Chapter 2

Through it all, Homan's thoughts had often been with the fair sister Delsa; and often he had sought her and talked with her. It pleased him greatly to see the earnestness and energy with which she defended the cause of the Father. He was drawn to her more than to the many others who were equally valiant. As he thought of it, its strangeness occurred to him. Why should it be so? He did not know. Delsa was fair; so were all the daughters of God. She had attained to great intelligence; so had thousands of others. Then wherein lay the secret of the power which drew him to her?

The vastness of the spiritual world held enough for study, research, and for occupation. None needed to be idle, for there were duties to be performed, as much here as in any other sphere of action. In the Father's house are many mansions.

In the one where Delsa lived, she and Homan sat in earnest conversation. Through the opening leading to the garden appeared the stately form of Sardus. Homan sprang to meet him and greeted him joyously:

"Welcome, Brother Sardus, welcome!"

Delsa arose.

"This is Brother Sardus," said Homan, "and this is Sister Delsa."

"Welcome, brother," said she. "Come and sit with us."

"Sardus," continued Homan, "I thought you lost. I have not met you for a long time. You remember our last conversation? Sardus, what joy to know that you are on the safe side, that you did not fall with Lucifer--"

"S--h, that name. Dear brother, he tempted me sorely, but I overcame him."

"But we are shortly to meet him on new ground," continued Homan. "As seducing spirits, he and his followers will still fight against the anointed Son. They will not yield. Not obtaining bodies themselves, they will seek to operate through those of others."

"Now we know how temptation and sin will come into the world," said Delsa. "God grant that we may overcome these dangers again, as we once have done."

They conversed for some time; then Sardus departed to perform some duty.

"I, too, must go," said Delsa. "A company of sisters is soon to leave for earth, and I am going to say farewell to them."

"Delsa, you do not go with them? You are not leaving me?"

"No, Homan, my time is not yet."

"May we not go together?--but there--that is as Father wills. He will ordain for the best. There are nations yet to go to the earth, and we shall have our allotted time and place."

* * * * *

A group of persons was engaged in earnest conversation, when a messenger approached. He raised his hand for silence, and then announced:

"I come from the Father on an errand to you."

The company gave him close attention, and he continued: "It is pertaining to some of our brothers and sisters who have gone before us into earth-life. I shall have to tell you about them so that you may understand. A certain family of earth-children has fallen into evil ways. Not being very strong for the truth before they left us, their experiences in the other world have not made them stronger. This family, it seems, has become rooted in false doctrine and wrong living, so that those who come to them from us partake also of their error and unbelief of the truth. As you know, kinship and environment are powerful agencies in forming character, and it appears that none of the Father's children have so far been able to withstand the tendency to wrong which is exerted on all who come to this family."

The messenger paused and looked around on the listening group. Then he continued: "The Father bids me ask if any of you are willing to go in earth-life to this family, become kin to those weak-hearted ones--for their salvation."

There was a long pause as if all were considering the proposition. The messenger waited.

"Brother," asked one, "is there not danger that he who goes on this mission might himself come under the influence you speak of to such an extent that he also would be lost to the good, and thus make a failure of his mission?"

"In the earth-life, as here," replied the messenger, "all have their agency. It is, therefore, possible that those who take upon themselves this mission--for there must be two, male and female--to give way to the power of evil, and thus fail in their errand. But, consider this: the Father has sent me to you. He knows you, your hearts, your faithfulness, your strength. He knows whom He is asking to go into danger for the sake of saving souls. Yes, friends, the Father knows, and this ought to be enough for you."

The listeners bowed their heads as if ashamed of the doubting, fearful thought. Then in the stillness, one spoke as if to herself: "To be a savior,--to share in the work of our Elder Brother! O, think of it!" Then the speaker raised her head quickly. "May I go, may I?" she questioned eagerly.

"And I," "and I," came from others.

"Sister, you will do for one," said the messenger to her who had first spoken. "And now, we need a brother--yes, you, brother, will do." This to one who was pressing forward, asking to be chosen.

"Yes, yes," continued the messenger, as he smiled his pleasure on the company, "I see that the Father knows you all."

"But," faltered the sister who had been chosen, "what are we to do? May we not know?"

"Not wholly," was the reply. "Do you not remember what you have been taught, that a veil is drawn over the eyes of all who enter mortality, and the memory of this world is taken away; but this I may tell you, that by the power of your spiritual insight and moral strength you will be able to exert a correcting influence over your brothers and sisters in the flesh, and especially over those of your kin. Then again, when you hear the gospel of our Elder Brother preached, it will have a familiar sound to you and you will receive it gladly. Then you will become teachers to your households and a light unto your families. Again, not only to those in the flesh will you minister. Many will have passed from earth-life in ignorance of the gospel of salvation when you come. These must have the saving ordinances of the gospel performed for them, so that when they some time receive the truth, the necessary rites will have been performed. This work, also, is a part of your mission--to enter into the Temples of the Lord, male and female, each for his and her kind, and do this work."

A sister, pressing timidly forward near to him who had been chosen, took his hand, and looked pleadingly into the face of the messenger. "May not I, too, go?" she asked. "I believe I could help a little."

The messenger smiled at her, seeing to whose hand she clung. "I think so," he said; "but we shall see."

"When do we go?" asked the brother.

"Not yet. Abide the will of the Father,--and peace be with you all."

He left them in awed silence. Then, presently, they began to speak to each other of the wonderful things they had heard and the call that had come to some of them.

Times and seasons, nations and peoples had come and gone. Millions of the sons and daughters of God had passed through the earthly school, and had gone on to other fields of labor, some with honor, others with dishonor. God's spiritual intelligences, in their innumerable gradations were being allotted their times and places. The scheme of things inaugurated by the Father was working out its legitimate results.

Homan's time had come for him to leave his spiritual home. He was now to take the step, which, though temporarily downward, would secure him a footing by which to climb to greater heights. Delsa was still in her first estate. So also was Sardus. They, with a company, were gathered to bid Homan farewell, and thus they spoke:

"We do not know," Homan was saying, "whether or not we shall meet on the earth. Our places and callings may be far apart, and we may never know or recognize each other until that day when we shall meet again in the mansions of our Father."

"I am thankful for one thing: I understand that a more opportune time in which to fill our probation has never been known on the earth. The Gospel exists there in its fulness, and the time of utter spiritual darkness has gone. The race is strong and can give us sound bodies. Now, if we are worthy, we shall, no doubt, secure a parentage that will give us those powers of mind and body which are needed to successfully combat the powers of evil."

It was no new doctrine to them, but they loved to dwell upon the glorious theme.

"We have been taught that we shall get that position to which our preparation here entitles us. Existence is eternal, and its various stages grade naturally into one another, like the different departments of a school."

"Some have been ordained to certain positions of trust. Father knows us all, and understands what we will do. Many of our mighty ones have already gone, and many are yet with us awaiting Father's will."

"I was once quite impatient. Everything seemed to pass so slowly, I thought; but now I see in it the wisdom of the Father. What confusion would result if too many went to the earth-life at once. The experience of those who go before are for our better reception."

"Sardus," said Homan, "I hear that you are taking great delight in music."

"That is expressing the truth mildly, dear Homan. Lately I can think of nothing else."

"What is your opinion of a person being so carried away with one subject?" asked one.

"I was going to say," answered Homan, "that I think there is danger in it. Some I know who neglect every other duty except the cultivation of a certain gift. I think we ought to grow into a perfectly rounded character, cultivating all of Father's gifts to us, but not permitting any of them to become an object of worship."

"Remember, we take with us our various traits," said Delsa. "I think, Homan, your view is correct. It is well enough to excel in one thing, but that should not endanger our harmonious development."

"I have noticed, Delsa, that you are quite an adept at depicting the beautiful in Father's creations."

"I?" she asked; "there is no danger of my becoming a genius in that line. I do not care enough for it, though I do a little of it."

Thus they conversed; then they sang songs. Tunes born of heavenly melody thrilled them. After a time they separated, and Homan would have gone his way alone, but Delsa touched him on the arm.

"Homan, there is something I wish to tell you," she said. "May I walk with you?"

"Instead I will go with you," he replied.

They went on together.

"I, too, soon am going to earth," she said.

"Is it true?"

"Yes; Mother has informed me and I have been preparing for some time. Dear Homan, I am so glad, still the strange uncertainty casts a peculiar feeling over me. Oh, if we could but be classmates in the future school."

"Father may order it that way," he replied. "He knows our desires, and if they are righteous and for our good He may see that they are gratified. Do you go soon?"

"Yes; but not so soon as you. You will go before and prepare a welcome for me. Then I will come." She smiled up into his face.

"By faith we see afar," he replied.

"Yes; we live by faith," she added.

Hand in hand, they went. They spoke no more, but communed with each other through a more subtle channel of silence. Celestial melodies rang in their ears; the celestial landscape gladdened their eyes; the peace of God, their Father, was in their hearts. They walked hand in hand for the last time in this, their first estate.

PART SECOND.

"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar. Not in entire forgetfulness And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God who is our home."

--_Wordsworth._

"Two shall be born the whole wide world apart, And speak in different tongues and have no thought Each of the other's being, and no heed; And these o'er unknown seas and unknown lands Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death; And all unconsciously shape every act And bend each wandering step to this one end-- That, one day, out of darkness they shall meet And read life's meaning in each other's eyes."

--_Susan Marr Spalding._

I.

"Even a child is known by his doings."--_Prov. 20:11._

How it did rain! For two long months the sky had been one unchangeable color of blue; but now the dark clouds hung low and touched the horizon at every point dropping their long-accumulated water on the thirsty barrens, soaking the dried-up fields and meadows. The earth was thirsty, and the sky had at last taken pity. It rained all day. The water-ditches along the streets of the village ran thick and black. The house-wife's tubs and buckets under the dripping eaves were overrunning. The dust was washed from the long rows of trees which lined the streets.

It rained steadily all over the valley. The creek which came from the mountains, and which distributed its waters to the town and adjacent farm-lands, was unusually muddy. Up in the canyon, just above the town, it seemed to leap over the rocks with unwonted fury, dashing its brown waters into white foam. The town below, the farms and gardens of the whole valley, depended for their existence on that small river. Through the long, hot summer its waters had been distributed into streams and sub-streams like the branches of a great tree, and had carried the life-giving element to the growing vegetation in the valley; but now it was master no more. The rain was pouring down on places which the river could not reach. No wonder the river seemed angry at such usurpation.

About two miles from town, upon the high bench-land which lay above the waters in the river, stood a hut. It was built of unhewn logs, and had a mud roof. Stretches of sagebrush desert reached in every direction from it. A few acres of cleared land lay near by, its yellow stubble drinking in the rain. A horse stood under a shed. A pile of sagebrush with ax and chopping block lay in the yard.

Evening came on and still it rained. A woman often appeared at the door of the hut, and a pale, anxious face peered out into the twilight. She looked out over the bench-land and then up to the mountains. Through the clouds which hung around their summits, she could see the peaks being covered with snow. She looked at the sky, then again along the plain. She went in, closed the door, and filled the stove from the brush-wood in the box. A little girl was sitting in the corner by the stove, with her feet resting on the hearth.

"I thought I heard old Reddy's bell," she said, looking up to her mother.

"No; I heard nothing. Poor boy, he must be wet through."

The mud roof was leaking, and pans and buckets were placed here and there to catch the water. The bed had been moved a number of times to find a dry spot, but at last two milk pans and a pail had to be placed on it. Drip, drip, rang the tins--and it still rained.

The mother went again to the door. The clang of cow-bells greeted her, and in a few minutes, a boy drove two cows into the shed. The mother held the door open while he came stamping into the house. He was a boy of about fifteen, wearing a big straw hat pressed down over his brown hair, a shabby coat, blue overalls with a rend up one leg, ragged shoes, but no stockings. He was wet to the skin, and a pool of water soon accumulated on the floor where he paused for an instant.

"Rupert, you're wet through. How long you have been! You must get your clothes off," anxiously exclaimed his mother.

"Phew!" said he, "that's a whoopin' big rain. Say, mother, if we'd only had this two months ago, now, on our dry farm, wouldn't we have raised a crop though."

"You must get your clothes off, Rupert."

"Oh, that's nothin'. I must milk first; and say, I guess the mud's washed off the roof by the looks of things. I guess I'll fix it."

"Never mind now, you're so wet."

"Well, I can't get any wetter, and I'll work and keep warm. It won't do to have the water comin' in like this--look here, there's a mud puddle right on Sis's back, an' she don't know it."

He laughed and went out. It was quite dark, but the rain had nearly ceased. With his wheel-barrow and shovel he went to a ravine close by and obtained a load of clay, which he easily threw up on the roof of the low "lean-to"; then he climbed up and patched the holes. A half hour's work and it was done.

"And now I'll milk while I'm at it," he said; which he did.

"I've kept your supper warm," said his mother, as she busied with the table. "It's turned quite cold. Why did you stay so long today?"

Rupert had changed his wet clothes, and the family was sitting around the table eating mush and milk. A small lamp threw a cheery light over the bare table and its few dishes, over the faces of mother, boy, and girl. It revealed the bed, moved back into its usual corner, shone on the cupboard with its red paint nearly worn off, and dimly lighted the few pictures hanging on the rough whitewashed wall.

It was a poor home, but the lamplight revealed no discontent in the faces around the table. True, the mother's was a little pinched and careworn, which gave the yet beautiful face a sharp expression; but the other two countenances shone with health and happiness. The girl was enjoying her supper, the bright sagebrush fire, and the story book by the side of her bowl, all at the same time. She dipped, alternately, into her bowl and into her book.

The boy was the man of that family. He had combed his hair well back, and his bright, honest face gleamed in the light. He was big and strong, hardened by constant toil, matured beyond his years by the responsibility which had been placed upon him since his father's death, now four years ago. In answer to his mother's inquiries, Rupert explained:

"You see, the cows had strayed up Dry Holler, an' I had an awful time a findin' them. I couldn't hear any bell, neither. Dry Holler creek is just boomin', an' there's a big lake up there now. The water has washed out a hole in the bank and has gone into Dry Basin, an' it's backed up there till now it's a lake as big as Brown's pond. As I stood and looked at the running water an' the pond, somethin' came into my head--somethin' I heard down town last summer. An' mother, _we_ must do it!"

The boy was glowing with some exciting thought. His mother looked at him while his sister neglected both book and bowl.

"Do what, Rupert?"

"Why, we must have Dry Basin, an' I'll make a reservoir out of it, an' we'll have water in the summer for our land, an' it'll be just the thing. With a little work the creek can be turned into the Basin which'll fill up during the winter an' spring. There's a low place which we'll have to bank up, an' the thing's done. The ditch'll be the biggest job, but I think we can get some help on that--but we must have the land up in Dry Holler now before someone else thinks of it an' settles on it. Mother, I was just wonderin' why someone hasn't thought of this before."

The mother was taken by surprise. She sat and looked wonderingly at the boy as he talked. The idea was new to her, but now she thought of it, it seemed perfectly feasible. Work was the only thing needed; but could she and her boy do it?

Five years ago when Mr. Ames had moved upon the bench, he had been promised that the new canal should come high enough to bring water to his land; but a new survey had been made which had left his farm far above the irrigation limit. Mr. Ames had died before he could move his family; and they had been compelled to remain in their temporary hut these four long, hard years. Rupert had tried to farm without water. A little wheat and alfalfa had been raised, which helped the little family to live without actual suffering.

* * * * *

That evening, mother and son talked late into the night. Nina listened until her eyes closed in sleep. The rain had ceased altogether, and the moon, hurrying through the breaking clouds, shone in at the little curtained window. Prayers were said, and then they retired. Peaceful sleep reigned within. Without, the moonlight illumined the mountains, shining on the caps of pearly whiteness which they had donned for the night.

II.

"He that tilleth his land shall be satisfied with bread; but he that followeth vain persons is void of understanding."--_Prov. 12:11._

Widow Ames had homesteaded one hundred and sixty acres of government land in Dry Hollow. That was a subject for a two days' gossip in the town. There was speculation about what she wanted with a dry ravine in the hills, and many shook their heads in condemnation. However, it set some to thinking and moved one man, at least, to action. Jed Bolton, the same day that he heard of it, rode up into the hills above town. Sure enough, there was a rough shanty nearly finished; some furrows had been plowed, and every indication of settlement was present. Mr. Bolton bit his lip and used language which, if it did not grate on his own ears, could not on the only other listener, his horse.

Rupert was on the roof of his shanty, and Mr. Bolton greeted him as he rode up.

"Hello, Rupe, what're ye doin'?"

"Just finishin' my house. It looks like more rain, an' I must have the roof good an' tight."

"You're not goin' to live here?"

"Oh, yes, part of the time."

"What's that for?"

"To secure our claim. Mother's homesteaded one hundred and sixty acres of this land."

"What in the world are you goin' to do with it?"

"We'll farm some of it, of course, an' we'll find some use for another part after awhile, I guess."

Then Mr. Bolton changed his tactics. He tried to discourage the boy by telling him that it was railroad land, and even if it wasn't, his own adjacent claim took it all in anyway; Rupert did not scare, but said, "I guess not," as he went on quietly fitting and pounding.

The man had to give it up. "That Ames kid" had gotten the best of him.

This was four years ago, and wonderful changes had taken place since then. Rupert had begun work on his reservoir the spring after they had taken possession. He had a most beautiful site for one; and when the melting winter snows and spring rains filled Dry Hollow creek, most of it was turned into the Basin. It slowly spread out, filled the deep ravines, and crept up to Rupert's embankment. Then he turned the stream back into its natural channel again. Many came to look at the wonder. Some of his neighbor "dry-benchers" offered to join him and help him for a share in the water. The reservoir could be greatly enlarged, and the canal leading from it around the side-hills to the bench had yet to be dug; so Rupert and his mother accepted the offers of help and the work went on rapidly. The next year Dry Bench had water. New ground was broken and cleared. Trees were set out. There was new life on the farm, and new hopes within the hearts of Widow Ames and her children.