If an appeal is made for any benevolent object the squire says, "Go to my house and ask my wife to give you something." She, in turn, points the applicant to the field or the orchard, and says, "Go down there and ask my husband to give you something." So one puts it on the other, and nothing is given; and neither the town nor the world is the better for their living.

This is the way things are done at "my house."

Across the street, under the shadow of two wide-spreading elms, stands a very modest cottage nestled in vines and flowers, with curtains drawn up to let in the light of G.o.d's blessed sun, and an ever-open door with a great chair in full view, holding out its time-worn arms, as if to invite and welcome in the weary pa.s.ser-by. The birds are always remembered here in their times of scarcity, and so in token of their grat.i.tude, they gather in the trees and carol out sweet and merry songs by way of paying their bills.

G.o.d's peace, as well as his plenty, rests on this place, and while its owners call it, in their hearts, "G.o.d's house," they speak of it to others, always as "our house."

Twenty-five years ago a st.u.r.dy, brave-hearted young mechanic bought this one acre of land, and with his own hands dug and walled a cellar, at times when he had no work to do for others. When he had earned an additional hundred or two dollars he bought lumber and began to build a house. People asked him what he was going to do with it, and he replied that if he should live to finish it, he was going to live in it.

Well, in two years the house was finished, to the last nail and hook.

Then he went away, as it was thought, for a wife. In a week he returned, bringing with him some neat household furniture, and three persons instead of only one.

He did bring a wife--a bright-eyed, merry-hearted young girl--and also two aged women, "our mothers," as he called them.

The first night in the house they dedicated their humble home--"our house" to G.o.d, and in the name of the Lord they set up their banner, praying that ever after this his banner over them might be love.

Many a family moves into a new home and asks G.o.d to come in and prosper them, and take up his abode there; but they do nothing to draw him thither. They begin for self, and go on for self; and sometimes G.o.d leaves them to themselves.

But the young owners of "our house"--the children of "our mothers"--made their little home His home and the home of His poor and feeble ones. "Our mothers" now laid down the weapons of toil over which they had grown gray, and came out of the vale of honest poverty into the sunshine of plenty. Their hearts grew warm in this gift of double love. They renewed their youth.

In their first days at their children's home, one of "our mothers"

spoke of "Henry's new house," when he checked her, saying, "Never call this my house again. I built it for G.o.d and for all of you, and I want it always called 'our house.' There is yet one thing I want done here before I shall feel that I have made my thank-offering to G.o.d for the health and strength and the work which have enabled me to build and pay for this house. I promised then that no stranger or wanderer should ever go hungry or weary from this door. You have made sure of a neat and sunny room for our friends. Now I want a bed, a chair, and a table put in the shed-chamber for such strangers as we cannot ask into the house. I want also to fill the little store-closet under the back stairway with provisions to give the needy. They will then not be our own; and if at any time we should be short of money, we will not be tempted to say, 'I have nothing to give.' I want to live for more than self, and I know you all share the feeling. I want to feel that G.o.d is here, and to live as if we saw him and were all under his actual guidance and care, and to realize that he sees and approves our way in life."

Thus was "our house" opened, and thus was it kept--a home sanctified to humanity and to G.o.d.

The years rolled away, not without changes, but peace and plenty still reign in the modest home whose owners are looked up to by all the town's people--rich as well as poor--as friends and benefactors; for all men alike need human sympathy and comfort.

The young carpenter of twenty-five years ago, is now a prosperous builder in the great city near his home. He could afford to erect and occupy a house worth four times what the cottage cost. But he loves the place, and cannot tear himself from it. He has added more than one L to it, and he has refurnished it, and brought into it many articles of taste and luxury.

When asked why he does not build a house more in accordance with his means, he replies:--

"No house could be built which would be like 'our house.' I can never forget the night we and our mothers dedicated it to G.o.d in prayer and simple trust; and ever since that night I have felt as if we were dwelling in the secret of his tabernacle, under the shadow of the Almighty. We might have a larger and more fashionable house, but it would bring a weight of care on its mistress, and steal the time she has made sacred to others. No other house could have the memories this one has; no other house be hallowed as this house has been by the prayers of the holy and the blessings of the poor."

And so the family still live on and are happy in "our house." Still the pastor's weary wife is relieved of church company, for, from force of habit, all ministers and others on errands of good, draw up their horses before the well-filled stable, and ring, for themselves, at this open door. Still the poor are fed from that store-closet under the back stairway; still the wanderer--though he be a wanderer in a double sense--rests his weary head in that shed-chamber.

The squire wonders at the builder, because he lives in such a modest way compared with his means, and says, "If I were he, I'd be ashamed of that cottage which was all well enough when he was a young journeyman."

The builder wonders what the squire does with all that great house, and why, when half a dozen rooms are empty there, he doesn't allow himself the pleasure of company, and of sheltering strangers and getting the blessing they bring.

The squire's wife peeps through her fine curtains, and says, "I wonder that pretty and intelligent woman hasn't more taste. She might live like a lady if she pleased, and dress as I do; but she pokes on just as she began, and dresses no better than the minister's wife, and has a rabble of poor, forlorn creatures whom I wouldn't let into my house, nor into my wood-shed, running after her for food and clothing, and n.o.body knows what."

So you see, "my house" is literally "my house," and "our house" is G.o.d's house.

A MOUNTAIN PRAYER MEETING

"Will you go to meeting with me this afternoon, Mabel? Come; this is your last day here; do go once before you leave the White Mountains."

"What do you do in 'meeting'?" asked the gay, beautiful, "High Church"

New York belle, with just a shade of contemptuous inflection in her voice.

"Well,--there will be no sermon; there never is in the afternoon. The good minister sits in the aisle, in front of the pulpit, and invites any one he likes to make a prayer. Any other one, who feels the need of it, may request that he or she be mentioned personally in the pet.i.tion; and those who wish it may relate their experience."

"How very funny! All the old women 'speakin' in meetin',' and scaring themselves dreadfully. I'll go. I dare say I shall have a good laugh, if I don't fall asleep."

So we walked through the long, hilly street of Bethlehem, in the pleasant hour before sunset, in the sweet, warm, hazy air of early autumn. The glory of the Lord shone round about us; for all the mountains were burnished, splendid, gorgeous, in purple and crimson and gold. Mabel's deep gray eyes grew large and luminous as her artist-soul drank in the ineffable beauty.

The building was so crowded with the villagers and many visitors that it was with difficulty we obtained seats, apart from each other. Mabel found a place next to a young, sweet-faced country woman, and looked, with her flower-like face and French costume, like some rare exotic by the side of a humble mountain daisy.

The minister opened the services with a few fervent, simple words, and then said, "Brother----, will you lead in prayer?"

A plain old country farmer knelt in the aisle before us. His prayer--sincere, and, I doubt not, as acceptable, because sincere, as if it had been offered in polished language--made Mabel shake with laughter.

He rose, and there was utter silence for a moment. Then a high, sweet woman's voice, far in front of us, sang out, clear as a bell,--

"Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!

That calls me from a world of care, And bids me at my Father's throne, Make all my wants and wishes known."

The congregation joined in; only one verse was sung, and again the strange, solemn silence fell upon us.

It was broken by the sudden rising of a lank, awkward boy, who uttered a few words in a frightened nasal whine.

This time Mabel was convulsed with laughter; but the sweet singer, who saw in this utterance only the contrite soul of the speaker, burst forth triumphantly with--

"Oh, gift of gifts! oh, grace of faith!

My G.o.d, how can it be That thou, who hast discerning love, Shouldst give that gift to me?"

Only one verse, as before. Then the pure notes, high above all the other voices, died away, and a strange-looking woman arose.

"I haven't any gift of language," said she, "but I want to give in my testimony. I've always been a wicked woman; I've always gone against my conscience. I've made my folks at home miserable for many a long year; and that's the reason G.o.d poured trouble after trouble down on me, till I was about to take my own life, when some one--it must have been one of G.o.d's angels--went singing through the woods. Shall I ever forget the words?--

"'With tearful eyes I look around; Life seems a dark and stormy sea;--'"

She stopped, her voice breaking into a hoa.r.s.e sob, when the other sweet voice immediately went on--

"Yet, mid the gloom, I hear a sound,-- A heavenly whisper,--'Come to me.'

"Oh, voice of mercy! voice of love!

In conflict, grief, and agony, Support me, cheer me from above!

And gently whisper--'Come to me.'"

I looked at Mabel. She was not laughing. A strange, awed expression rested upon her features; her head was bowed down as the sweet-faced woman at her side rose and, turning to the last speaker, said, in a low, gentle voice,--

"My sister, we all thank our heavenly Father that he put his strong arm of protection about you while it was yet time; and since you have joined with us in profession of your faith, there has been no one more earnest in those good works without which faith is nothing."

Then reverently kneeling, she prayed that G.o.d would strengthen her dear sister, and give them all love and charity, one for another, and his peace, which pa.s.seth all understanding.