Miss Prudence | Page 7

"When I was six I didn't know my small letters. Was he so bright
because he was French?"
The gentleman laughed and remarked that the French were a pretty
bright nation.
"Is that all you know about him?"
"Oh, no, indeed; there's a large book of his memoirs in my library. He
visited many of the crowned heads of Europe."
There was another question forming on Marjorie's lips, but at that
instant her mother opened the door. Now she would hear no more about
Stephen Grellet and she could not ask about the Wicket Gate or Mercy
or the children.
Rising in her pretty, respectful manner she gave her mother the spring
rocker and pushed an ottoman behind the stove and seated herself
where she might watch Evangelist's face as he talked.
How the talk drifted in this direction Marjorie did not understand; she
knew it was something about finding the will of the Lord, but a story
was coming and she listened with her listening eyes on his face.
"I had been thinking that God would certainly reveal his will if we

inquired of him, feeling sure of that, for some time, and then I had this
experience."
Marjorie's mother enjoyed "experiences" as well as Marjorie enjoyed
stories. And she liked nothing better than to relate her own; after
hearing an experience she usually began, "Now I will tell you mine."
Marjorie thought she knew every one of her mother's experiences. But
it was Evangelist who was speaking.
The little girl in the brown and blue plaid dress with red stockings and
buttoned boots, bent forward as she sat half concealed behind the stove
and drank in every word with intent, wondering, unquestioning eyes.
Her mother listened, also, with eyes as intent and believing, and years
afterward, recalled this true experience, when she was tempted to take
Marjorie's happiness into her own hands, her own unwise,
haste-making hands.
"My wife had been dead about two years," began Evangelist again,
speaking in a retrospective tone. "I had two little children, the elder not
eight years old, and my sister was my housekeeper. She did not like
housekeeping nor taking care of children. Some women don't. She
came to me one day with a very serious face. 'Brother,' said she, 'you
need a wife, you must have a wife. I do not know how to take care of
your children and you are almost never at home.' She left me before I
could reply, almost before I could think what to reply. I was just home
from helping a pastor in Wisconsin, it was thirty-six degrees below
zero the day I left, and I had another engagement in Maine for the next
week. I was very little at home, and my children did need a mother. I
had not thought whether I needed a wife or not; I was too much taken
up with the Lord's work to think about it. But that day I asked the Lord
to find me a wife. After praying about it three days it came to me that a
certain young lady was the one the Lord had chosen. Like Peter, I drew
back and said, 'Not so, Lord.' My first wife was a continual spiritual
help to me; she was the Lord's own messenger every day; but this lady,
although a church member, was not particularly spiritually minded.
Several years before she had been my pupil in Hebrew and Greek. I

admired her intellectual gifts, but if a brother in the ministry had asked
me if she would be a helpful wife to him, I should have hesitated about
replying in the affirmative. And, yet here it was, the Lord had chosen
her for me. I said, 'Not so, Lord,' until he assured me that her heart was
in his hand and he could fit her to become my wife and a mother to my
children. After waiting until I knew I was obeying the mind of my
Master, I asked her to marry me. She accepted, as far as her own heart
and will were concerned, but refused, because her father, a rich and
worldly-minded man, was not willing for her to marry an itinerant
preacher.
"I had not had a charge for three years then. I was so continually called
to help other pastors that I had no time for a charge of my own. So it
kept on for months and months; her father was not willing, and she
would not marry me without his consent. My sister often said to me, 'I
don't see how you can want to marry a woman that isn't willing to have
you,' but I kept my own counsel. I knew the matter was in safe hands. I
was not at all troubled; I kept about my