The Seaboard Parish, Complete. George MacDonald

Mayn’t one human being help another?”

      “It is the highest duty one human being owes to another. But whoever wants to learn must pray, and think, and, above all, obey—that is simply, do what Jesus says.”

      There followed a little silence, and I could hear my child sobbing. And the tears stood in; my wife’s eyes—tears of gladness to hear her daughter’s sobs.

      “I will try, papa,” Constance said at last. “But you will help me?”

      “That I will, my love. I will help you in the best way I know; by trying to tell you what I have heard and learned about him—heard and learned of the Father, I hope and trust. It is coming near to the time when he was born;—but I have spoken quite as long as you are able to bear to-night.”

      “No, no, papa. Do go on.”

      “No, my dear; no more to-night. That would be to offend against the very truth I have been trying to set forth to you. But next Sunday—you have plenty to think about till then—I will talk to you about the baby Jesus; and perhaps I may find something more to help you by that time, besides what I have got to say now.”

      “But,” said my wife, “don’t you think, Connie, this is too good to keep all to ourselves? Don’t you think we ought to have Wynnie and Dora in?”

      “Yes, yes, mamma. Do let us have them in. And Harry and Charlie too.”

      “I fear they are rather young yet,” I said. “Perhaps it might do them harm.”

      “It would be all the better for us to have them anyhow,” said Ethelwyn, smiling.

      “How do you mean, my dear?”

      “Because you will say things more simply if you have them by you. Besides, you always say such things to children as delight grown people, though they could never get them out of you.”

      It was a wife’s speech, reader. Forgive me for writing it.

      “Well,” I said, “I don’t mind them coming in, but I don’t promise to say anything directly to them. And you must let them go away the moment they wish it.”

      “Certainly,” answered my wife; and so the matter was arranged.

CHAPTER IV. A SUNDAY EVENING.

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      When I went in to see Constance the next Sunday morning before going to church, I knew by her face that she was expecting the evening. I took care to get into no conversation with her during the day, that she might be quite fresh. In the evening, when I went into her room again with my Bible in my hand, I found all our little company assembled. There was a glorious fire, for it was very cold, and the little ones were seated on the rug before it, one on each side of their mother; Wynnie sat by the further side of the bed, for she always avoided any place or thing she thought another might like; and Dora sat by the further chimney-corner, leaving the space between the fire and my chair open that I might see and share the glow.

      “The wind is very high, papa,” said Constance, as I seated myself beside her.

      “Yes, my dear. It has been blowing all day, and since sundown it has blown harder. Do you like the wind, Connie?”

      “I am afraid I do like it. When it roars like that in the chimneys, and shakes the windows with a great rush as if it would get into the house and tear us to pieces, and then goes moaning away into the woods and grumbles about in them till it grows savage again, and rushes up at us with fresh fury, I am afraid I delight in it. I feel so safe in the very jaws of danger.”

      “Why, you are quite poetic, Connie,” said Wynnie.

      “Don’t laugh at me, Wynnie. Mind I’m an invalid, and I can’t bear to be laughed at,” returned Connie, half laughing herself, and a little more than a quarter crying.

      Wynnie rose and kissed her, whispered something to her which made her laugh outright, and then sat down again.

      “But tell me, Connie,” I said, “why you are afraid you enjoy hearing the wind about the house.”

      “Because it must be so dreadful for those that are out in it.”

      “Perhaps not quite so bad as we think. You must not suppose that God has forgotten them, or cares less for them than for you because they are out in the wind.”

      “But if we thought like that, papa,” said Wynnie, “shouldn’t we come to feel that their sufferings were none of our business?”

      “If our benevolence rests on the belief that God is less loving than we, it will come to a bad end somehow before long, Wynnie.”

      “Of course, I could not think that,” she returned.

      “Then your kindness would be such that you dared not, in God’s name, think hopefully for those you could not help, lest you should, believing in his kindness, cease to help those whom you could help! Either God intended that there should be poverty and suffering, or he did not. If he did not intend it—for similar reasons to those for which he allows all sorts of evils—then there is nothing between but that we should sell everything that we have and give it away to the poor.”

      “Then why don’t we?” said Wynnie, looking truth itself in my face.

      “Because that is not God’s way, and we should do no end of harm by so doing. We should make so many more of those who will not help themselves who will not be set free from themselves by rising above themselves. We are not to gratify our own benevolence at the expense of its object—not to save our own souls as we fancy, by putting other souls into more danger than God meant for them.”

      “It sounds hard doctrine from your lips, papa,” said Wynnie.

      “Many things will look hard in so many words, which yet will be found kindness itself when they are interpreted by a higher theory. If the one thing is to let people have everything they want, then of course everyone ought to be rich. I have no doubt such a man as we were reading of in the papers the other day, who saw his servant girl drown without making the least effort to save her, and then bemoaned the loss of her labour for the coming harvest, thinking himself ill-used in her death, would hug his own selfishness on hearing my words, and say, ‘All right, parson! Every man for himself! I made my own money, and they may make theirs!’ You know that is not exactly the way I should think or act with regard to my neighbour. But if it were only that I have seen such noble characters cast in the mould of poverty, I should be compelled to regard poverty as one of God’s powers in the world for raising the children of the kingdom, and to believe that it was not because it could not be helped that our Lord said, ‘The poor ye have always with you.’ But what I wanted to say was, that there can be no reason why Connie should not enjoy what God has given her, although he has not thought fit to give as much to everybody; and above all, that we shall not help those right whom God gives us to help, if we do not believe that God is caring for every one of them as much as he is caring for every one of us. There was once a baby born in a stable, because his poor mother could get no room in a decent house. Where she lay I can hardly think. They must have made a bed of hay and straw for her in the stall, for we know the baby’s cradle was the manger. Had God forsaken them? or would they not have been more comfortable, if that was the main thing, somewhere else? Ah! if the disciples, who were being born about the same time of fisher-fathers and cottage-mothers, to get ready for him to call and teach by the time he should be thirty years of age—if they had only been old enough, and had known that he was coming—would they not have got everything ready for him? They would have clubbed their little savings together, and worked day and night, and some rich women would have helped them, and they would have dressed the baby in fine linen, and got him the richest room their money would get, and they would have made the gold that the wise men brought into a crown for