IN a pretty country village, not far from the sea, lived little Agnes. I daresay you would think her house a strange one. It goes by the name of “The Black Hut,” for it is only made of wooden boards nailed together and painted black, and, as it stands itself, it looks dark and solitary, but inside it is a bright little house with three rooms—a little house in which people could live very happily if they had the fear of God, without which none can be happy, not even in a palace.
Though the light of day shone in through the windows of the Black Hut, the light of God had never shone there; never there had shined “the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” But, though the inmates thought not of God, He thought of them.
Some of Agnes’ cousins came every Sunday afternoon to our Sunday School, and one afternoon, amongst the new faces were those of Agnes and her sister Emily. Agnes was seven years old, Emily three. Their sister Moggie, aged fourteen, took care of them and of the baby sister whom their mother had left a little infant when she had died a year before. Moggie kept the children very tidy, and sent them punctually to school. Children in a Sunday School are often very inattentive. Agnes was neither better nor worse than the rest, but, as she generally sat near her teacher, she heard better than most.
One bright day we had our school treat, and as fifty or sixty of us walked together to a field, with a cripple boy beside us in a wheelbarrow, waving his red pocket handkerchief tied to a stick for a flag, we were a very merry party. Before tea some of the children said “pieces” —little poems or hymns; and after tea there was a romp in the field.
Agnes’s father was waiting outside to carry back little Emily for fear she should be tired, and to hear Agnes tell all about the happy day she had had, for he loved his little girl much, and liked to hear her talk. Rough man though he was, and harshly though he might sometimes speak to others, yet he did not do so to his children, and Agnes was his special pet—indeed, the pet of all the family.
I have said thus much about Agnes and her sisters that you may be the more interested in what I am now going to tell you.
One day a woman in the village saw a child, wrapped in flames, rush out of the Black Hut. Moggie had gone out on an errand, leaving the three children together, and as Agnes stood inside the fender, trying to arrange something over the chimney-piece, the fire had caught her, clothes. The terrified child rushed out of the house and across the road to the nearest cottages, screaming for help., But before help came, it was too late there, in a kind neighbor’s cottage, wrapped in a piece of matting, stood little Agnes, too terrible to look at, and her cries too sorrowful to listen to.
Pitying hearts surrounded the poor child, and willing hands hastened to attend to her two requests. The one: “Oh, let me go to bed! let me go to bed!” The other: “My poor bab! my poor bab! Who’ll go and see where it is?” But the wee thing was sitting playing happily in its bed, unconscious of all the sorrow.
A little messenger was sent running down to tell me the sad news, and I was soon standing beside what had been pretty little Agnes—now no longer to be recognized. There she lay in the bed, where they had put her, screaming with agony. It was heartrending. I bent over her, and said, “Agnes.” But she took no notice. Sympathy had no effect, so I tried the power of the name of Jesus, hoping that it would soothe; but, alas! she only cried the more.
After some hours the remedies employed began to tell on the little sufferer; her, screams ceased, turning to moanings, and she fell into a restless sleep. So another day passed by. Life was ebbing, and there was still no sign whether she had heard the voice of Jesus. It was difficult to know whether she was conscious of what was said to her, but as the day wore on it was evident that she was not. She ceased to ask for her father, or to care for his presence, which at first she insisted on continually. But God, who had known the end from the beginning, had not brought Agnes to our Sunday school for nothing during what were to be the last few months of her life. For now as little Agnes lay in a kind of heavy sleep, God began to show how He could do without us. As we stood by and wondered to see Him work, her moanings and murmurings turned into another channel; being no longer able to speak to man, she began to speak to God. God was dealing with her soul by His Holy Spirit.
We had not told her that she was dying, but God let her know that her time Was come.
And now from the poor parched lips came the words of the little hymn she had often sung in school—
“There is a happy land,
Far, far away.”
“Far, far away,” indeed, it seemed from such a scene of suffering, but it was very close to the sufferer. The Holy Spirit was showing her the goodly land, letting her hear the harps of gold as she looked in through the gates, and little Agnes said, “Listen to the beautiful music.”
Then she became occupied with the One who makes heaven heaven—without whom heaven would be no heaven to the soul that loves Him. She, like Stephen, “saw Jesus,” and her oft-repeated exclamation, “Heavenly Jesus! Heavenly Father!” told of what her eye, to us so vacant, was gazing on. “Whom having not seen we love.” She saw, and how could she but love? And the little lips which certainly never had uttered such words before burst out with— “Oh, Jesus! I love you! You are my Jesus! Are you ready? I am!”
Yet one step more the Spirit led her: she passed on from “Jesus” to “Christ.” Did she get hold in any measure of what that Name implied? The glorified Head in heaven, and union with Him there; “a member of His body, of His flesh, and of His bones.” None can tell. She was a little ignorant child, yet “Christ in glory” were her words. With God for her teacher, what might she not learn? “Who teacheth like Him?”
So another morning came, and inside the Black Hut still lay that little suffering form, whilst sympathizing villagers looked hopelessly on. The poor father sat in the outside room; his presence was no longer needed by her, and, Hagar-like, his bent figure seemed to say, “Let me not see the death of the child.” My heart ached as I looked at him. I spoke to him tenderly of the little one, whilst the tears flowed down his rough cheeks. The neighbors stood round listening, and poor Moggie sat with the baby on her knee. It was a sorrowful scene.
“Well,” I said, “little Agnes is passing away, but she is going to her Saviour. How would it have been with each one of us if the summons had been sent to us instead of her? Is there one of us who could say, ‘I am ready?’ Yet He has shed His precious blood that we may be ready. He has made the way to God for every poor sinner who knows how far off he is, and longs to get back to Him. God is taking your little Agnes from you, H.; let it be the beginning of a new life to you; let it be the starting-point Godwards, and you will yet bless Him that He took her from you.”
There was silence—nothing but tears for answer. I said, “Shall we ask God about it?” And we knelt together, the poor father burying his face in his arms on the other side of the tiny table, whilst in a few simple words I asked for every one of us in that little room that we might seek and find that Jesus who had saved Agnes, and who alone could save each one of us.
The words were ended, but none stirred.
At last we rose from our knees, and H. again seated himself by the fire, his face buried in his hands. I put my hand on his shoulder, saying, “Oh! H. God does not want to break your heart; H., He wants to wash your soul whiter than snow.” A sob was his only answer.
I went inside to have one more look at Agnes. She lay as before. She had not spoken for some time. But, as I looked, her lips parted, and faintly the words came—the last ones: “I am ready; are you?”
Yes, Jesus was ready. Who was there ever called Him and found He was not? A few more minutes of patient waiting, and, without a struggle, her spirit passed into His presence; the Good Shepherd folded His little lamb in His arms, to go no more out forever. J. S. C.