TRUE STORY OF A LITTLE SAINT.
VERY tiny and pale the little girl looked as she stood before those three grave and dignified gentlemen. She had been ushered into Rev. Dr. Gordon's study, where he was holding counsel with two of his deacons, and now, upon inquiry into the nature of her errand, a little shyly preferred the request to be allowed to become a member of his church. "You are quite too young to join the church," said one of the deacons. "You had better run home, and let us talk to your mother." She showed no sign of running, however, as her wistful blue eyes traveled from one face to another of the three gentlemen sitting in their comfortable chairs; she only drew a little step nearer to Dr. Gordon. He arose, and, with the gentle courtesy that ever marked him, placed her in a small chair close beside himself. "Now, my child, tell me your name and where you live." "Annie Graham, sir, and I live on K Street. I go to your Sunday school." "You do; and who is your teacher?" "Miss B. She is very good to me." "And you want to join the church?" The child's face glowed as she leaned eagerly towards him, clasping her hands, but all she said was, "Yes, sir." "She cannot be more than six years old," said one of the deacons disapprovingly. Dr. Gordon said nothing, but quietly regarded the small, earnest face, now becoming a little downcast. "I am ten years old, older than I look," she said. "It is not usual for us to admit any one so young to membership," he said thoughtfully. "We never have done so; still—" "It may make an undesirable precedent," remarked the other deacon. The doctor did not seem to hear, as he asked, "You know what joining the church is, Annie?" "Yes, sir;" and she answered a few questions that proved she comprehended the meaning of the step she wished to take. She had slipped off her chair, and now stood close to Dr. Gordon's knee. "You said last Sabbath, sir, that the lambs should be in the fold." "I did," he answered, with one of his own lovely smiles. "It is surely not for us to keep them out. Go home now, my child. I will12see your friends, and arrange to take you into membership very soon." The cloud lifted from the child's face, and her expression, as she passed through the door he opened for her, was one of entire peace. Inquiries made of Annie's Sabbath school teacher proving satisfactory, she was baptized the following week, and, except for occasional information from Miss B. that she was doing well, Dr. Gordon heard no more of her for about a year. Then he was summoned to her funeral. It was one of June's hottest days, and as the doctor made his way along the narrow street on which Annie had lived, he wished for a moment that he had asked his assistant to come instead of himself, but as he neared the house, the crowd filled him with wonder; progress was hindered, and as, perforce, he paused for a moment, his eye fell on a crippled lad crying bitterly as he sat on a low doorstep. "Did you know Annie Graham, my lad?" he asked. "Know her, is it, sir? Niver a week passed but what she came twice or thrice with a picture or book, mayhap an apple for me, an' it's owin' to her an' no clergy at all that I'll iver follow her blessed footsteps to heaven. She'd read me from her own Bible whiniver she came, an' now she's gone there'll be none at all to help me, for mother's dead an' dad's drunk, and the sunshine's gone from Mike's sky with Annie, sir." A burst of sobs choked the boy. Dr. Gordon passed on, after promising him a visit very soon, making his way through the crowd of tear-stained, sorrowful faces. The doctor came to a stop again in the narrow passageway of the little house. A woman stood beside him drying her fast-falling tears, while a wee child hid his face in her skirts and wept. "Was Annie a relative of yours?" the doctor asked. "No; but the blessed child was at our house constantly, and when Bob here was sick, she nursed and tended him, and her hymns quieted him when nothing else seemed to do it. It was just the same with all the neighbors. What she's been to us no one but the Lord will ever know; and now she lies there." Recognized at last, Dr. Gordon was led to the room where the child lay at rest, looking almost younger than when he had seen her in his study a year ago. An old, bent woman was crying aloud by the coffin. "I never thought she'd go afore I did. She used to run in regular to read an' sing to me every evening, an' it was her talk an' prayers that made a Christian of me." "Mother, mother, come home," said a young man, putting his arm around her to lead her away. "You'll see her again." "I know, I know," she sobbed as she followed him; "but I miss her sore now." A silence fell on those assembled, and, marveling at such testimony, Dr. Gordon proceeded with the service, feeling as if there was little more he could say of one whose deeds thus spoke for her. Loving hands had laid flowers all around the child who had led them. One tiny lassie had placed a dandelion in the small waxen fingers, and now stood, abandoned to grief, beside the still form that bore the impress of absolute purity. The service over, again and again was the coffin lid waved back by some one longing for one more look, and they seemed as if they could not let her go. The next day a good-looking man came to Dr. Gordon's house, and was admitted into his study. "I am Annie's uncle, sir," he said simply. "She never rested till she made me promise to join the church, and I've come." Dr. Gordon sat in the twilight resting after his visitor had left. The summer breeze blew in through the windows, and his thoughts turned backward and dwelt on what his little parishioner had done. "Truly a marvelous record for one year. It is well said, 'Their angels do ever behold His face.'"—Christian Arbitrator.