IT WAS vacation time—in August. Teresa said she had never seen a dryer or a hotter summer in her whole existence. Gabriel and his sister had gone to visit their family in the country and we had our usual “red letter” time at Grandmother Dumas’ house. We had returned from our visit greatly refreshed—all except Paula, who seemed to have lost somewhat of that perpetual happiness which, when she appeared on the scene had always been such a tonic to us all. She had tried her best not to show it, but she gave us all the impression that she tired very quickly.
“I think the reason you tire so soon is because you’re growing so quickly,” said Teresa. Paula laughed and said that that wasn’t her fault.
One morning my father seemed to be looking at her more intently than usual. He finally said, “You’re not feeling well; are you, Paula?”
“I’m all right, dear uncle,” she said. “Sometimes I get a bit tired. I think it must be the heat.”
“But, my dear child, you hardly eat anything at all, and you’ve lost those roses in your cheeks.”
He still continued looking at her—then suddenly he said, “I’ll tell you one thing that I think would please you very much. Do you know what that would be?”
“What, sir?” and Paula seemed to regain all her usual animation.
“I think,” said my father slowly in a low voice as if talking to himself, “I think you” —and he paused a moment— “What would you say if you were to go to church with Celestina on Sundays?”
“Oh, dear uncle, could I really go?” Paula jumped to her feet excitedly.
“Yes, I think I’ll let you go—and” —again he hesitated a bit— “if Teresa, Rosa and Lisita wish to, they may go along too.”
“And you, dear uncle, will you not come with us?” questioned Paula, as she looked into the sad, stern face that had softened considerably of late.
“We shall see, we shall see. But you’d better not count on me. My, oh, me! Just see! Those roses have all come back again!”
“Well, but you don’t know how happy you’ve made me!” said Paula as she fairly danced out of the house with me to tell the news to Celestina.
“Well,” said Celestina, “all I can say is that the Lord heard my prayers and yours, dear Paula. It’s the great weapon of the weak and needy, and in fact can be the power to serve all and anyone who will surrender themselves and all they are into the hands of the Saviour.”
We had seated ourselves near the door of her little cottage. Something in the deep tones of the old lady’s voice seemed to search my very heart. We always enjoyed listening to this old saint who, like Enoch and Noah, walked with God. We seemed to be drawn closer to God in her humble little cottage than in any other place.
“You see,” she continued, “I’m old and quite feeble, and besides I’m poor, and can’t do very much for other folks; but there’s one thing I can do, and that is, pray. And I do pray for everybody—and especially for you and your family, my dear young friends. God doesn’t let me see many results of my prayers, but that doesn’t discourage me. I just keep everlastingly at it, and I can leave the results to Him. Has He not said, through the mouth of His Apostle John, ‘This is the confidence that we have in Him, that if we ask anything according to His will, He heareth us, and if we know that He hear us, whatsoever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we desired of Him.’
“I remember once hearing a certain hymn about prayer. I never could remember all the verses, but most of it has remained deeply engraved in my memory although I only heard it once. It was sung by a young missionary from Africa who happened to be passing through Paris. It was at a meeting which I attended as a young girl many years ago.”
“Please sing it to us, dear Celestina,” said Paula, “even though you may not remember it all.”
“Well, my dear young friends,” said Celestina, “that old hymn has been my comfort and the inspiration of my prayers through all the years since I heard it sung so long ago in Paris where I lived when I was young. Here it is;” and as those quavering notes sounded, we seemed lifted toward that heavenly Throne of which she sang.
On heavenly heights an Angel stands.
He takes our prayer in heavenly hands,
And with celestial incense rare,
He mingles every heart-felt prayer
Of those who trust His precious blood
To reconcile their souls to God.
Then from that glorious heavenly place
Descend the lightnings of His grace;
To heal, to strengthen and provide
For those who trust in Him who died.
“Who died,” I say? Yea, He who rose
Triumphant, Conqueror of His foes!
Who is this priestly Angel bright
Who thus dispels our darkest night?
’Tis He who sets the captive free,
Jesus who died on Calvary’s tree;
Who is, who was, and is to come—
The glory of His Father’s Home!
“Well,” said Paula softly as the last note died away, “I’ve prayed much for my dear uncle that he might be saved.”
“And God will hear and answer you, my dear, according to the scripture I’ve just quoted. Let me tell you something. Your uncle came here to see me a few days ago, and I believe he is not far from the Kingdom of God!”
“Oh,” cried Paula, “I would give everything to see him truly saved!”
Never had I seen Paula so happy as when we entered the little old evangelical church in the Rue San Eloi.
We had had the natural timidity of newcomers, and had feared more than anything else that battery of eyes which would surely be turned on us at our entrance. It was therefore a great relief to find that the meeting had already begun, and an empty pew well toward the back that held us all, seemed to beckon to us with a sort of mute welcome.
Hardly were we seated when I noticed Paula (who had of course been accustomed to churchgoing at her old home in the valley) had kneeled, and with her eyes closed seemed to be offering a prayer. This was soon ended and she resumed her seat. It was all so new to me that I could not at first take in much of the details of the service.
The preacher had a fine noble face which seemed to light up especially as the hymns were heartil sung by the whole congregation.
Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that a quiet smile of approval passed over his face as his eyes rested on Paula who so fervently joined in the songs —all of which seemed quite familiar to her.
It was an affecting thing, that vision of my girl companion. In her white dress with its blue sash at the waist, and with her wide white straw hat, she made a lovely picture. In that frank open countenance I think I read her thoughts. Here in God’s house she had entered once more the Promised Land from which she had been exiled for four long years!
Suddenly the sun came from behind a cloud, especially designed, I thought, to send a ray of rose-colored light through one of the stained glass windows of the church over that beautiful face at my side which now showed only rapt attention to the simple gospel message saturated with God’s Word that flowed like a mighty river from the preacher’s lips.
As we came through the door on our way out, I caught a glimpse of my father’s tall form just disappearing around a bend in the Rue San Eloi. I think he must have stolen up to the door and had been listening outside!