Newspaper Page Text
4 (52) THE
Family F
i I
THE CHRISTIAN S "GOOD NIGHT."
The early Christians were accustomed to bid their
dying friends "Good-night!" so sure were they of
their awakening at the Resurrection morning.
"SLEEP OX, BELOVED."
Sleep on, beloved, sleep on and take thy rest,
L>ay down thy head upon thy Saviour's breast;
We love thee well, but Jesus loves thee best?
Good-night!
p?lm (n 4U,. W *
vaiiu 10 iuj muuiucr as an iniaiii s sieep;
But thou shalt wake no more to toll and weep;
Thine is a perfect rest, secure and deep?
Good-night!
Until the shadow from this earth is cast,
Until He gathers in His Bheaves at last,
Until the Lenten gloom is overpast?
Good-night!
Until the Easter glory lights the skies,
Until the dead in Jesus shall arise,
And He shall come?but not in lowly guise?
Good-night!
Until, made beautiful by love divine,
Thou in the likeness of thy Lord shalt shine,
And He shall bring that golden crown of thine?
Good-night!
Only "Good-night!" beloved, not "Farewell!"
A little while, and all His saints shall dwell
In hallowed union, indivisible?
Good-night!
uuui we meet again Deiore his tnrone,
Clothed in the spotless robe He gave His own;
Good-night!
Sarah Doudney.
A SO NO UN 'iht; NIGHT.
Klspeth Ten nan t got out of a train at Broad
Street Station about three o'clock on a November
afternoon and made her way down the stairs to
the throng of the streets. She paused before
committing herself finally to what seemed an
inextricable confusion of vehicles and human
beings, and casually wondered how any of the
latter ever came out of it alive. Iler destination
was Cannon Street, and with the slow care
of a home-keeping person, unaccustomed to the
traffic, she made her way there in due course.
She was an insignificant figure, shabbily dressed,
but her worn face had great sweetness, her once
fine eyes a pathetic note of appeal. She did not
need to ask direction, as she had frequently
passed the large block of warehouses near the
great Cannon Hotel, and knew the doorway even
before the large brass plate with the names, Metcalf,
Dinisdale, Lovitt and Co., arrested her
attention. She entered the door, and, following
the direction of a pointing finger, ascended to
the first floor, where she was confronted with
a closed door bearing the usual legend, Office.
Pushing that open, she found herself in a small,
uarrow space, with a counter barring the way,
the rest of the place shut off by screens of obscured
glass. A youth with a pen behind his
ear appeared, and inquired her business and
her name.
"I want to see Mr. Metcalf, if you please."
"He ain't here, ma'am."
"When will he be here, tomorrow?"
"No, he's gone to Guildford till Monday."
"Can I see Mr. Dimsdale or Mr. Lovitt, then?"
"Mr. Lovitt's in, but he's engaged."
"Can I wait until he is diseneracred?"
The youth looked doubtful.
"He don't often see ladies; in fact, they don't
come, unless insurance ladies, and we know
them.''
"I'll wait a few moments, if you please, until
the gentleman goes, then you can take my
name," said Elspeth, and sank on to the hard
form against the wall, prepared for a dreary
half-hour or hour, perhaps, with a possible disappointment
at the end of it. But she was agree
PRESBYTERIAN OF THE S
?
headings
ably disappointed. Presently the youth looked
over the counter at her again.
"lie's gone, ma'am, out by the other door.
I can take your name, if you lifce, to Mr. Lovitt.
There's nobody with him now."
Elspeth opened her small green bag and took
out a square card with her name lithographed
on it in small, neat type. She had bought them
at the beginning of her married life for the purpose
of paying calls with, but neighbors at
m i n. i .1 i -
ruiesi \jraie iiaa not Deen very friendly, and
she had only used a very few. She had hunted
them out of a seldom-opened drawer for use
that day. She waited with a curious sickness
of heart, and even when the lad returned, in
a moment or so, and said Mr. Lovitt would see
her, she was scarcely cheered. She had never
seen Mr. Lovitt, who was the youngest partner
in the firm from which her husband had just
been discharged, but she had heard him spoken
of as a hard man, whom it was impossible to
get the better of. It was from his hands Tennant
had received his dismissal three days before.
She stepped in front of the youth through the
open door, and the warm air enveloped her
kindly; but the room seemed to swim before her
eyes, and it was a full moment before her vision
cleared and she could command her voice. Then
she was aware of an alert figure standing before
the fireplace, of a keen, clean-shaven face, and
a pair of remarkably piercing eyes.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Tennant; take a chair."
'' Thank you; it is very good of you to see me.
It was Mr. Metcalf I asked for."
"So I heard. Well, I suppose you have come
about Tennant's dismissal. I need hardly remind
you how long we have borne with him."
"I know that," she answered dully. "It has
been hanging over us for years."
"So long as that! How long is it since you
knew him to be unsteady, since he began to take
drink?"
"lie has always taken it, sir. I knew it when
we married. He signed the pledge then, and he
kept it for a good many years; in fact, until he
came here. Then there was a man who got a
great influence over him."
"You are talking of Duncombe, perhaps?"
i i ?y
J- C3.
"I don't know much, if anything, of the
private affairs of the staff," said Lovitt. "You
asked to see Mr. Metcalf today, but it was really
1 who dismissed your husband."
"Yes, sir, I understand that. I asked for
Mr. Metcalf, thinking that, perhaps, as he is a
Scotchman, he might take a little more interest
in us. You have no other fault to my husband,
I suppose?"
"Only the slackness which is inevitable in an
unsteady man. He had many warnings, and
knew quite well that this would come."
"The outlook is very black for us, Mr. Lovitt.
A man discharged without a character at forty
six lias not much chance."
"I should say myself that he had none," replied
Lovitt, without hesitation. "May I ask
what family you have!"
"We have had eight, and six are alive,"
"Eight, and you are a young woman yet!"
"Not very young; I was forty-two last week.
We have had a good deal of trouble with our
family; we have two invalids."
"Two! that is a great misfortune. What is
the matter f"
'' The eldest son has spine complaint ; he has
O U T H [ January 17, 1912.
not been off a sofa for seven years. Qe writes a
little, and sometimes makes a pound or two."
"That is a very heavy burden, Mrs. Tennant."
"In one way, yes, but we should not be able
to live without Arthur; he is the very centre of
our home life. Everyone loves him."
"He is very much upset about this, then?"
"I have not told him, and my husband has
not been home since he came to tell me on Tuesday
night that he had got his discharge. He
went down to his sister at Kye Park for a dav
or two."
"You have not saved anything, I supposet"
"Nothing whatever; all the surplus has gone
in doctors' bills; we have had a great many of
these to pay. I did not come here to whine, sir,
but to ask something from Mr. Metcalf."
"What was that?"
"If he would help me start a little business.
1 used to be a very clever dressmaker, and my
delicate daughter would help me. In course of
time we might be able to do well, if the rent
were guaranteed."
"But that would not help Tennant."
"No, sir, but he will try, of course, to get
something else to do."
"You don't blame him very much I notice.
I suppose that otherwise he has been a very good
husband to you?"
i ne very Dest, and the children adore him,"
said Elspeth Tennant as she rose to her feet.
Her eyes were welling, and it was her nature to
hide her care. No one, least of all the man
speaking to her now, would ever know what it
had cost her to come to the city that day.
"I am very glad I have seen you, Mrs. Tennant,
and I will mention the matter to Mr.
Metcalf when he returns to business on Monday.
Meanwhile, would you have any objection if I
came to pay a call at your house on Sunday
afternoon ?"
"We should be very pleased to see you, sir,"
she replied, quite sincerely.
Lovitt bade her good afternoon and after she
was gone pondered on the story he had heard.
Eight children, and Tpnnnnf Vn??t novo<
w 7 ? v.? ?UU UV TV^l nnu
more than two hundred a year! He was an
only son himself, and the heir to three separate
fortunes, besides being a sharer in one of the
most lucrative businesses in the city. Things were
unequally divided. He had been very severe on
Tennant, determined to keep up a high standard
of conduct in Cannon street, but he had not
considered all the circumstances. '' Poor beggar!
I don't blame him if he sought oblivion now
and again from the cares of the family. Eight,
by Jove, and two invalids! I like that woman.
She's got grit!"
On Sunday morning Elspeth Tennant went
to church, and the preacher, a man from the
North, chose as his text the words, "I call to
remembrance my song in the night."
She returned home comforted, and at the midday
meal the children wondered at her sunshiny
face. About three o'clock Lovitt came quietly
up the narrow path of the trim little garden and
knocked at the door, which was opened to him
by Janet, the third child, a sweet-faced girl about
sixteen, with large, serious eyes, and fair hair
hanging down her back.
"Mr. Lovittt" she said, smiling a little, and
immediately showed him into the family sittingroom,
where mother sat, with Arthur, the rest
of the children having gone out for a walk.
Mrs. Tennant welcomed him kindly, and even
with a sort of quiet dignity. He was struck by
the fact that in her own house she was a pretty
woman, though her face was faded and eareworn.
The boy Arthur received him joyfully,
and the two were soon talking as if they had been
acquainted for years. Lovitt had charming manners,
and something in the little household appealed
to him, and interested the softer side
i