The Penn's Grove record., 1883-08-18

had lost her faith, and straightway he
was fred with holy aTdor TODD something
for her spiritual benefit. But wen bis
tonguey confidence and righteousness
could CLEAN but little satisfaction from
his interviews with the rheumatic and
nnbelieving old woman.
"No, MI. Pendleton,'' she used to
say, shaking a thin rheumatic hand.
with an impressiveness which her hearef
might have copied adyantageously in
the pulpit, sit amt no use. You KIN
talk about SEEM with the spirit, an
worshippin' with the spirit; anybody
needsa little somethin' to catch hold on
with the flesh when it's all spirit it's
too much for a mortal bein' to compre-
bend, an the Lord knows l amt never
had much of anything but spirit. !
amt never had any evidence, so to
speak | amt never had a prayer
answered in my life. If Ihave, Id jest
like to know how. You say, mebbe,
they've been answered Jest the same,
only in a different way from | asked
for. Eff you call it answerin' prayer to
give one thing when you ask for another,
| don't. An I'd rather not believe
thar was any God than to believe He'd
do a thing like that. That's jest con-
trary to what He said about Himself
an the bread an the stone in the New
Testament. It's worse to think He'd
cheat anybody like that than to think
He amt anywhar, accordin' to my
mind. No, Mr.. Pendleton, a human
bein' needs a little human evidence once
in a while to keep up their faith, an |
amt never had any. I'll jest let you
know how it's been a leetle. Here 1
am, an old woman, an me an jack
sons lived here on this rock for forty
year. An thar's being things I've
wanted different, but | amt never had
'em-things that I've cried an gfoaned
an prayed to the Lord for-big things
an little things--but never got one.
Ef the Lord had give me one of the
little things, it seems to me that l
might have got a feeling that He was
here.
Forty year ago, when jackson an
me was jest married an set up house
keepin' here, thar was an awful storm
one night, an my father an broth
er was out yonder in it. I staid on
my knees all night prayin'. The next
mornin' their two darlin' bodies was
washed ashore. My brother had only
been married a few months-the sweet
est, lovingest little thing she a
She began to pine, | prayed to hev
her spared. She died, an left her little
baby
"But you had him for your own, did
you not ?" interrupted Mr.. Pendleton,
desperately. "He has been a comfort
to you. God has displayed His love
and mercy in this case in sparing him
to you.'
"Mr. Pendleton''-and the rheuma-
lie hand went up again-'I amt never
asked to hey him spared to me eff | had
it would hey been different. Iain't got
yet. Thar's been lots of other
big ones, that | might jest as
well not speak of, and little ones. Look
at that bridge ! Ill ventur' to say that
you shook in your shoes when you came
it, an wouldn't be sorry this min
ute eff you was safe back. Whenever
Jackson goes over it my heart is still
an cold till he comes back, for fear he's
fell through. I've prayed to the Lord
about that. Then-you may think this
little thing-but thar is Jackson's
He set out a rosebush in it
fifteen year age. Well, it amt died.
Thar amt w been a rose on it, though.
An it seems to me sometimes that if
,har should be jest n rose on that bush
hat l should believe that the Lord had
been thar. You wouldn't think I'd
been silly enough to pray about that. l
It's fifteen year, an thar ain'l never
a rose thar. No, MI. Pendleton,
t amt no use, You mean well, but it
avs with God, eff He's anywhar, to
,how Himself to me in a way | a get
lold on"
So the pretty, rosy-faced young min
ster would go away, picking his way
cautiously over the unstable bridge, after
! somewhat nonplussed prayer, which
Mrs. Reed, incapacitated from kneeling
by her rheumatic knees, had sat and lis
,ened to grimly.
The Bar Lighthouse was three miles
Rye. A sandy, desolate road,
almost us billowy as the sea, stretched
between, The only house in the whole
distance was a little brown M just at
lie other side of the bridge. They sup
themselves by sewing for a shop
Rye. Jackson Reeds nephew, Will
lam BarStow, a been engaged 10
marry the daughter-Abby her name
vas ; but a month ago he had brought a
wife home from the city. He had
rented a pretty little tenement I'VE in
Rye, and gone to housekeeping. Abby
Weaver had tied up a few little notes
and keepsakes in a neat parcel, and put
them away out of sight. Then she went
On with her work. She was a plain,
trustworthy looking girl, with no show
about her, as different as possible from
the one her recreant lover had married.
She was pretty, with an entrancing-lit-
tie air of style about everything she
wore. Abby had seen her go by a few
times in a jaunty velvet jacket and
Killed petticoat, with the fair round
face with its fringe of fluffy blonde hair
up at her husband out OF a be-
witching little poke. Then she had