The Winepress. Christine Beals
good children die they go to live with God in Heaven. She looked at the face of the dead child, then, gently, without the least dread or fear, she laid her warm little hand on the cold hand of her late playmate. She said no word, and showed no agitation. The act was to ascertain whether the child was truly robbed of life and action. This point settled, she turned and walked away, and the firm conviction in her little heart was: "If I had been God, I would not have done it."
She spoke no word in regard to the dead child to anyone, but while the other children romped and played, and forgot the absent one, she was quiet and silent, and she pondered the question for many days. Every phase of it that her childish mind could grasp was weighed and considered, and finally the verdict came. A God who loves little children would not have taken her playmate away. There must be two Gods, a good one and a bad one. Then her imagination lived for days in a conflict between these two Gods. The conflict always ended in the restoration of the dead child to his mother and playmates.
As she grew toward womanhood there was the usual joyousness and vivacity of girlhood, but she was thoughtful and reticent, a dreamer still. When she was wooed and won by the pastor, Maurice Thorpe, she was an educated woman, gentle and thoughtful, but her real nature, and the traits in her character that were to shape her life, were as the unturned pages of a book.
Mr. Thorpe entered the room unnoticed and stood by his wife's side. He thought she appeared very frail and girlish in her attitude of abandonment.
"What does the future hold for her and for me?" he questioned. Would the hidden fountains of her life unite with his and flow in an even stream until Eternity should engulf them in her countless ages? He felt no fear, no premonition of evil to come, yet his heart was strangely stirred.
"My dear one," he whispered, "may truth, purity and peace be yours."
Yet in the years that came, this petition was granted in so different a manner from any in which he had desired it to be, that had it been in his power, he would not have hesitated to recall it.
Mrs. Thorpe, aroused by the intuition of her husband's presence, sat upright in her chair, and, catching a glimpse of her face in a mirror on the wall, she brushed the fluffy brown hair from her temples.
"I sank down here in this delightful easy chair," she said, "and its seductive restfulness, together with the twitter of the birds, the breath of the flowers, and the hum of insects conspired, I do believe, to beguile me into the land of dreams."
"I am glad to see you resting," he said. "You have been finding a great deal to keep you busy. I hope you are not overtaxing your strength."
"I am not tired," she said, but her face grew grave and the shadow of her troubled thoughts lay in her eyes. "I am anxious to get household affairs running smoothly, so that I may have leisure for other work."
And as though in answer to her restless questioning, rather than to her spoken thought, he replied: "We shall find our happiness in our work and our love." He laid his hand caressingly against her hair. "What a wonderful thing it is," he said, "this service in the Vineyard, and what a beautiful thing, Evelyn, that we two can live and love and work together."
The twilight deepened as they sat together, silent mostly, yet conscious of that understanding and sympathy that is dearer than words. The sweet summer night closed in about them and enfolded them as a perfume-laden garment; and the sea of life stretched before them, without a ripple visible on its tranquil surface.
Later in the evening, as Mrs. Thorpe made her customary round of the house before retiring, she found her serving woman still busy in the kitchen.
"Not through with your work yet, Mary?" she said.
The woman was bustling about with flushed face and somewhat unsettled manner.
"The work being new to me, comes a little awkward at first," she said. "But I think I shall get it in hand before long."
Mrs. Thorpe suspected that the woman had been out during the afternoon, or for some reason had neglected her work, else she would not be thus belated. Before leaving the kitchen she said:
"I have been making some plans about the work, Mary; we will talk them over in the morning."
Mary signified her willingness, but her face took on an even deeper flush, and when her mistress had gone she sat down and covered her face with her hands.
But it was only for a few moments, then she arose and resolutely finished her work and went her way, carrying her own peculiar burdens.
Mrs. Thorpe, as she prepared for her night's repose, looked again toward the church, now dimly outlined in the night, and the thought came to her that something of the sacredness and power that pervaded it might perhaps in some way reflect upon her life and sanctify it, and lead her into green pastures, and beside still waters. She saw the church spire, tall and spectral in the moonlight.
"It is like a guardian angel," she thought, "watching through the day and through the night."
CHAPTER II
MARGARET
Mary McGowan, the serving woman, was a woman whose life was nearing its meridian. Her form, somewhat stooped, spoke of a life of labor; her hair, combed smoothly back from her face, was well sprinkled with gray.
When Mrs. Thorpe met her in the dining-room the next morning, there was something in the woman's face that for a moment appealed to her. A careworn face it was, not beautiful, but stamped unmistakably with an expression of refinement. For a moment the mistress hesitated; should she meet her cordially, gain her confidence and make a friend of her? The girlish impulse lasted but a second, and Mrs. Thorpe had herself well in hand again, and she covered what she believed to be her weakness with a somewhat severer dignity than she had assumed before, and came at once to business.
After arriving at a satisfactory understanding in regard to the work, they came to the question of hours.
"You are to have one afternoon each week, and the service hour on Sunday; the rest of your time I shall expect you to spend here," Mrs. Thorpe announced.
A sudden flush spread over Mrs. McGowan's face. She did not reply, but bowed her head in assent, and Mrs. Thorpe, satisfied with the interview, went at once to other duties.
In the kitchen a grim-faced woman went steadily about her work; but there was something in her countenance that made one believe the world not always kind to the children of men.
"Yet, after all," she thought, "what does it matter, if only Margaret gets through the school." And at the thought of her girl, her bonny Margaret, her heart grew warm within her.
The days passed by, and Mrs. Thorpe adhered with rigid precision to the rules and regulations she had established in her home, and devoted her leisure time in a systematic manner to the various societies and organizations conducted by the church.
Returning home one afternoon earlier than she had expected, she went to the kitchen on some small errand and found that Mary was not in. She waited for her return, and confronted her with unruffled mien.
"What excuse have you to offer for your absence this afternoon?" she asked.
"I have no excuse to offer."
"And is this the manner in which you keep your agreement?"
"Mrs. Thorpe, it is necessary for me to be away from the house at times, but I shall not fail in my duties here."
"You say that it is necessary for you to be away, yet you understood my terms and accepted them. Mary, this must not happen again."
"Then I must leave your employ, Mrs. Thorpe."
"Very well," replied the mistress, a red spot burning on either cheek; "I shall find someone else as soon as possible."
After supper Mrs. McGowan again left the parsonage and hurried along the street until she came to a small house a few blocks away.
"Why, mother mine, home so soon?" said a tall, dark-faced girl, as the mother entered the room. "What is it, mother? You look tired and worn. Is the work too