“Upon that place stood a Cross, and a little below, in the bottom, a Sepulchre. So I saw in my dream, that just as Christian came up with the Cross, his burden loosed from off his shoulders, and fell from off his back.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.
“Well, this has been a pretty end to your fine pilgrimage!” cried Jack, as Mark, resolved to tell the truth, whatever it might cost him, finished the account of his rupture with the farmer.
“The end!” said Mark; “my pilgrimage is scarcely begun.”
“It’s a sort of backward travelling, I should say,” laughed Jack. “You begin with quarrelling and stealing; I wonder what you’ll come to at last?”
Mark was naturally of a quick and ardent spirit, only too ready to avenge insult, whether with his tongue or his hand. But at this moment his pride was subdued, he felt less inclined for angry retort; the young pilgrim was more on his guard; his first fall had taught him to walk carefully. Without replying, therefore, to the
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 taunt of Jack, or continuing the subject at all, he turned to Ann Dowley, and asked her if she could lend him a needle and thread.
“What do you want with them?” asked Ann.
“Why, I am afraid that I shall be but a poor hand at the work, but I thought that I might manage to patch up one or two of these great holes, and make my dress look a little more respectable.”
“And why do you wish to look respectable?” asked Madge, glancing at him through the uncombed, unwashed locks that hung loosely over her brow; “we get more when we look ragged.”
“To-morrow is Sunday,” Mark briefly replied, “and I am going to church.”
“To church!” exclaimed every other voice in the cottage, in a tone of as much surprise as if he had said that he was going to prison. Except Ann, in better days, not one of the party had ever crossed the threshold of a church.
“Well, if ever!” exclaimed Jack; “why on earth do you go there?”
“I go because I think it right to do so, and because I think that it will help me on my way.”
“And what will you do when you get there?” laughed Ben.
“I shall listen, learn, and pray.”
Ann, who, by dint of searching in a most disorderly
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 box, filled with a variety of odds and ends, had drawn forth first thread and then needle, stretched out her hand towards Mark. “Give me your jacket, I will mend it,” said she.
“Oh, thank you, how kind!” he cried, pulling it off, pleased with an offer as unexpected as it was unusual.
“I think,” said Madge, “that the shirt wants mending worse than the jacket; under that hole on the shoulder I can see the red mark quite plainly.”
“Be silent, and don’t talk nonsense!” cried Ann, impatiently.
The children glanced at each other, and were silent.
“Are you going to the near church by the wood?” said Ann.
“No,” replied Mark; “I have two reasons for going to Marshdale, though it is six or seven miles off. I would rather not go where—where I am known; and judging from the direction in which his carriage was driven, I think that I should have a better chance at Marshdale of hearing Mr. Ewart.”
“Hearing whom?” exclaimed Ann, almost dropping her work, whilst the blood rushed up to her face.
“Mr. Ewart, the clergyman who has been so kind, the tutor to Lord Fontonore.”
“Lord Fontonore! does he live here?” cried Ann, almost trembling with excitement as she spoke.
“I do not know exactly where he lives. I should
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 think it some way off, as the carriage was put up at the inn. Did you ever see the clergyman, mother?”
“He used to visit at my last place,” replied Ann, looking distressed.
“I think I’ve heard father talk about Lord Fontonore,” said Madge.
“No, you never did,” cried Ann, abruptly.
“But I’m sure of it,” muttered Madge in a sullen tone.
“If you know the clergyman, that’s good luck for us,” said Ben. “I daresay that he’ll give us money if we get up a good story about you; only he’s precious sharp at finding one out. He wanted to pay us a visit.”
“Don’t bring him here; for any sake don’t bring him here!” exclaimed Ann, looking quite alarmed. “You don’t know the mischief, the ruin you would bring. I never wish to set eyes upon that man.”
“I can imagine her feelings of pain,” thought Mark, “by my own to-day, when I first saw the clergyman. There is something in the very look of a good man which seems like a reproach to us when we are so different.”
The next morning, as Mark was dressing for church, he happily noticed, before he put on his jacket, the word Pilgrim chalked in large letters upon the back.
“This is a piece of Jack’s mischief,” he said to himself. “I am glad that it is something that can easily be set right—more glad still that I saw it in time. I will
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 take no notice of this piece of ill-nature. I must learn to bear and forbear.”
Mark endured in silence the taunts and jests of the children on his setting out on his long walk to church. He felt irritated and annoyed, but he had prayed for patience; and the consciousness that he was at least trying to do what was right seemed to give him a greater command over his temper. He was heartily glad, however, when he got out of hearing of mocking words and bursts of laughter, and soon had a sense even of pleasure as he walked over the sunny green fields.
At length Marshdale church came in view. An ancient building it was, with a low, ivy-covered tower, and a small arched porch before the entrance. It stood in a churchyard, which was embosomed in trees, and a large yew-tree, that had stood for many an age, threw its shadow over the lowly graves beneath.
A stream of people was slowly wending along the narrow gravel walk, while the bell rang a summons to prayer. There was the aged widow, leaning on her crutch, bending her feeble steps, perhaps for the last time, to the place where she had worshipped from a child; there the hardy peasant, in his clean smock-frock, leading his rosy-cheeked boy; and there walked the lady, leaning on her husband’s arm, with a flock of little ones before her.
Mark stood beneath the yew-tree, half afraid to venture
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 further, watching the people as they went in. There were some others standing there also, perhaps waiting because a little early for the service, perhaps only idling near that door which they did not mean to enter. They were making observations on some one approaching.
“What a fine boy he looks! You might know him for a lord! Does he stay long in the neighbourhood?”
“Only for a few weeks longer, I believe; he has a prodigious estate somewhere, I hear, and generally lives there with his uncle.”
 
AT THE CHURCH.
As the speaker concluded, young Lord Fontonore passed before them, and his bright eye caught sight of
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 Mark Dowley. Leaving the path which led to the door, he was instantly at the side of the poor boy.
“You are coming into church, I hope?” said he earnestly; then continued, without stopping for a reply, “Mr. Ewart is to preach; you must not stay outside.” Mark bowed his head, and followed into the church.
How heavenly to the weary-hearted boy sounded the music of the hymn, the many voices blended together in praise to the Saviour. God made him think of the harmony of heaven! Rude voices, unkind looks, quarrelling, falsehood, fierce temptations—all seemed to him shut out from that place, and a feeling of peace stole over his spirit, like a calm after a storm. He sat in a retired corner of the church, unnoticed and unobserved: it was as though the weary pilgrim had paused on the hot, dusty highway of life, to bathe his bruised feet in some cooling stream, and refresh himself by the wayside.
Presently Mr. Ewart ascended the pulpit with the Word of God in his hand. Mark fixed his earnest eyes upon the face of the preacher, and never removed them during the whole of the sermon. His was deep, solemn attention, such as befits a child of earth when listening to a message from Heaven.
The subject of the Christian minister’s address was the sin of God’s people in the wilderness, and the means by which mercy saved the guilty and dying. He described the scene so vividly that Mark could almost fancy that
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 he saw Israel’s hosts encamping in the desert around the tabernacle, over which hung a pillar of cloud, denoting the Lord’s presence with his people. God had freed them from bondage, had saved them from their foes, had guided them, fed them, blessed them above all nations, and yet they rebelled and murmured against Him. Again and again they had broken His law, insulted His servant, and doubted His love; and at last the long-merited punishment came. Fiery serpents were sent into the camp, serpents whose bite was death, and the miserable sinners lay groaning and dying beneath the reptiles’ venomous fangs.
“And are such serpents not amongst us still?” said the preacher; “is not sin the viper that clings to the soul, and brings it to misery and death! What ruins the drunkard’s character and name, brings poverty and shame to his door? The fiery serpent of sin! What brings destruction on the murderer and the thief? The fiery serpent of sin! What fixes its poison even in the young child, what has wounded every soul that is born into the world? The fiery serpent of sin!”
Then the minister proceeded to tell how, at God’s command, Moses raised on high a serpent made of brass, and whoever had faith to look on that serpent, recovered from his wound, and was healed. He described the trembling mothers of Israel lifting their children on high to look on the type of salvation; and the dying fixing
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 upon it their dim, failing eyes, and finding life returning as they gazed!
“And has no such remedy been found for man, sinking under the punishment of sin? Thanks to redeeming love, that remedy has been found; for as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so hath the Son of Man been lifted up, that whoso believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life! Behold the Saviour uplifted on the cross, His brow crowned with thorns, blood flowing from His side, and the wounds in His pierced hands and feet! Why did He endure the torment and the shame, rude blows from the hands that His own power had formed—fierce taunts from the lips to which He had given breath. It was that He might redeem us from sin and from death—it was that the blessed Jesus might have power to say, Look unto Me and be ye saved, all ends of the earth.
“We were sentenced to misery, sentenced to death; the justice of God had pronounced the fearful words—The soul that sinneth it shall die! One came forward who knew no sin, to bear the punishment due unto sin; our sentence is blotted out by His blood; the sword of justice has been sheathed in His breast; and now there is no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus; their ransom is paid, their transgressions are forgiven for the sake of Him who loved and gave Himself for them. Oh, come to the Saviour, ye weary and heavy laden—come
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 to the Saviour, ye burdened with sin, dread no longer the wrath of an offended God; look to Him and be ye saved, all ye ends of the earth!”
Mark had entered that church thoughtful and anxious, he left it with a heart overflowing with joy. It was as though sudden light had flashed upon darkness; he felt as the cripple must have felt when given sudden strength, he sprang from the dust, and went walking, and leaping, and praising God. “No condemnation!” he kept repeating to himself, “no condemnation to the penitent sinner! All washed away—all sin blotted out for ever by the blood of the crucified Lord! Oh, now can I understand that blessed verse in Isaiah, ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.’ ‘Praise the Lord, O my soul! and all that is within me, praise His holy name!’”
That hour was rich in blessings to the young pilgrim, and as he walked towards home, with a light step and lighter heart, it was his delight to count them over. He rejoiced in the free forgiveness of sins, which now for the first time he fully realized. He rejoiced that he might now appear before God, not clothed in the rags of his own imperfect works, but the spotless righteousness of his Redeemer. He rejoiced that the Lord had sealed him for His own, and given him sweet assurance of His pardon and His love. Oh, who can rejoice as the Christian rejoices when he looks to the cross and is healed!