IN THE SHADOW OF THE ROCK.
By L. L. Robinson
APART in the busy school-room, with head bent low, and slowly moving finger, sat little Elice Grey, all absorbed in study. Suddenly she paused, and over the expressive countenance flashed a quick, bright ray, as though some hidden chord within were answering gladly some touch without. Quickly the curly head was lifted, and then the soft blue eyes, looking straight before them, neither to the right nor the left, revealed that they were sightless. It was thus that Elice had come into the world, bringing her tiny cross that was to grow with her growth, and never be lifted, till the light of another world should break on the yearning eyes. And, as though dwelling ever under the shadow of that cross, the fair, sweet face bore trace of thought, deep and earnest, such as childhood rarely knows. A slender slip of a girl, it was not strange that often in the merry game she wearied sooner than others, and at such times, stealing quietly away, or whispering to someone near, "Lead me, please, to a safe place," she would sit listening to the unhappy sounds, ever patient and uncomplaining. And all the little friends well knew what Elice meant by "a safe place." With the idea of security, she had ever seemed to associate that of greatness and strength; and when, with outstretched hand, she groped her darkened way, instinctively she seemed to seek some lofty tree, or sheltering wall, against which to rest, assured, as she often said, that no harm could befall her while thus upheld. But it was in the buzzing school-room that now she sat, her finger moving slowly over the raised letters of the book before her, when the quickly lifted countenance, brightened by that light within, attracted the attention of her teacher. "What is it, Elice?" she asked, as though the sightless eyes had spoken. "Oh, Miss Agnes," said the little one, eagerly, "please tell me, were these words written by a little blind girl?" and rapidly she read the letters, "L-e-a-d m-e t-o t-h-e R-o-c-k t-h-a-t i-s h-i-g-h-e-r t-h-a-n I." "No, dear," answered the teacher, "they were not written by a blind girl, but a great and powerful king. Why do you ask?" "Because," said Elice, slowly, "I thought no one but a weak little blind girl could feel that longing. It is just what I am always reaching out to find, something taller and stronger than I, against which to rest and feel safe." "Well, perhaps, dear," replied the teacher, gently caressing the drooping head, "perhaps King David, though not blind in the way you mean, may yet have felt something of that same longing. There are times when even those blessed with sight and strength are blinded by sin or sorrow, and they, too, reach out for a strong, sure shelter against which to lean and feel safe. This is why God calls himself our Rock of defense, so much stronger, so much higher than we, that under its protecting care safety and rest are found." The teacher passed on, but Elice still sat wrapped in thought, her slender finger still moving lingeringly over the letters. "The Rock that is higher than I," she repeated softly; "surely little children who can see their way and are never afraid cannot feel these words as I do. Whatever the good teacher may think, I believe God wrote them just for his blind children, for who else has need to be led as we?" The bell for dismissal had sounded, and the children had filed out before Elice roused from her reverie; with unerring neatness she arranged her little desk; then, quite alone, started homeward. The roadway leading into the little town was a shaded lane thoroughly familiar to the unguided feet; but, absorbed in thought this afternoon, Elice walked dreamily and less guardedly than was her wont. Suddenly a harsh voice recalled her. "Why don't you look where you are going, child, and not walk into one, as if you were dreaming?" The startled child stopped quickly, with that nervous outreaching of the little hand, the first impulse when frightened, and immediately it came in contact with what she knew to be the form of a woman seated on the roadside. "Excuse me, please," said the gentle little voice, with its pathetic ring of sadness; "I cannot look where I am going, because I am blind." The sightless eyes were lifted a moment to the face beside her, and over the latter swept a sudden shade of remorse. "Blind, child?" she repeated more gently; "I would never have guessed it, or I would have moved out of your way—but," she added, with an accent of passionate pain, "I, too, am blind, blind, blind." The little one at her side started again, as though frightened by the vehemence of the tone. "Blind," she repeated, with tenderest sympathy; "you blind, too?" and instinctively her hand reached out and grasped the one near her. "Ah, I see," she continued, unconsciously using the familiar figure of speech, "I see; you have no one to lead you, and perhaps have lost your way." "Yes, yes," said the other, slowly, as though speaking to herself, but with that same desolate pain ringing through her words; "lost, that is it; I have strayed far, and lost my way." "Then do let me lead you," said the child, looking earnestly into the face she could not see; "though I am blind, I know every step of the way here, and I will lead you home." Into the weary, haggard eyes beside her, with the sound of that word, sprang hot, rushing tears, such as had not moistened their depths for many a day. "You lead me, little one," she said, brokenly; "you are too young, too small and weak." "Ah, I see, I know," cried the child again, with that same bright light once more illuminating her face. "I understand just how you feel; you want something tall and strong against which to lean, just like that poor, sad king, who said, 'Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I.' You are so afraid of stumbling or falling; isn't that it?" she cried, eagerly. The unhappy wayfarer was gazing upon the glowing countenance of the child beside her with something of deepening awe, as though listening to an angel speaking, and wonderingly now came the words from her quivering lips:— "Yes, yes, child, that is it—something stronger, higher than I to save me from stumbling and falling. But," she cried with sudden anguish, "you cannot understand—it is not my eyes that are darkened, but my heart, my soul, that is blinded with sin and sorrow!" Once more that kindling intelligence flashed over the child's pure face. "Oh, is that it?" she said quickly, "and is not that just what my teacher said to-day? She knows all about it; it is God, then, that you want. He is the strong, sure Rock for all his children blinded as you are. Oh, come, do come with me! She is still in the school-room. I will lead you to her, and I know, I know she will show you the rest of the way!" The little hand was grasping with eager strength the one within its clasp; and as though impelled by some irresistible power, the poor wanderer arose and obeyed the pleading voice. Down the shaded lane they passed, the blind child carefully choosing her steps as though leading one more blind than she, the little hand, in its spotless purity, never for a moment relinquishing its hold. In silence they went their way, these two, the face of the one radiant with heavenly joy, that of the other wet with tears that fell unchecked on the faded cheek. In the school-room, busied with her evening tasks, still sat the patient teacher, when suddenly in the door-way stood those strange companions. "She said she was blind, and had lost her way, Miss Agnes," said the child's sweet voice, "so I have brought her to you, for I knew you could help her." And turning away, Elice slowly retraced her darkened path, little knowing that though weak and blind, she had that day led a wanderer home, to a safe place within "the shadow of a great Rock in a weary land."—L. L. Robinson, in N. Y. Observer.