“The melancholy days had come,
  The saddest of the year.”

ALL nature seemed to be resting in a quiet dreamy slumber. The bee had well nigh laid up its winter store, and many of the birds were preparing to leave for more genial climes in the sunny south. All these were but the harbingers of the cold storms that were lingering behind the snow-covered mountains of the north. Indian summer, the season of romance, like the life of a humble Christian,  [14] leaves its loveliest scenes to its departing hours. It was in the midst of these balmy days that you might have seen a traveler with a worn satchel in one hand and a staff in the other coming up a narrow lane leading to the home of a prosperous Western settler. He walked slowly, for he had left behind him many weary miles; his countenance, though calm, was pale and languid; yet his eye seemed to bespeak the hope that here he might find the much-needed rest.

Two men were standing beside the gate at the end of the lane when the stranger came up. The one was a kindly disposed person with but little force of character, and deficient in moral courage, whom we shall know as Mr. Kerr. The other, whose name was Steele, was the owner of the premises.

He was a large man, selfish and resolute, a conceited formalist, bigoted, exceedingly headstrong, and greatly prejudiced against all Christian zeal.

[15]No sooner did Mr. Steele notice the approach of the stranger than he turned to Mr. Kerr and exclaimed: “There, I’ll bet you, comes that Sunday-school, temperance loafer I’ve heard so much of lately. I reckon he expects to get in here; but I tell you, sir, my ‘shanty’ don’t hold the like of him, while I’m boss here, ‘that’s said!’” This was uttered with emphatic bitterness. To this passionate outburst Mr. Kerr ventured a little palliation by the remark that he had heard that in the other settlement the people seemed to like the missionary very well.

“You would have nothing to do with his nonsense, would you?” retorted Mr. Steele with a look of scorn.

“No,” feebly and insincerely muttered Mr. Kerr, “we have got along so far without it, and I guess we can get along without it a little further.”

“That’s my ticket,” sharply added Mr. Steele.

[16]By this time the stranger had reached the gate. A calm, pleasant smile lit up his pale countenance; and he accosted them with,

“Good evening, friends.”

“Good evening, sir,” responded Mr. Kerr.

“How d’ye do, sir,” thundered out Mr. Steele.

“This has been a very pleasant day,” ventured the traveler.

“Yes, sir,” curtly replied Mr. Steele.

“I am very tired,” continued the stranger; “could I stay with you to-night?”

“You are the fellow who goes about lecturing on temperance, and getting up Sunday-schools, aint you?” sarcastically rejoined Mr. Steele, his face reddening.

“That is my calling,” meekly added the man of God.

“Then you don’t stay all night in my house; I don’t harbor fellows who are too lazy to work,” sneeringly answered the excited Mr. Steele.

[17]“But I am very tired, and my head aches badly; I’ll pay you well.”

“Cant help it. The sooner you make tracks the better,” retorted the unfeeling man.

“I am afraid it will storm to-night,” continued the missionary, pointing to a dark cloud which was looming up in the west.

“You might have stayed at home and minded your own business, instead of minding other people’s, and kept out of this trouble,” replied Mr. Steele, with a look so severe that the poor wanderer lost all hope of any comfort or favor from this seemingly inhospitable dwelling; so he inquired how far it was to the next house.

“That depends entirely upon which way you go,” mockingly answered the hard-hearted man, with a wink to Mr. Kerr, and a conceited smile at the unfeeling wit he had displayed.

“I expect to continue my labors westward,” gently added the missionary.

[18]His soul was grieved at the hardness of this man’s heart, and for a moment he felt like looking upon his persecutor with anger. But he remembered that even his Lord and Master was mocked and derided; that “when He was reviled, He reviled not again; but as a lamb before his shearers is dumb, so He opened not his mouth.” And the humble follower of the Man of Sorrows in silence offered up the prayer, “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”

The door of common humanity being closed against him, he made up his mind to continue his journey, let the dangers and privations be what they might. An angel seemed to whisper, “I will lead thee in the way in which thou shalt go;” so he took courage.

Being thirsty, he ventured to ask for a drink of water.

“You can go to the spring,” was the abrupt answer, and the cruel man turned upon[19] his heel, and in company with Mr. Kerr passed on to the barn, leaving the suffering one standing by the gate alone.

But George, a lad of about ten years, and Mary, a little flower of seven summers, had looked on and listened with the curiosity common to children. Their hearts were filled with pity toward the poor man; and, when even a drink of water was denied him, the inherent kindness, implanted in all our natures, was instantly awakened.

In a moment, as the missionary turned the corner of the yard, the two children met him each with “a cup of cold water.” “Here is good fresh water, please drink,” said the little ones. His heart was melted at this unexpected exhibition of kindness; and invoking a blessing upon the dear children, he raised the cup to his lips and was refreshed. He then opened his satchel, and gave each child a picture card and Sunday-school paper, also cards for the men, together with a neat little[20] tract for their mother. Bidding them good-by, he with a sigh resumed his lonely journey.

The children, happy in having done a kindness, hurried to their mother, and were soon showing and admiring the papers and cards; she, mother-like, very naturally shared their pleasure, but thought of the stranger with a pang of regret, for she feared that he would take the road leading into an unsettled region, infested with wild beasts and roving Indians. After admiring the pictures, she told the children all she knew of the Sunday-school, for which these beautiful things were made, at the same time hoping that her husband’s opposition to them might be removed.

“I wish there was Sunday-school here,” said George.

“Won’t there be Sunday-school here, mother?” exclaimed both at once.

“I’m afraid not,” said their mother, sorrowfully, knowing the hostility of many of the neighbors toward anything of the kind.

[21]“Why not, mother?” innocently asked the children.

This was one of those questions children often ask, and which it is so hard to answer.

“I don’t know,” she replied, evasively, adding, “go give your father and Mr. Kerr their cards. They are at the barn.”

Hurrying out, their noisy delight soon arrested the attention of the men.

“What in the world is up now?” wondered their father.

“See here, father, see here!” exclaimed the children, holding out the cards.

“Who gave you these?” said he, reaching out his hand for the gifts, and suspecting the source.

“The man at the gate; we gave him a drink, and he gave us these (showing their cards) and a little book for mother, and this one for you and that one for Mr. Kerr.”

Looking for a moment at the engraving, he read, “For I was an hungered, and ye gave[22] me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in.”

Instantly the terrible reproof, associated with these words, awakened the man’s slumbering conscience. Writhing under its force he tried to construe the innocent gift into an insult; then flinging it to the ground he stamped his foot upon it.

At this exhibition of anger all the joy of the children vanished.

Mary began to cry, and George wondered what there was about the card to offend his father.

In the meantime, Mr. Kerr had read his card. The words were, “And these shall go away into everlasting punishment, but the righteous into life eternal.”

“What have you got?” sneeringly asked Mr. Steele, of his companion. Mr. Kerr read the text with some emotion.

“Just what I expected! he thought to give[23] us a cut,” said the angry man, at the same time adding many abusive words.

Mr. Kerr tried to assent to the remarks, but the words upon the card had touched his heart; and he felt like hating himself for having yielded, against his convictions, to the unreasonableness of his neighbor toward an unoffending stranger. Putting the card in his pocket, he was compelled to be an unwilling listener to the tirade of a would-be Christian (for Mr. Steele was a member of church) against prayer-meetings, temperance societies and Sunday-schools.

As soon as practicable, Mr. Kerr left for home; his conscience still at work, accusing him of cowardice, and partaking of another’s sin. “And these shall go away into everlasting punishment,” like a poisoned arrow was festering in his heart, until his guilty imagination conceived that the card contained his eternal doom.

Meeting his wife at the door of his house, he handed her the fatal card.

[24]“Oh, the kind stranger gave you this!” she exclaimed with animation. “He was here this afternoon, and gave each of us one of the same kind, and left one for you. And then he prayed with us. I wish he would settle here and get up a Sunday-school, of which he talked so much. I believe he is one of the best of men.”

“I wish so too;” involuntarily broke from the full heart of the stricken man; “I believe he is a good man. He came to Mr. Steele’s a few hours ago, but was turned off.”

“Why didn’t you bring him home with you?” she asked.

“Well, I know I ought to have done so; but I was afraid of Mr. Steele, who you know hates all such people.” To avoid any more questions on the subject, he asked to see what the man had left for him. The card was soon handed him, and he read: “Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul; but rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in Hell.”

[25]This was another arrow from the quiver of the Almighty. His wife soon detected the change that had come over him, and with becoming solicitude endeavored to find out the cause; but in this her efforts were evaded.

“I was afraid of Mr. Steele,” thought he, “who would not even dare to kill my body—whilst I did not fear Him who is able to destroy my soul.” Leaving him in his sorrow, we will return to Mr. Steele.

The children, mortified and discouraged, had left the barn, and gone to their mother for consolation in their disappointment. This was always afforded them; for never was a mother more kind to her little ones, and yet more decided in her endeavors to train them in the right way.

Mr. Steele, being conscious of having done wrong, tried to rid himself of his unpleasant feelings, by bustling about, doing first this, then that, for relief. It was late before he entered the house, and lest he should be suspected of regretting what he had done, he confronted his wife with, “I wonder what kind of trash that loafer left here with you and the children to-day? I guess he wants to set up an agency here.”

“They are in the bureau drawer, there,” said his wife, “shall I get them for you?”

“No, I don’t want to see any more of the trash;” and, going into another room, he sat down to read a political speech. But it failed to interest him. The coming darkness, the looming up of heavy clouds in the distance, the stranger out in the pathless wilds, the abused privilege of doing good to—perhaps, after all—one of the followers of the Redeemer; the text on the card with its indirect reproof, were thoughts which crowded themselves upon his mind. For a moment he wished that he had given the stranger shelter; but prejudice had too long held sway to be thus easily set aside. He had taken a stand, and he would maintain it, let the consequences be what they would.