Chapter 5

She was overjoyed at receiving her father's permission to join her sister; for, since Faith had gone, her beautiful home had seemed lonely.

Faith sat all night with her eyes uplifted to heaven, and, when the morning sun lit the hill-tops, behold! on its beams Hope was descending to earth.

Faith was not long in ascending the hill to meet her sister. Their meeting was full of joy.

"If my eyes had not been lifted heavenward, I should have missed you, Hope: and you must have searched a long time for me; for my journeys are far each day," said Faith to her sister.

"Keep your eyes _ever_ uplifted," answered Hope, "and you will see not only the brightness of the heavens, but also the father's angels whom he chooses to send to your aid."

"I will," answered Faith; and ever after her eyes were raised heavenward.

They descended to the valley, hand in hand, and reached it as the people were passing to their daily toils.

How light now seemed the labors of Faith! What a comfort it was to have Hope by her when she walked along the dreary wayside; and Hope's bright words, how they cheered the downhearted!

"I wonder your parents ever permitted you to come to the earth alone," remarked an old and venerable woman to Faith, as the latter was imparting to her some truths which lay almost beyond the grasp of mortals.

"My father, as well as myself, had to learn that I needed Hope with me to make my work more perfect. We must first feel our own inadequacy before our helpers can be fully appreciated. I think she came in the right time," said Faith reverently.

"No doubt," replied the woman; "I have often heard you say that all our blessings come at the needful moment; but surely Hope looks as though she could endure the rough clime, and still rougher ways of our people, better than yourself, although I do not know what my life would have been without you."

"That was why I was sent here. I came to prepare the way for Hope. I was needed first; and now, with my sister's brighter element, I expect to do a good work on the earth."

"A blessed pair!" exclaimed the woman, as they left her home to go to others more dark and drear.

Faith was summoned that night to the home of a widow whose only child was passing away; for the clear, far-seeing eyes of Faith could see the soul depart and take on its heavenly form. It was a great comfort to the bereaved in hours like those to have her near.

"I wonder how we lived without her," were household words, and words which she could hear without any semblance of vainglory; for her soul was too deeply impressed with the magnitude of her mission to allow her to be elated or depressed by any remark that might be made.

Faith's eyes followed the dying boy far into the realms of light. She wiped the mother's tears away, and disclosed to her sight the way the soul had fled, while Hope stood by to assure her that the parting was not forever. The two tarried through the night with the mother, and when friends came to bury the dead form she had learned that "the grave is not the goal."

The sisters toiled together many years. They wove beautiful truths into the minds of the people, till the once dark condition of earth seemed passing rapidly away. People grew trustful, and less gloomy: yet, with all the teachings of Faith, and the cheering words of Hope, they failed to exercise the right feelings at all times towards each other.

The sisters sat by the wayside one evening, after a hard day's toil, their eyes lifted to the stars, which seemed to look lovingly on them. They sat without words, while each possessed the same unspoken wish. They both longed for their sister, who at that moment was thinking earnestly of them.

Faith glanced from the stars to the scarcely less brilliant eyes of Hope, and a few tears fell over her face. Even Hope sighed, and almost wished herself back to her starry home with her father.

"Are you sorry, Hope, that you came to earth?" asked Faith, tenderly.

"No: but I was thinking--"

"I know your thought: it must be the same as my own," said Faith.

"Yes, our sister--" Hope ventured thus far.

"Charity come too." Faith finished the sentence.

"Just my wish," said Hope, rejoiced to find they had the same desire.

"I see," said Faith, "that we are all needed here to make our work complete," while the brilliant eyes of Hope spoke more than words.

"I have felt for a long time," answered Hope, "that another element, softer, sweeter, and finer than ours, was needful for the people."

"Do you suppose that father would spare Charity, too?" asked Hope of her sister.

"I know he would, if convinced that earth's people would receive her."

"Why, Faith, you speak with such confidence!"

"Because I know how good our father is, as you do yourself, Hope. If needed, she will come," said Faith, trustingly, thinking of her own experience that lonely night.

"Charity is so delicate," said Hope, a little doubtfully, "I do not quite see how she could endure this cold clime."

"She could not without our presence to sustain her," answered Faith.

"But, with us to help her, she could; for we can all live wherever we are called to do the work of our father."

"Let us lift the voices of our souls," said Hope; and they offered a silent prayer for their sister.

* * * * *

That night, in his abode of peace and comfort, the father walked to and fro; for the voices of his children on the earth, pleading for their sister, had reached him.

It was not without a struggle that he called the only remaining child to his side to look upon her for the last time for many years.

"It must be," he said, "and then will my sacrifice be perfect; and from perfect sacrifice must fullness of good come forth. Faith alone could not perfect the work; Hope's added brightness was not all that was needed. Charity must be added." And he drew the fair, frail form to his side, and told her to go for her mantle.

He enveloped her slight figure in the spotless garment, and, placing her in the care of Zephyr, the gentle west wind, who was always faithful to her charges, bade her depart, with his prayers and blessings.

Zephyr was very tender of her charge, and, after what seemed a long journey to Charity, she laid her on a soft bed of moss in a pleasant woodland, where her sisters were gathering flowers.

She might have lain there some time had not Faith's eyes discovered her coming through the clouds.

Full and joyous was the meeting of the three; and when the sun went to rest they sought shelter among the people.

With the uplifted eyes of Faith, the clear, soul-speaking face of Hope, and the tender, forgiving words of Charity, their united force was great.

Some of the people at first refused to admit the last comer into their dwellings.

"Faith, with her lovely eyes, and Hope, with her bright ways, are good enough," they said; "and why need they bring this pale, fragile one to earth?"

But when once she had spoken, either in council or rebuke, to her listeners, there was melody and richness in her tones: such an awakening of their souls' finer powers that they ever after bade her welcome.

Her strength lay in her gentleness. She always went when called for, but never obtruded herself on others. Very often her sisters were invited to the feast of the people without her. It took time for her quality to be known: she was so still and silent. Her step, too, was noiseless, and her delicate feet left no prints where she trod.

Before she grew into favor with the people they used to watch for her footprints to see whose guest she had been; but they found no traces, and learned to entertain her after a long time for the lovely qualities which she possessed.

They walk the earth now, each loved and entertained by many, while some sit in the shadows, and know not that earth has the angels of Faith, Hope, and Charity to bless them.

XVII.

GOING FORTH.

A wise parent sent his children to a distant country to learn the lessons of life which experience alone can teach. Before their departure he called them to him, and, after providing them liberally with means, told them that at their return he would listen to their several experiences; at the same time telling them to use the means which he had given them well--neither to hoard, nor spend them unwisely; above all, not to bring them back in their original form, but a full equivalent therefore, either in spiritual or material things.

A year had scarcely passed, when, as the father sat looking at the western sky, the youngest son came running breathlessly up the path.

"So soon returned?" asked his father--which caused a look of disappointment to pass over the face of the youth; and his words were shaded with regret as he replied, "I thought you would be glad to see me, and would rejoice that I got through so quickly."

"Not so, my son," replied the father. "You cannot, in the brief time you have been absent, have performed many, if any, deeds of goodness compared with what you might have done by tarrying longer; and your gold--you surely cannot have used it all in so brief a period."

"Why, I've brought all the money back you gave me, father. You see, I got through without its costing me a penny."

"It grieves me more than all, my son, that you should go through any country and return no equivalent for deeds and kindness given. Rest awhile, and in a few days return to the land and the people I sent you among, and come not back again to me till every farthing is wisely spent."

The youth murmured within himself, but dared not reply. A few days later he departed, to go over the same ground and do the work he had neglected for the sake of a speedy return.

At the end of the second year another returned, looking sad and dispirited.

"Thou hast soon returned, my son," said the father. "Is thy work done in so brief a period?"

The youth hung his head, and answered slowly, "I was so weary, father. I saw so much sorrow among those people, I longed to come home where all is rest and peace. Surely, I was right in that, was I not?"

"Far from it, my child. If there was much sorrow there, that was the very reason why you should have remained. Dost thou not remember those lines I have so often quoted,--

"'Rest is not quitting the busy career: Rest is the fitting of self to one's sphere'?"

"I remember them well, father," the youth replied; "but I never felt their meaning until now."

"And if you sense it now, my son, what is your duty?"

"To return, I suppose."

"But how--cheerfully or otherwise?"

"Gladly and willingly," said the son, born from the old to the higher self.

"I will provide you with more means," remarked his father, while a feeling of joy thrilled his being at the thought that his son was going to give his life to human needs.

They parted on the morrow, though that separation was the nearest approach of their lives; for they were united by a truth which is ever the essence of a divine union. Many years passed by. The hair of the father grew whiter, and his ears longed to hear the voices of his sons, yet he would not call, in word or feeling, so long as the busy throng was receiving or giving them life.

One evening, when his thoughts were taking a somewhat pensive turn, a messenger came to his door with a letter from the long-absent and eldest, who had not returned to his home since the day of his departure. Its words were these:--

"Dear Father,--I cannot come to the home I love so well, nor to your side, while this land is so full of need of human words and deeds. With your blessing I shall remain here my lifetime; and when age comes on, and I can no longer serve the people, may I return?"

The tears fell over the good man's face. God had blessed him greatly in bestowing on him so worthy a son; and he penned warm and glowing words of encouragement to his child, and sent by the messenger, with gold to alleviate the wants of the needy.

"Tell him a thousand blessings await him when his work is done," said he to the messenger as the latter mounted his horse to ride away.

Long after, when the father grew old and helpless, the sons returned laden with rich experiences and abundantly able to care for him.

They had learned the great and valuable lesson that all must learn ere they truly live,--that we must give to receive, sow if we would reap, and lose our life to find it.

XVIII.

THE FEAST.

There was once a husbandman who had laborers in a valley, clearing it of stones and brush, that it might become fit for culture. He resided near, on a fine hill, where he raised rare fruits and flowers of every variety. The view from the hill-top was extensive and grand beyond description, and it was the kind owner's desire that each day the laborers should ascend and be refreshed by whatever he had to offer them, beside catching the inspiration of the lovely and extensive landscape. Some days he had not much to offer them; at other times, the repast would be sumptuous and most tempting: so those who went each day were sure of receiving in their season the delicious fruits which ripened at different periods.

There had been a succession of days in which there was nothing but dry food on the hill, with none of the luscious fruits which invigorate and refresh; for they had been slow in ripening, and the kind husbandman would not gather them before they were mellow and fit to spread before his laborers.

"_I_ am not going to climb the hill to-day for a few crumbs," said one dissatisfied toiler, as he sat by the roadside at noon-day, looking very unhappy.

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" added a second and a third, until there was quite a chorus of the dissatisfied.

The remainder went up as usual. A most tempting repast was before them, of fruits and cake and refreshing wines, while the table was decked with rare and fragrant flowers.

How glad was the good man to spread the bounties before them! for well he knew of the murmurs which had gone out of their hearts for a few days past. "Are they not all here?" he asked of those who had ascended the hill, while a look of disappointment came over his face.

"Oh! let us go down and tell them what a nice feast is waiting," said one of the group, as he gazed on the well-filled table.

"Nay, not so," answered the husbandman, in a gentle but commanding tone. "My people should have faith in me, and know that I spread for them all I can each day. My power, even like that of the Infinite, is limited by conditions. It is not my pleasure ever to have them go unrefreshed; but how much better for them, could they be content with whatever comes each day, though sometimes meager. How it cheers me to see those who have come in good courage and faith, _not_ knowing that the feast was here. Eat and give thanks," he said; while a band played some lively airs.

* * * * *

Shall we refuse to ascend each day the mount whereon dwells our Father? Shall we, because some days no feast awaits us, linger in the valley of doubt, and lose the bounties which his hand at other times has ready for us? No: the faithful and believing will go up to the mount each day, and take without murmur the morsel, or the fruits with thanksgiving.

XIX.

THE LESSON OF THE STONE.

It was with feelings of satisfaction and pride that a builder looked upon a large and costly edifice which, after much exertion, was just completed. Long had the workmen toiled to place one stone upon another. Many hours of thought had the designer spent in perfecting its proportions, and a deep sense of relief came over him as he saw the last stone deposited on the summit of the structure. Yet it was only to be followed by one of pain; for, as he walked one evening to enjoy the beautiful symmetry of his building, he heard words of contention and strife among the various stones of which it was composed.

"Just look at my superior finish," said one of the top pieces to those beneath it. "You are only plain pieces of granite, while I am polished, elegantly carved, and the admiration of all eyes. Do I not see all the people, as they pass by, look up at me?"

"Not so fast," replied one of the foundation stones. "A little less pride would become you; for do you not see that, but for us below, you could not be so high? And it matters very little, it strikes me, what part of the building we are placed in, if we but remain firm and peaceful."

The words of the wise stone pleased the owner so much that he resolved to remove a little of the vanity of the top one, and lay awake a long time that night, thinking of some plan by which to effect his purpose. The elements, however, spared him any effort on his part, for the next day a terrible hail-storm swept over the land, and its hard stones defaced all the ornaments which had led the lofty one to boast so loudly of its superiority.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" moaned the vain piece of granite. "How I wish I had been taken for a foundation stone, instead of being here to have all my beauty destroyed by this awful storm! I'd much rather have been in the middle of the building than up here, where all the force of the storm is spent on my head."

The stone at the foundation could not help smiling, though he really pitied the vain thing above him. "It will teach her wisdom," he said to himself; "and she may learn that none in life are lowly if they bear their part, and that a lofty position is far more dangerous than a humble one."

There was a fearful crash in the air at that instant. The foundation stone thought the building was coming down. Something struck him, which he recognized as a part of the top stone; for he had seen the workmen cutting and smoothing it day after day for many weeks prior to its elevation. Now she could boast no more of superior finish or position.

The following day, the remaining shattered portion was removed and left by the roadside, where it could see another prepared to take its place.

"I thought that stone was a little weak when we raised it," said one of the workmen as it was placed aside.

It lay by the roadside until it grew to be humble and glad to be of any use,--even delighted when one day the owner of the building took it to finish a wall which was being built around some pasture land.

"Here I can be of use," she said, as the workmen deposited it on a sunny corner as the place it was to occupy. It was glad to be there and find itself useful and at rest; for it had been obliged to listen to the remarks of the passers-by each day, and to endure their comments on its misfortune.

"I suppose I shall never know any other life but this; so now, being firmly set, I can sleep a little:" for the stone was sadly in need of rest.

After what seemed to be a long period of repose, the stone awoke, with new pulsations and finer emotions thrilling within it. The sound of children's voices were heard in the air. How sweet and life-giving they were! far more pleasant than the words of admiration which men uttered when she was on the building's top. A new joy was hers also, for soft hands were caressing her. Beautiful mosses had grown on her surface, and delighted children were gathering them.

Useful and beautiful too! and the stone was silent with happiness. She hoped the children would come again; and they did, bringing others with them.

"I wonder how this beautiful moss grew on me," she said one day to herself--at least she thought no one heard her. But an older stone beside her replied, "By being perfectly quiet we become covered with this lovely moss, firmer than grasses of any lawn."

The once vain stone grew to be perfectly contented, and never longed for her former position. When the storms came, it knew it was close to the earth. It had no fearful height to be pulled from, and the beautiful lichens which grew upon its surface were far more ornamental than its former carved and elegant adornings.

XX.

THE SEEDS.

They lay side by side one morning, while the gardener was preparing the ground in which to plant them and many other varieties.

"Just think," said the more talkative one of the two, "how sad it is that we are going to be put in that dismal ground! I shall not allow myself to be buried out of sight this lovely morning."

"But," answered the more quiet seed by her side, "it is only for a brief period that we shall lie there, and then we shall be far more beautiful."

"What care I for beauty for others to look at? I want my freedom, and intend to have it, too. The wind is my friend, and I shall ask her to waft me over to those lovely hills, where I can see something of the world."

"I think it would be wiser to remain where we are, and let the gardener care for us: he must know what is for our good," remarked the gentle seed.

"You are too prosy by far. I think our own feelings tell us what we need. So good-by," exclaimed the self-reliant seed, as she motioned to the wind to bear her away.

She thought her breath was leaving her, as she was borne through the air, and wished she were back in the garden. But when she found herself on the warm hill-side she felt reassured, and nestled herself amid the soft grass, whose waving motion soon lulled her to sleep.

Now the two seeds which the gardener had laid on the ground were of a very choice and rare kind; and he felt very sad that the wind should have blown one away. He took the remaining one and laid it carefully in the ground, with many hopes that it would spring up and bear rich blossoms, which would yield more seed. That night a cold wind came on; but the little seed in the warm bed did not feel it at all, while her absent sister shook all night with the cold.

After what seemed a long time to the seed in the ground, something like a new life came over her. There was a deeper pulsation through her being, and a strong desire to shoot upward to the light and air. This feeling deepened every hour.

"At this rate I shall soon be in the air, where I can see all that is going on about me," she said joyfully. Then she felt very quiet, and fell asleep. When she awoke she saw the gardener bending over her with a joyful face. "When did this happen? How came I up here in the warm sunlight?" the seed exclaimed to him.

"Because the wind did not bear you away, and I could put you in the ground, is the reason why you are here. First out of sight, then to the light, my little seed! But," he said sorrowfully, "I wish we had the other one, for your kind is rare."

The plant then told the gardener that her sister purposely went away, at which he wondered that she had power of motion until she became a plant.

"Oh, she asked the wind to carry her," answered the fresh-growing plant.

"If I knew where she had gone I'd search for her, and bring her back."

"She asked the wind to take her to yonder hill-side," said the plant, hoping, oh, so much! that he would go and find the seed, and plant it beside her, that she, too, might have the pleasure of becoming a plant as beautiful as herself.

The gardener went towards the hills; but the seed saw him, and begged the south wind to bear her away. And she took her on her wing and wafted her many miles from home.

The gardener searched a long time, and was obliged to return without her. So he took extra care of the plant, and it grew to be the pride of the garden; while the seed that had her own way was roaming over the world. The truant one soon lost all her influence over the winds, who finally refused to carry about a good-for-nothing seed while they had so much needful work to perform. A cold northern blast was the last one she could persuade to bear her, and he dropped her on a rock, where she at last perished from exposure to the rain and cold.