p. 9 | AN ANGEL UNAWARES

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Feb 17, 1898

AN ANGEL UNAWARES.

The happiness brought by pure unselfishness is illustrated in a story told recently by a writer in the American Messenger:—

“I don’t see how we can manage it,” said old John Weston.

“Neither do I,” said his good wife Esther; “and yet—”

“Yet you’d like to send for the lass? you’d like to have her here, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would. I’d like nothing better. When you come to think of it, John, there’s no joy one can ever hope to experience this side of heaven like the joy of helping and comforting others who are in need or in trouble.”

From a photograph of an orange tree six years old. This particular tree grows at Livermore, not far from this city. Seen in its natural color, the golden oranges intermingled with the green leaves form a beautiful picture.

“You’re right, you’re right. I’ve often thought as the Saviour must have felt a wonderful peace and joy in His pure heart as He went about doing good, raising the dead, giving sight to the blind, and healing the sick. Aye, and He left us an example that we should follow in His steps.”

There was silence for a moment, then the old man spoke again.

“You say the poor lass is suffering from consumption?” he asked.

“A tendency to consumption,” replied his wife, referring to the letter she held in her hand. “She’s been sitting too close at needlework, and she’s got into a low, weak state; and the doctor who has attended her says that country air and country living for a few weeks would do her more good than all his medicine. The lady who has written about her says she would pay five shillings a week for her. Of course, when we advertised in the city paper saying we had two rooms to let, we were thinking of getting some one who could afford to pay for them; then we meant to lay that money by towards paying off the interest on the mortgage. It seems strange, doesn’t it, that this is the only answer we have had? We thought—”

“Aye, aye, we thought this, that, and the other, good wife, but the Lord’s ways are not like our ways, nor His thoughts like our thoughts. Who knows but He means us to take this poor lass in and do our best for her? If the Saviour came knocking at the door, wearied and worn, we’d take Him in, wouldn’t we?”

“Readily, gladly,” was the reply.

“Then let us take one of His poor, suffering children in; for the letter says the girl is a good Christian. We’ll pinch and save a bit somehow or other to make up for what expense we may be put to; you’re willing, I know.”

“Willing? Yes, John, I’m more than willing. In such straitened circumstances as we are just now, we seem to have so little money to give, but I can give time and help and care; I can try to nurse this poor girl back to health and strength again. I’ll answer this lady’s letter to-day, and tell her that this Phyllis Price she has written about may come as soon as she likes.”

Three days later, Phyllis Price, a sweet-faced, delicate-looking girl, arrived at the little farm where old John Weston and his wife had lived ever since their wedding day, and received from the good couple the heartiest of welcomes.

She soon felt quite at home with them, and told Mrs. Weston all her story of struggle and sorrow—how her father had died suddenly, leaving her and her mother unprovided for; how her mother had obtained a situation in a large store in the city, and how she had taught her child to do the fine needlework required there.

“Then a year ago,” said Phyllis, “mother died; and since then—O, I can not tell you what my life has been! The people at the store were very good to me; they have kept me supplied with work; but in the winter I had a severe illness, and if it had not been for the kindness of Mrs. Barnes, the minister’s wife, who answered your advertisement, I do not know what I should have done. I have been ailing ever since the winter, but now that the beautiful spring has come, a few weeks’ rest here in your dear little home will set me up and make me quite strong again. You have no children, you say?”

“Our three children are dead,” replied Mrs. Weston. Then, motherlike, she told her willing listener story after story of her loved ones. Of her past sorrows she spoke freely, but of her own and her good husband’s present monetary difficulty she said not a word.

Only Phyllis, lying awake one night long after her kind friends believed her to be asleep, could not help hearing them talking to one another about the interest that had to be paid on the mortgage on their farm. It came as a revelation to the girl how, owing to bad harvests, loss of cattle, and scanty crops, the good old people, who had cared for her as lovingly as if she were their own child, were bearing a heavy burden day by day. For the first time she realized that they were fully conscious that, unless the interest on the mortgage could be kept paid up, the home in which they had lived and worked together for so many years, would have to be sold.

Phyllis cried herself to sleep that night as she thought of the coming trial she had no power to avert. In the morning she received a letter from Mrs. Barnes, asking her to return to town for a day in order to see a lady who called to inquire about her.

“She knew your mother in her girlhood,” wrote Mrs. Barnes, “and deeply regrets having lost sight of her for so many years. Her husband is a merchant in a western city, and is here with his wife making large purchases. They spent a large sum at the store you work for, and, inquiring for some one to do some particular kind of work, heard of you. Mrs. Enfield (that is the lady’s name) came to me for your address, and I told her your story. She is able and willing to help you, my dear girl. Pray come at once.”

Phyllis went, but when she met Mrs. Enfield she had not a word to say about her own difficulties; she could only tell the story of the Westons’ troubles.

“I am young and regaining my strength,” she said, “thanks to the nursing and devoted care of two old people who took me, a complete stranger to them, into their home. The pitiful sum they have received weekly for my board can never pay for all they have done for me. If only you would assist them by a temporary loan to tide them over—”

“Hush!” exclaimed Mrs. Enfield; “we have enough and to spare. We regard ourselves as stewards of the wealth God has given us. I will speak to my husband.”

She kept her promise, and to such good purpose that very soon John Weston’s difficulties vanished, and there was no longer any fear of his having to leave his dearly-loved home in his old age.

At her own request Phyllis took up her abode with him and his good wife. “My

friends at the store will send down plenty of work to me,” she said, “and this lovely air is so much better for me than the city; and, if you will have me, I will stay and try to be like a daughter to you all.”

If they would have her! Ah! there was no need to ask the question; the good people were only too glad to keep her with them.

“You came to us a stranger, dear,” said Mrs. Weston; “but John and I are agreed that in opening the door of our home to you, we were preparing, little as we thought it, to entertain an angel unawares.”