Inasmuch by May Crossett

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Apr 1, 1913

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 40, No. 13.

“Inasmuch”

By May Crossett

IT was an unusually warm day in the middle of June, when a young girl of fifteen summers entered the door of a humble cottage in the pretty village of L, and with these words she greeted an elder sister who sat sewing by an open window, before which climbed in richest profusion a wild rose: “O Ida, I’m tired and sick of school! I never want to see another schoolbook! I fairly hate them, that I do!”

And with this outburst she threw the pile of books upon the table, and flung herself into a chair with a sigh.

Ida looked up in surprise into the face of her beautiful sister, to whom she must be mother as well as sister now, for the dear one had left her darlings only during the past winter.

And again that mother’s charge rang in her ears, “Be gentle and faithful with sister Bella.” She knew she possessed a warm, loving heart; but these fitful, restless moods had caused much anxiety to both mother and daughter.

There was a loving interest in the tone of the elder sister when she spoke: “Bella, dear, you are tired, and must have had an unusually hard time at school to-day. You do need a change, dear, and I am glad that vacation will soon be here. I was just planning as you entered the door a visit to Aunt Mary’s. Let me see, I believe I have never told you of the beauties of ‘Norwood Hall,’ and all about my visit there last autumn, and the impression it made upon me. So come, darling, draw up that low rocker by my side, where you can get the sweet breath of the roses, while I go over those days at Norwood. I so often wished while there that you could have been with me. It was all so lovely! How plainly I can see the beautiful long avenue of maples, through which I took many a promenade in the early morning! How fresh it all seems to me—the daily morning concert with which I was greeted! A perfect gush of melody poured forth from the throats of the happy songsters perched in the topmost branches of the thickly shaded trees. It was a treat I never missed during my stay there. And the broad, sloping, velvety lawns—how charming! The rustic summer-house just half way down to Willow Brook, where dear old Rover and I had many a frolic. But in the grand old house, do you know, its most delightful and comfortable place to me was its old, airy, English-built hall, with its quaint-fashioned furniture, and portraits of interesting faces looking down from the wall—faces of those that I knew had once passed up and down that same old stately corridor—it had a peculiar charm to me. My afternoons were usually spent there, or a good part of them. And when the tall clock in the corner would strike the hour of four, then, usually Aunt Mary’s voice would be heard calling from above: ‘Ida, would you like to go to the village, dear? We will start in about twenty minutes.’”

“Those visits made a lasting impression upon me. O Bella! could you have heard and seen what I did—the hearty welcomes, the brightened eyes, the happy tears, and the earnest, ‘God bless you’s,’ that came as the result of Aunt Mary’s visits, it would have done your heart good.”

“One afternoon, the day before I was to return home, and as we were returning from our last visiting together, I told auntie of the pleasure and profit I had received from these visits with her, and added, how happy she must be to know she was bringing cheer and comfort to so many hearts, and, the best of all, she could feel she had the Master’s smile of approval, for inasmuch as she had done it unto the least of these—

“She then told me how the desire of her youth had been granted. It had been a longing desire of her heart to have the means to help others. Then she playfully told me how they had all declared at home that sister Mary was to be the ‘old maid’ of the house. That was a sure and settled thing. And as the years went by it did seem as tho the home prophecy was to be fulfilled; but in the thirty-ninth summer of her life a gentleman bearing the name of Norwood came to visit his old college chum—a near neighbor of theirs. And it soon became evident to all that Mr. Norwood—after a summer’s acquaintance—entertained more than a passing interest for the neighbor’s daughter. And with tears in her eyes she exclaimed, ‘O Ida! what joy welled up in my heart when he told me of his wealth, and how all should be mine to use as my heart prompted. He was a Christian man, and told me of his plans to help the poor of his village. Can you imagine my gratitude as I realized the long desire of this heart was to be granted? Yes, it has given me untold pleasure, dear, to be permitted to carry help to the poor and the suffering, and surely I have experienced that it is more blessed to give than to receive.’”

“But, Bella, dear, I have been thinking that you and I need not wait for the wealth that is Aunt Mary’s to be helpful to others. We can at least do our part, as it has been given us. It was only this morning that I heard from one of your schoolmates—who stopped on her way to school—that Aunt Amy is quite helpless now, and her sight almost gone, yet so cheerful withal. Wouldn’t you like to go, dear, and carry her a basket of our delicious strawberries? And be sure to sing to her, darling, one of your sweet songs. Your voice, you know, is a gift from the Master; and I can not help thinking of Miss Havergal’s words:”

“‘Sing at the cottage bedside; They have no music there, And the voice of praise is silent After the voice of prayer. Sing of the gentle Saviour In the simplest hymns you know, And the pain-dimmed eye will brighten As the soothing verses flow. Better than loudest plaudits The murmured thanks of such, For the King will stoop to crown them With His gracious “Inasmuch.”’”

“Anything for a change from those horrid books,” thought Bella, as she rose to comply with her sister’s request. Ere she had made half the distance to the cottage, she was humming a merry song, expressive of the already lightened heart. She found Aunt Amy’s door upon the latch, and as she slowly pushed it open, gave a gentle rap. And quickly came the response, “Come in, dearie; I thought it was one of you dear girls. It does me so much good to get sight of your fresh young faces. Thank God I can distinguish the faces of my friends yet; but my reading days are over, Bella, and you have come to be eyes for me a bit, haven’t you? Ellen makes poor work at reading, but she keeps it real tidy for me, so I have no fault to find.” “Yes, I will gladly read to you, auntie; but I have a request to make of you first. I want you to eat a dish of these fresh-picked strawberries that sister Ida has sent you.” The young girl chatted away while auntie was enjoying the fruit, and, after relieving her of the empty dish, she asked what part of the Bible she would like best to hear read. “I should like,” she replied, “to hear His greatest sermon once more.” “Why, what do you mean, auntie?” “Child, don’t you know? those precious words the Master spoke on the mountain top.” “O, you mean the sermon on the mount!” “Yes, child.” And Bella read, in her clear, sweet voice, all about the “blesseds.” But there was a tremor in the young girl’s voice as she finished, and with broken accents she said: “Aunt Amy, I would like to be of those who are called ‘blessed.’ Won’t you pray that I may be pure in heart, and gentle in spirit?” “Yes, child, we will ask Him now,” and an earnest prayer was forthwith put up by that aged saint in behalf of the young girl kneeling at her side. As she arose Bella ventured to ask if she would like her to sing something. “O, yes, dear, it would be such a treat.” With true heart feeling Bella sang:”

“When we reach our Father’s dwelling, On the strong, eternal hills, And our praise to Him is swelling Who the vast creation fills; Shall we then recall the sadness, And the clouds that hung so dim, When our hearts were turned from hardness, And our feet from paths of sin?”

She sang the hymn through, and as she stepped nearer to say “Good-by,” Aunt Amy grasped her hand, while, with tears of gratitude coursing down her cheeks, she thanked her over and again for the comfort and joy her visit had brought her. And her loving eyes, with a hearty, “God bless you, child,” followed her to the door.

As Bella opened the door of her home, she exclaimed: “O Ida, I am so glad I went. Aunt Mary is right. I think I understand something of the joy of which she told you.”

— May Crossett, in New York Observer.