asked this question, he himself proceeds to answer it.

'_HE_ gave them!' he cries triumphantly, '_HE_ gave them! And if they perish, as you _suppose_, _He_ can as easily replace them! _Therefore will I rejoice_ _in the Lord and will joy in the G.o.d of my salvation!_ It is a small thing to lose the _gifts_ as long as you possess the _Giver_; the supreme tragedy lies in losing the _Giver_ and retaining only the _gifts_!'

There is no record as to what the preacher said that Sunday morning at Twickenham; but some such thoughts as these must have been suggested to the eager minds of the Pethericks as they listened so attentively. 'The words took hold upon me mightily!' the father confessed, in a letter to a friend, long afterwards.

IV

That evening a horror of great darkness fell upon the soul of Walter Petherick. He spent the sunset hours quietly with the young people, and, before they bade each other good-night, he read with them again the pa.s.sage that had so impressed them in the morning. Then, left to himself, Mr. Petherick put on his hat and took a stroll in the lane. It was a perfect summer's evening, warm and star-lit; yet its peace failed to penetrate his tortured soul. A glow-worm twinkled in the gra.s.s under the hedge, but no ray of light pierced the impenetrable gloom within. He returned to his room, and, after sitting for a while at the open window, looking down on the sluggish waters of the tranquil river, he threw himself on his knees beside his bed. One by one he prayed for each of his children. The red cross that he had seen on so many doors seemed to have stamped itself upon the retina of his eye; it blazed before him even whilst the lids were closed in prayer.

'Lord, have mercy on us!' said the legend under the cross.

'Lord, have mercy on us!' cried Mr. Petherick over and over and over again.

He thought of the morning's text, but it only mocked him, as the sunshine mocked him on his way to church.

'I could not say it,' he moaned. 'If my children were s.n.a.t.c.hed from me--my fine boys and my lovely girls--the treasures that _she_ left me--how could I _rejoice in the Lord and joy in the G.o.d of my salvation_?'

He broke into a fresh outburst of supplication. Again he mentioned each of his children by name. 'Spare him; oh, spare him!' he cried; and, as he thought of the girls, 'Spare her, O Lord; have pity, I beseech Thee!'

He wiped his face; it was damp with perspiration. He allowed his forehead to rest upon his folded arms; and then, bowed there in the solitude of his room and in the stillness of the summer night, a strange thought took possession of him.

V

He remembered to have prayed as fervently as this before--many, many years ago. In those days--the days of his earliest religious experiences--he had prayed, almost as earnestly as this, for his own spiritual prosperity, for the extension of Christ's Kingdom and for the enlightenment of the world. It seemed like a dream as he recalled it. He was scarcely more than a boy in those days. The ardor and intensity of that distant time had deserted him so gradually, and had vanished so imperceptibly, that he had never missed it until now. Love had come into his life, irradiating and transfiguring everything. Love had led to marriage; four happy children had brought added gladness to his home and fresh contentment to his heart; and he had abandoned himself without reserve to these domestic cares and comforts. The things that had so completely captivated his soul were all of them _good_ things--just as the fig and the vine and the olive, the corn and the flocks and the herds were all of them _good_ things--but he had allowed them to elbow out the wealthiest things of all. The _good_ had become the enemy of the _best_. Before his heart had been gladdened by those treasures that were now so dear to him, he had every day _rejoiced in the Lord and joyed in the G.o.d of his salvation_. But not since! His enrichment had proved his impoverishment! What was it that the preacher had said? 'It is a small thing to love the _gifts_ as long as you possess the _Giver_; the supreme tragedy lies in losing the _Giver_ and retaining only the _gifts_.' And Walter Petherick felt that night that that supreme tragedy was his.

He rose from his knees, reached for his Bible, and turned once more to the chapter from which the minister had preached. '_O Lord_,' it began, '_revive Thy work in the midst of years!_' He himself was '_in the midst of years_.' The thought brought with it a sense of shame and a rush of thankfulness. He was _ashamed_ that he had permitted the years that had gone to filch so much from him. Like waves that strew treasures on the sh.o.r.e, and s.n.a.t.c.h treasures from the sh.o.r.e, he felt that the years had brought much and taken much. Yet he felt grateful that he was still '_in the midst of the years_'; it is better to discover life's loss at the halfway house than to find it out at the end of the journey! He returned the Bible to its place, and, as he did so, he closed his eyes and repeated for himself the prophet's prayer.

'_O Lord_,' he cried, '_revive Thy work in the midst of the years; in the midst of the years make known; in wrath remember mercy!_'

It seemed as if the prayer had opened the gates of his soul to the peace of the night. As he looked again at the glistening river, he felt strangely soothed and comforted. And, half an hour later, he was sleeping as restfully as any of his children.

VI

Once more it is a Sunday evening, and once more we are at Twickenham.

For at Twickenham the family have now made their home; they never, after the Plague Year, resided in the city. More than twelve months have pa.s.sed. We last saw them on July 16, 1665; this is Sunday, September 2, 1666. And this Sunday has been as eventful and as memorable as that.

For, just as the family were a.s.sembling at the breakfast table, Henry, the elder of the two boys, burst into the room, exclaiming excitedly:

'Father, the city is on fire!'

It was true! London was one great sea of flame! In the afternoon the father and the two sons drove as far as the Borough; it was as near as they could get to the raging conflagration. And what a sight confronted them! Immense tongues of crimson shot up from the burning city and seemed to lick the very skies. When the clouds of smoke parted for a moment, they saw towers falling, walls collapsing, chimneys tottering, whilst the crash of roof after roof kept up a series of reports that resembled the firing of artillery. Every now and again a terrific explosion rent the air, followed immediately by an eruption of flaming debris that looked volcanic in its weird grandeur. London seemed to be in the grip of an angry demon that was bent on tearing it to fragments.

The fire exhibited a thousand fantastic forms; it blazed in every conceivable hue and color; it roared and shrieked and sputtered; it hissed and thundered and growled. A spectacle of such vivid beauty, yet of such awful horror, had never been seen in England before. And, somewhere within the area swept by that red, red ocean of flame, was Mr.

Petherick's warehouse containing all, or practically all, his earthly possessions!

But that Sunday night the soul of Walter Petherick knew no such anguish as it had known a year ago. He thought of the '_supposes_.' He read once more the prophet's song of defiance and of triumph. He smiled to himself as he reflected that the flames could only take the _gifts_; they could not rob him of the _Giver_. '_Therefore_,' he said to himself, '_I will rejoice in the Lord and joy in the G.o.d of my salvation_'; for 'it is a small thing to lose the _gifts_ as long as you possess the _Giver_; the supreme tragedy lies in losing the _Giver_ and retaining only the _gifts_!' And that Sunday night, whilst London crackled and blazed, the sleep of Walter Petherick was once more like the sleep of a little child.

VII

Again it is a Sunday evening at Twickenham. Walter Petherick has been celebrating his fiftieth birthday. Three years have pa.s.sed since the Great Plague and two since the Great Fire. In the presence of the young people, he has poured out his heart in reverent grat.i.tude for the mercies that have so richly crowned his days. And now, the soft autumn day, with its russet tints and its misty sunlight having closed, he is once more alone in his room.

'O Lord,' he prays, 'Thou hast been pleased by pestilence and by fire to redeem my soul from destruction. Thou didst threaten me with the loss of Thy choicest _gifts_ that I might set my heart's affections once more upon their _Giver_. But the fig tree did not wither; the vines did not perish; the olive did not fail. The pestilence did not touch my children; the flames did not destroy my goods. Accept the thanks of Thy servant this day and help him, all his days, _to rejoice in the Lord and to joy in the G.o.d of his salvation_.'

And the records show that Walter Petherick lived to enjoy long life, abounding wealth, great honors, and the clinging affection of his children's children. And ever in his heart he cherished a deep, deep secret and sang a rapturous song. For he reveled, not only in the _gifts_, but in the _Giver_. He rejoiced in _the Lord_ and joyed in _the G.o.d of his salvation_.

XIII

DOCTOR BLUND'S TEXT

I