Mr. Berney’s gardener, John, was busy planting sweet peas when his employer sauntered up and smilingly said, “John, you look mighty pleased about something. Have you come into a fortune?”
“I came into a fortune years ago, sir,” replied John.
“Really! and still gardening?” “Yes, sir, still gardening.”
Mr. Berney laughed and slapping the old man on the shoulder, he added, “You are surely the most transparent of souls, John. But I can see what you’re getting at. You would like to get me converted, wouldn’t you?”
John’s honest eyes looked straight into the handsome, though dissatisfied face of his employer.
“Sir,” he answered earnestly, “It would be one of the happiest moments of my life.”
“I’m afraid you will not have that joy, John,” Mr. Berney said still smiling. Your religion is too cheap for me.”
A look of real pain came into the old man’s eyes. “Cheap, sir! But I beg your pardon, would you call it cheap if you were called on to part with your little Elsie? The Lord of glory gave His only Son to die to save you and me from death and eternal loss. It was a vast cost—a very vast cost. Seems to me there was nothing cheap about that sacrifice, sir. But again, no offense meant.”
“I know you too well for that, John, but I’m afraid we must agree to differ, that’s all.” And so the conversation was changed.
Not long after when Stephen Berney was sitting by the fire reading, little motherless Elsie, his only child, peeped around the door. Stephen started up as she ran to him.
“Why aren’t you in bed, Elsie darling? You’ll get an awful cold!”
“I’ve got a sore throat, Daddy. It hurts like everything.”
He caught her up in his arms. “Sore throat, my sweetheart! Surely not!”
“Yes, Daddy,” answered the little one speaking huskily.
An awful fear tugged at the father’s heart. There was an epidemic going about, and was it possible that his precious child had contracted the disease?
Alas, yes she had. Before twelve hours had passed, little Elsie had been taken to the hospital, and was fighting the grim disease with every fiber of her little being. Outside the door her father waited in agony.
“Would you call it cheap, sir, if you were called on to part with little Elsie?” The words came back relentlessly and persistently.
“Oh, God,” he muttered hoarsely, “forgive me, and save my child.”
It was some weeks later and the sweet peas were all up. Old John was working in the garden. “I remember the day I sowed ’em,” he was thinking, “and the little word I was permitted to speak for my Master.”
Not long after a tall familiar figure came hurrying across to where he was working. “We’re only just back, John,” he cried, “but I had to see you before I did anything. I’ve come into my fortune!”
He grasped the old man’s hand and pumped it up and down delightedly; but the old gardener seemed too overcome to speak. He continued to gaze into that handsome face whose expression was now so changed, and Stephen Berney saw the tears gently stealing down his furrowed cheek.
“John, dear old fellow,” he cried.
Then John found his voice. “I knew my prayers would be answered, Sir,” he murmured chokingly. I knew it. And—the little girl?”
“Quite her old self again. Fancy me not telling you that!”
“I think I can understand. God bless and keep you both, now and always.”
“Amen!” whispered Steven reverently.
ML-11/06/1977