Christie, the King's Servant / A Sequel to Christie's Old Organ""

when a pink paper floated down on my easel on the Saturday morning, I caught it a

. Jack?' said the ch

n,' I answered; 'it's

, and which could only be reached at low tide; and when I was once there, on the other side of the bay, I determined to be in no hurry to return, but to arrive

o set out for Kettleness,

in this weather, sir?'

rse not,' I an

the occasion warranted, and I feared that h

over, and by that time I found it would be impossible for me to g

ermen spread tarpaulins on the sand for the congregation to sit on, and I found

said to myself; 'I will plan out a new pictur

the moment that Jack's father began to speak, my atte

pull, and a pull all together, as yon heavy crab boat was dragged up from the beach? How well she came, what progress she made! with each yoddel we brought her farther from the sea. We all of us gave a helping hand;

rmen. Yes, you pulled your very hardest; if possible you put forth more strength than when the crab boat was drawn up, and yet, strange to say, there was no result, the rope did not move an inch. What were you pullin

There were other pullers at the rope that day, pulling with all their might in an exactly opposite direction. It was not a united pull, and therefore for a long t

y and our village green, but the weight to be drawn is not a boat, not a handkerchief; the weight i

s mine. Your conscience pulls, your good old mother pulls, your little child pulls, your Christian mate pulls; each sermon you hear, each Bible class you attend, each hymn you sing, each prayer uttered in your presence, each striving of the S

so far, Christ's pullers are drawing in vain. You have never yet, you know it, crossed the li

nd he sends forth a great army of soul-pullers. Each worldly friend, each desire of your evil nature, each temptation to sin, each longing after wealth, each sinful suggestion, gives you a pull, and a pull the wrong

fearful depths into which you are being drawn? I could not shake it off. I wished I could get away from the green, but Jack had brought

open my book, he leant over the side of the boat, and poked my head with his hymn-book. 'Sing, big Mr. Jack, sing,' he said aloud, and then, for ver

sweet was the

ingly cal

e line! it is

g, My child

e!" Hear the

anting the he

ne!" Why sho

between me

awn? I had not looked at it in that light before. I had been quite willing to own that I was not religious, that I was leading a gay, easy-going kind of life, that my Sundays were spent in bed, or in novel reading, or in rowing, or in some other amusement. I was well aware that I looked at these things very

ning stationary, as I had thought, but I was being drawn by unseen forces toward

e made so uncomfortable; at other times I wondered if I

e rain fell fast all the afternoon, and as I lay on my bed upstairs I heard P

r the lin

forgetting the words whi

pulling. I walked to the side from which the light streamed, and there I saw a number of holy and beautiful angels with their hands on the rope, and amongst them I distinctly caught sight of my mother. She seemed to be dragging with all her might, and there was such an earnest, pleading, beseeching expression on her dear face that it went to my very heart to look at her. I noticed that close beside her was the preacher, little Jack's father, and behind him was Duncan. They were all intent on their work, and took no notice of me, so I walked to

dragging?' I

es seemed to answer

which they were struggling, and I heard the cry of the pullers from the other side of the green, and it seemed to me that, with one voice, they were calling out that terrible question, 'What are the depths, the fearful depths, to which you a

loudly that Duncan came running int

was only dreaming; I thought

' he said. 'Shall I open your window

d; 'I shall be all right now.

yet he shivers like, and he clings to his daddy; so I've been walking a mile or two with him up and down our chamber floor, and I hea

could hear the rain beating against the casement; I could hear the soughing and whistling of the wind; I could hear Polly's old eight-day clock striking the hours and the half-ho

p. I wished that I was asleep too. I thought how often my mother, when I was a child, must have walked up and down through long weary nights with me. I wondered whether, as she did so, she spent the slow, tedious hours in praying for her boy, and then I wondered

s, for I was suddenly roused by Polly's chee

good. You've not slept over well, Dunc

to Polly, and I drank it before I dressed. That's just like

ght, Polly,' I said as I finished my breakfast, an