MISS SUSAN'S HOME MISSION.
By Sydney Dayre
"And so you really are going at last, Miss Susan?" I had come from quite a distance on the other side of the scattering country parish to see Miss Susan Mildmay, hearing that she was going away as a missionary. I was just in time, for I found the dear little spinster surrounded by bags and boxes waiting for the stage which was to carry her over the first dozen miles of her long journey. "Yes, indeed," she said, with a smile, "I've always had it on my mind to go, you know. I thought I'd do it when I was a girl—when father and mother were strong, and there seemed plenty of others to take care of them. But it was not laid out for me. All the others married or died, and so here I've been. Father lost his health, and when he was taken there was poor Mark. Now they've all done with me; and it seems exactly as if Providence was opening the way for me, for I've had the chance to let the little house with the furniture just as it stands. So I've been for the last six months winding up and getting ready. And," she straightened herself up with a smile, brushing away the tear which had come with the memory of poor Mark, "there's work in me yet, I'm only forty-three, and strong and hearty." "I should think, Miss Susan," I said, "that you would need a little rest before going to work again." "Rest? Bless your heart, dear, it rests me to work. Perhaps it makes you laugh to think of me going for a missionary, and no wonder if it does, I'm sure. When I used to think of it when I was young, I always laid out to do a great deal of studying and fit myself for it. But I haven't had the chance of that, you see. The years have gone and gone, and I haven't had time. You wouldn't think I was the sort to go on a mission, now would you?" she asked, with a laugh. "I'm not so sure of that," I said. "Well, I had about made up my mind long ago that the Lord didn't want me for that branch of his work. But," she brightened wonderfully as she went on, "since Mr. Vernon went out last year he's been writing to me pretty regular, and you'd be surprised at some of the things he says. Says they want just such work as I could do as bad as they want preachers. Says they want somebody to teach those poor creatures that it's nice to be clean and to wear decent clothes—" "He must be a very sensible man," I said. "Yes—and says," Miss Susan grew more animated and earnest with every word, "that it isn't much good to tell the poor souls about the love of Christ till they learn that love is a good thing. How can they learn to love their Saviour till they learn to love each other?—till they know there's something better than going to war and torturing their prisoners, eh?" She grasped my hand and looked into my face with beaming eyes. "Miss Susan," I said, giving her dear hard-working hand a reassuring clasp, "if Mr. Vernon wants someone to go and tell people how to love each other, he can't do better than to send for you." "Anyone can do that, you know," she went on. "And it's a wonder," her voice softened, "if I can't whisper something about the love of Christ too—eh, dear?" "Ah! Miss Susan, I shall see you bringing your own stars for the King's crown." Tears came into her eyes, but she had no time to shed them, for a few kindly neighbors were beginning to gather, to wish her Godspeed on her journey. "There's the stage coming," cried someone. Miss Susan grasped her bags, others carried the boxes to the gate, and we watched the approach of the lumbering vehicle through a cloud of dust. The driver drew up, but instead of looking inquiringly for a passenger and concerning himself about Miss Susan's baggage, he busied himself with lifting from the stage two children who came towards her, each carrying a small bundle of clothing. The older one, an unattractive-looking boy, gazed, half-curiously, half-defiantly, around, but the little girl, several years younger, looked from one to another of the strangers about her with a wistful, pitiful little face. "Here's a letter for Miss Susan Mildmay," said the boy. "Isaac Barry was our father, and he's dead." "Isaac Barry dead!" exclaimed Miss Susan, coming forward in surprise and dismay. She opened the letter and read what some of the shrewder of her neighbors had already guessed. Her cousin, Isaac Barry, had sent his orphan children to her to be cared for. "It takes my breath away," said poor little Miss Susan, sinking down on a garden bench with a look of helpless bewilderment. "I suppose you might as well go on," said someone to the stage driver. "She can't go to-day anyway." "Nor any day, I'm afraid," said another, as Miss Susan took the neglected-looking little girl in her arms and cried, thinking of her cousin Isaac. There was quite a season of subdued excitement among the neighbors, and at length one of Miss Susan's friends came to her. "Seems to me, Miss Susan, it's a great pity for all your plans to be tipped over this way. Isaac Barry has a brother out West that ought to take these children. It's his duty, not yours." "May be so," said Miss Susan, "but John Barry isn't that sort of a man. He wouldn't do it unless he had to, and if he had to, he might not always be kind; poor fatherless and motherless children!" "And you're going to give it all up?" "Yes, the Lord's laid out other work for me, you see. I guess Mr. Atkins'll give up the lease of the house when he knows how 'tis." She gave one look at the distant stagecoach, and carrying the poor little waif who had come to her arms, turned her back upon hopes and plans, and went again into the little house. "Well," said old Farmer Ryder, a staunch friend of Miss Susan's, as I walked with him through a quiet country lane, when the neighbors took leave of her half an hour later, "if I hadn't always believed there was a Heaven for some folks, I'd believe it when I look at Susan Mildmay." "Why, you know some o' these science folks tell us there isn't anything but this life—that such as it is we just live it out, and that's an end o' the whole business. But don't talk to me! Now here's Susan been a convenience for other folks all her life. Nobody's ever thought o' what she'd like, it's always been what did others like her to do for 'em. She's worked and worked year in and year out, first of all for her parents—and there wasn't never anyone harder to do for'n her father when his health give out. She was to marry Seth Marsh—good fellow Seth was—but she couldn't leave the old folks, so after waiting till he got tired, he went off and married someone else. And when her parents died there was her brother Mark—weak-minded, and desperate hard to get along with. And then the Lord took him away, and now't she was just going to have the desire of her heart, that no-account cousin o' hers has up and died, and left these young ones for her to take care of. No, sir," the old farmer gave a vigorous stamp, "don't tell me there ain't a chance somewhere for such as her." After that day, my way lay for many years far from the country neighborhood. "How is Miss Susan getting on with her family?" I sometimes asked in writing to friends. And the answer came in varying tones: "Having a tussle to get some kind of decency into the ill-brought-up children." "Having her poor, gentle little life bothered out of her by that scape-grace of a boy." Long afterwards the word came: "It really seems as though Miss Susan is managing to infuse some of her own grace into the spirit of that boy. For years all the neighbors held up their hands over his pranks, wondering what kind of an end he would come to,13and thinking the very best thing he could do would be to run away and leave her in peace. But a marvelous change has come over him, and he's joined the church, and now Miss Susan's talking of mortgaging her little place to get him educated. A shame, folks say. But he's a bright young chap, after all." III. FOURTEEN YEARS AFTER.
Fourteen years after the day I had seen Miss Susan turn from her cherished plans to give a home and a mother to two homeless and motherless children, I found myself at church in a town not very far from where she lived. A young minister in the pulpit so held my attention that I could scarcely follow out my desire to try if I could find a few familiar faces in the congregation. His earnest face and voice gave fullest evidence that his whole heart was set upon his Master's business, and he was listened to with more than usual interest. Among those who seemed absorbed in his eloquently-given message, was one whose face seemed to bring me a flavor of memories of long ago. I could not get a fair sight of the eyes intently fixed upon the speaker, but surely I could not be mistaken in the mouth, with its lines of patient peace. Thinner of face and grayer of hair than of old, I still held to my opinion, and felt no surprise when the eyes, beaming with a wealth of unspoken content, were turned upon me in the vestibule at the close of the service. "Miss Susan Mildmay!" I exclaimed. "Yes, it's me," was the glad response. "And how long it's been—and how good it is to see you! And—this is my boy." What a fullness of satisfied, gratified love and pride was crowded in her tone as she placed her hand on the arm of the young minister, who had come quietly to her side. I saw him lay his own over it as he bowed to me. "What!" I said, "not the boy who came to you that day?" "Yes, that very boy, Isaac Barry," said Miss Susan, in a flutter of delight. "Yes, I remember, you were there that day. Dear me—so long ago! And you haven't heard, have you?" went on the dear little soul, in a half whisper, as the young man's attention was claimed by others, "no, you've only just come, so of course you haven't—that Isaac's going for a missionary—and I'm going too!" "At last! There's work in me yet, and Isaac says there's plenty of just such work to be done as I can do. And, oh," she rapturously clasped my hand, "don't you remember the time I thought the Lord was ready for me out there, and he wasn't? No, dear, he wanted me here yet. Sometimes (I can confess it now) I used to get almost discouraged with Isaac. And then I used to say to myself—sharp: 'Susan Mildmay, you setting up to want to go to look after lost sheep when the sheep are at your very door—and not half such forlorn, miserable sheep as you thought of tackling out there, either. I'm ashamed of you!' And then I'd take courage and go on. And now look!" "Miss Susan," I said, "if that boy of yours brings a thousand stars for the Master's crown every one of them will owe their brightness to you."