A CHANGED LIFE

IT was a dull grey afternoon towards the end of October. Rhoda was seated in her low window-seat facing the setting sun, making a small frock for one of Mr. Brown's children, and singing softly to herself as she did so. Suddenly a hurried knock was heard at the door, and Miss Montague burst in, breathless and excited; she carried a small bag in her hand.

"I thought I should never get here," she exclaimed. "Can you put me up for a night or two? Such a dreadful thing has happened! If I wasn't strong-minded, I think I should go into hysterics; I am quite unstrung, and that hill has finished me!"

Rhoda saw she was as she said, quite unstrung. She made her sit down in an easy-chair, and then said quietly but firmly, "Now don't talk for a few minutes; just rest and be quiet. I will bring you a cup of tea. Hannah is having hers in the kitchen now, and I shall not be a moment."

Miss Montague looked very near tears, but she did as she was told, drank a hot cup of tea, and felt better.

"You have no idea what I have gone through to-day," she continued, as soon as she was able to speak. "I have never had such an experience before in all my life. You know my little maid—Nelly White; she has not been very well lately, complaining of a sharp pain in her side. I called in old Dr. Williams, who treated it as indigestion. She went to bed last night apparently much better; this morning she did not appear with my hot water. I went to her room, and I found—" here Miss Montague gave a little shiver—"I found her lying dead in her bed!"

Rhoda uttered a shocked exclamation.

"Yes; I rushed off for the doctor, and telegraphed for her parents, who fortunately live only eight miles off. I believe it is heart-disease; but isn't it awful? I simply can't stay in the house. I have made all arrangements, but I shall have to attend the inquest to-morrow. I thought you would come back with me to it. I came off out of the house as quickly as I could, but even now I can hardly believe it is true. Why, yesterday at this time she was bringing in my tea, as brightly as possible, and now she is lying there stiff and cold! Oh, death is terrible—I can't stand it!

"Suppose I should die like that! I have been haunted all day by the thought; it is nearly making me lose my senses. I thought of you with wonderful comfort, and have come to stay till I can get this out of my mind. Will you have me? Ah, you're sorry for me; I see you are! I would give worlds to have your faith, and to have no fear of death. I am not fit to die, Rhoda. I have lived a godless, selfish, worldly life; and I have been miserable for some time past. Do you remember I told you not to speak to me about these things till I asked you? Well—I ask you now. I tell you I am in abject terror; we seem so fearfully close to the other world.

"Poor little Nelly! She was such a good little servant. Do you know that she walked up to one of your Sunday services with a friend the other week? She has been reading her Bible diligently since. I wonder if she had a presentiment she was going to die! It seems a year since this morning. I have left my cat, my flowers, everything, and I feel as if I cannot go back. Do comfort me—say something—you seem a tower of strength!"

"Let us have a little prayer together," said Rhoda, softly.

And without a word, the worldly little woman sank on her knees, sobbing with fright and distress.

Very earnestly did Rhoda pray that this sad warning might lead her to the Saviour, and that she might yield herself up—soul and body—into His keeping, now and for ever. When they rose from their knees, she stooped and kissed her.

"You must take this as a message from God," she said.

"Oh, but it is such a cruel way of sending a message, such an awful shock! I thought I was strong-minded enough to endure anything, but I always told you I fight shy of the dreadful things in life,—and now for this to happen to me seems so hard!"

"If Nelly was a child of God, she could not have a happier or easier translation to her home above. And, dear Miss Montague, perhaps God has found you have not heeded His gentle voice calling you, so He has had to speak in a louder tone."

Miss Montague shivered.

They talked together for some time longer, but Rhoda felt that in her friend's present unnerved state it would be unwise to urge decision upon her. She could only pray that the strong impression made might not wear off.

And after a night's rest, Miss Montague recovered her self-possession; but she was now earnestly desirous of finding true rest for her soul, and did not shun the help that Rhoda was only too anxious to give. It did indeed seem as if this sad incident had brought the realities of life and death before her in a way that she had never seen them before. And towards the end of that morning, Rhoda had the intense joy of witnessing her stepping into the Kingdom as simply and trustingly as a little child.

"I will visit the sick and poor every day of my life, if God wishes me to," she said, as she turned a tearful yet shining face towards Rhoda. "That has been the struggle; for a long time I have been fighting against that thought, I felt I could not do it. But I think I could be a hospital nurse, or a tract distributor in the slums, to have the assurance that I belong to Him."

Later on, she said, "I must go back this afternoon, but could you—is it asking you too much—come home with me, and stay for a day or two? I dread being alone there. Yes, I cannot get over my nervous feelings, though I know it is wrong."

Rhoda willingly agreed, and the day or two lengthened into a fortnight's visit. She did not leave her till she was comfortably settled with a fresh maid, and many and long were the spiritual talks they had together.

Dora Montague was a changed woman. She still had a great deal to learn, and her tongue was as voluble as ever, though a vein of earnestness had crept into her tone, and the sad event in her little household had left a shade upon her brow.

But she was happy; and the peace in her heart, after long years of restlessness, was such a new and blessed experience that she could hardly understand it.

One of the first things she did was to grip hold of Miss Frith's hand across the little shop-counter, and say, to the utmost astonishment of that good woman,—

"I am converted, so must shake hands with you. I dare say you won't believe it, but I really am. And it is through Miss Carlton. I know you are a real Christian, so I shall come in and ask your advice about things, when I can't get hold of her. Do you know of any needy family in the village? I am going to take a district. Won't Mr. Long be pleased?"

And she rattled on, leaving Miss Frith transfixed with amazement, though she did her best to respond, with as much warmth as she ever showed to any one.

Mrs. Hutton was just making preparations for going abroad again, but Miss Montague managed to tell her of the change in her life.

"You are so vehement," Mrs. Hutton said calmly; "you talk of being converted as if you were a heathen or a drunkard. I do not hear Rhoda Carlton speak as you do. She takes things so much more quietly."

"Because she is accustomed to them," retorted Miss Montague. "My dear Mrs. Hutton, I feel as if I am only just beginning life; I never would have imagined it would make so much difference to one. Excuse my asking you, but have you ever gone through my experience?"

"Never; and I hope I never shall, if it produces such excitement."

"Now, that is too bad. You were always glad when I raved about my dear puss or my flowers. You never said I was excited then, and now of course you put me down as a fanatic. Ah, well, I used to do the same thing myself! But I am sorry you're not pleased about it. You have so often complained of my frivolity before that I thought you would like to know I am going to take things more seriously now. Don't you believe in me at all?"

Mrs. Hutton put up her gold "pince-nez," and criticized her visitor from head to foot.

"I shall be away six months," she said drily; "I will tell you whether I believe in you seven months hence."

"That is if you are alive," put in Miss Montague. "Since my little maid's death, every life seems to me to be trembling in the balance. Why, you might go to sleep any night, and never wake up in this world any more!"

Mrs. Hutton rose to her feet.

"I am going for my usual drive," she said; "if you like, to come with me do, if not, I must ask you to excuse me."

"I am afraid I must get home. I went to see that family outside your lodge gates to-day. Did you know one of the boys was a cripple? I quite enjoyed my talk with him."

"Ah, well," said the old lady, sagely nodding her head, "if you keep on visiting the poor, I shall believe in you. But don't think every one has to go through the same experience as yours, and don't think it necessary to remind every one you come across of their death-bed."

The third person to whom Miss Montague spoke about the change in herself was Mr. Long. She met him in the street and invited him to tea with her, stopping his hesitating excuses by saying, "Now don't be afraid I am going to be rude. The past is past, and I hope you will forget it. I really want to tell you something that as my pastor you ought to know."

She led the unwilling young man to her house, and after giving him a very dainty tea, plunged at once into her subject.

"To begin with," she said, "I will take a district in Ashampton. Now don't you wonder what has made me change my mind? It is not love for the poor, I am afraid, or for the dirt and misery that I shall find, but the fact is, I am a changed woman—I am converted. Ah, I thought you would open your eyes. It is true, and I cannot tell you how happy I am. It is all the difference between existence and life. Ah, why did you not tell me about these things before? If you are a real Christian, how can you keep the blessedness of such a life so in the background? But I am not going to reproach you. I am learning a lot of things, and one of them, I hope, is to have more sympathy and charity towards my fellow-creatures."

Mr. Long certainly was very astonished at these words, but all he said was, "I am glad that you are—that you see things differently. We shall be very thankful to have your help in the parish."

"Well," said Miss Montague, "I must say you take my news very coolly. Aren't you delighted? You ought to be. Do you think I am pretending? Do you realize what it is to a poor restless, frivolous soul to be suddenly linked on to Christ Himself, and be the recipient of all His loving care and the blessings He bestows? Can you imagine what it is to me, who have all my life dreaded death with an unspeakable dread, to be able to look forward and even long for it, having the assurance that it will be but a step into heaven—'for ever with the Lord'?

"Does this sound strange and meaningless to you? I tell you what, Mr. Long; if you have not experienced this full life, don't you rest till you get it, and you will find then that you have a burning desire to pass it on. I believe there are a great many who stop halfway, and are content to follow 'afar off.' I don't want to be one of those. Pray that I may be kept close to the Lord, for I am but a beginner. Only I do long that others should experience the same enjoyment and rest that I am doing."

Mr. Long looked uncomfortable; he began to talk about parish matters, and then took his leave.

But Miss Montague's straightforward words made a great impression upon him, and as he watched her altered life, he began to wonder if his own life was as fruitful as it ought to be. Things wore a different aspect now to him, for hours at night did he pore over his Bible.

As time went on, his sermons seemed to gain in power and earnestness, and he gradually came to realize the joy and liberty in the Lord's service as he never had done before. He was very quiet about it, but the poor whom he visited soon felt the difference in his tone, and learnt from him, for the first time, lessons of a Saviour's love, and of His saving and helping power.

One afternoon, he met Miss Montague coming out of a house where a sick lad was dying. They walked down the street together, but as they parted, he said hesitatingly, whilst a flush came to his sallow cheek,—

"Miss Montague, I have wanted to thank you for a long time for the few words you said to me some time ago. They were the means of opening my eyes to a great deal. I think I was following 'afar off,' and I realize now, as I never have before, the joy of a closer walk with our Master."

Tears came into Miss Montague's eyes, which she tried in vain to conceal. She grasped his hand.

"Mr. Long, it is good of you to say this to me, but oh, how glad I am! And let me tell you what a refreshment and comfort your sermons have been lately. I have led such a dreadfully selfish, idle life myself, that I wonder I dared say a word to you; I always feel condemned when I think of my past."

"We will work and help each other now," rejoined the young man.

And from that day he and Miss Montague were staunch friends.