Chapter 1 of The Story of a Wim by Grace Livingston-Hill How cold it is! Let's walk up and down the platform, girls! Why doesn't that train come?  They waited shivering in a group until she returned, five girls just entering womanhood. They were part of a small house party, spending Thanksgiving week at the old stone house on the hill above the station, and they had come down to meet another girl who was expected on the train. He says the train is half an hour late, said Hazel Windship, the hostess, coming down the stone steps of the station. What shall we do? There isn't time to make it worthwhile to go back to the house. Shall we go inside or walk? Oh, walk by all means, said Victoria Landis. It's so stuffy and hot in there that I feel like a turkey half roasted from the little time we stayed. Let's walk up this long platform to that freight house and watch the men unload that car, proposed Esther Wakefield. And so it was agreed. Victoria was humming. Oh, girls, why didn't we stay and finish singing that short number? It was so pretty. Listen, is this right? And she hummed it over again. Yes, it was too bad we had to tear ourselves away from that dear piano, said Ruth Summers. Say, Hazel, what are you going to do with your poor organ, send it to a home missionary? I'll send it somewhere, I suppose. I don't know anyone around here to give it to. I wish I could send it where it would give pleasure to someone. Plenty of people would probably be delighted with it if you only knew them, the owner of this forlorn furniture, for instance, said Victoria, as they threaded their way between boxes and chairs that had been shoved out on the platform from a half-empty freight car. Girls, just look at that funny old stove and those uncomfortable chairs. How would you like to set up housekeeping with that? The couch isn't so bad if it were covered, said Hazel, poking it in a gingerly way with her gloved finger. It looks as though it might have been comfortable once. That's Hazel all over, said Esther. If it were possible, she'd like to have that couch stay over a train or two while she recovered it with some bright denim and made a pillow for it. Clear girlish laughter rang out while Hazel's cheeks grew pink as she joined in. Well, girls, wouldn't that be interesting? Just think how pleased the dear old lady who owns it would be when she found the new cover and how entirely mystified. You might send her your organ, suggested Ruth Summers. Perhaps she would like that just as well. What a lovely idea, said Hazel, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. I'll just do it. Come, let's look for the address. You romantic little goose, exclaimed her friends. Take her away, the perfect idea. I just believe she would. Of course I would, said Hazel. Why shouldn't I? Papa said I might do as I please with it. Here, this is a card behind here. Read it. Girls, I shall do it. Who has a pencil? I want to write it down. Do all these things belong to the same person? Look on their cards. She must be very poor. Poor as a church mouse, said Victoria, if this is all she has. I'd like to know how you're so sure it's a she, said Emily Whitten. Christy sounds as though it might belong to a man or a boy. Don't you think so, Victoria? It's an old nurse. I'm positive, said Victoria. I don't believe Christy is an old nurse at all, said Hazel. She's a girl about our own age. She's had to go to Florida on account of her health, and she's poor, too poor to board, so she'll keep house in a room or two. Waving her hand toward the unpretentious huddling of furniture around them. And perhaps she teaches school. She'll put the organ in the school room, or have a Sunday school in her own home. And I'll write her a note and send some music for the children to learn. She can do lots of nice things with that organ. Now Hazel protested poor voices. But just then the shriek of a whistle brought them all about face and flying down the platform to reach the station before the train pulled up. In the bustle of welcoming the newcomer, Hazel's scheme was forgotten. Not until evening, when they were seated around the great open fire did it enter into conversation again. Victoria Landis told the newcomer about it. Oh, Marion, you can't think what Hazel's latest wild scheme of philanthropy is. But Marion, a girl after Hazel's own heart, listened with glowing eyes. Really, Hazel? She said, when the tale was finished, looking at her hostess with sympathy. Won't that be lovely? You must send it in time for Christmas, and why not pack a box to go with it? We could all help. It would be great fun, and give us something not entirely selfish to do while we're enjoying ourselves here. Do you mean it, said Victoria? Well, I won't be outdone.  What color, blue or red? And will denim be fine enough, or do you prefer tapestry or brocatel? Speak up, Hazel. We're with you hand and heart, no matter how wildly you saw this time. And so amid laughter and jokes the plan grew. I have a lot of songbooks if you think there's really a chance of a Sunday school, said Esther. There must be something pretty for the house, a good picture perhaps, mused Ruth Summers. Hazel's eyes grew bright with joy as she looked from one face to another, and saw that they really meant what they said. Six pairs of hands can do much in four days. When the guests left for their various homes or schools, standing on the back porch of the old stone house on the hill, were a well-packed box marked and labeled, and an organ securely boxed, and a large roll, all bearing the magic words Christy W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Florida. There was a great deal of discussion and argument between Mrs. Winship and her husband. They were inclined to think Hazel outdid herself in romance this time, though they were used to such unprecedented escapades from her childhood. But she finally won them all over. She explained how the goods were left at that particular freight station from up the branch road to be put on the through freight at the junction, and enlarged upon the desolation of the life of that young girl who was moving to Florida alone. Finally every member of the party became infected with pity for her, and vied with the others to make that Christmas box the nicest ever sent to a girl. They began to believe in Christy and to wonder whether her name was Christine or Cristiana, or simply Christy after some family name, and gradually all thought of her being other than a young girl faded from their minds. Mother Winship had so far forgotten her doubts as to contribute a good smirner rug no more in use in the stone house. She did so after the party went down to the station, watched the goods repacked in another freight car for the junction, and reported that there wasn't a sign of a carpet in the lot. They also told how they peeked through a crack of a box of books, and distinctly saw the worn cover of a textbook, which proved the schoolman theory. While an old blue-checked apron, visible through another crack, settled the sex of Christy irrevocably.  Christmas was fast approaching as the three freight pieces started on their way. On the edge of a clearing, where the tall pines thinned against the sky and tossed their garlands of gray moss from bow to bow, stood a little cabin built of logs. It was set up on stilts out of the hot white sand, and underneath a few chickens wandered aimlessly, as unaware of the home over their heads as mortals are of the heaven above them. Some sickly orange trees, apparently just set out, gave the excuse for the clearing, and beyond the distance stretched away into desolation and blackjack oaks. A touch of whitewash here and there and a bit of grass, which in that part of the world was so scarce that it was usually used for a path instead of being a setting for that path, would have done wonders for the place. But only the white neglected mushy sand was there, discouraging a like to wheel and foot.  An old table was drawn out, with one leaf up and piled with unwashed dishes, boxes of crackers and papers of various foods. The couch in the corner was evidently the old bed, and the red and gray blankets still lay in the heap where they were tossed when the occupant arose that morning. From some nails in the corner hung several articles of clothing and a hat. The corner by the door was given over to tools, and a few garden implements considered too good to leave outside. Every chair but one was occupied by books or papers or clothing. Outside the back door a dry goods box by the pump with a tin basin and a cake of soap did duty as a wash stand. On the whole it was not an attractive home, even though sky and air were more than perfect. The occupant of this residence was driving dully along the sand road at the will of a stubborn little Florida pony. The pony wriggled his whole body with emotion intended to convey to his driver that he was trotting as fast as any reasonable being could expect a horse to go. In reality the monotonous sand and scrub oaks were moving past as slowly as possible. It was the day before Christmas but the driver didn't care what was Christmas to one whose friends were all gone and who never gave or received a Christmas gift. The pony like all slow things got there at last and trotted up to the post office in good style. The driver climbed out of the rickety wagon and went into the post office which served also as a general store. Hello Chris. Called a sickly looking man from the group at the counter. Been a wonder when you was coming, got some more freight for you over to the station. The newcomer turned his broad shoulders around and faced the speaker. I haven't any more freight coming, he said. It's all come three weeks ago. Well, but it's over there, insisted the other. Three pieces, your names mocked plain, same's the other. Somebody sent you a Christmas gift, Chris, said a tall young fellow slapping him on the shoulder. Better go and get it. Chapter two of The Story of a Wim by Grace Livingston Hill. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by like many waters. Chapter two. A Christmas box that didn't match. The young man still insisting that the freight wasn't his, followed the agent reluctantly over to the station, accompanied by several of his companions who had nothing better to do than see the joke out. There they were, a box, a bundle, and a packing case, all labeled plainly and mysteriously, Christie W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Florida. The man who owned the name could scarcely believe his eyes. He knew of no one who would send him anything. An old neighbor had forwarded the few things he had saved from the sale of the old farm after his father and mother died. And the neighbor had since died himself, so this could not be something forgotten. He felt annoyed at the arrival of the mystery and didn't know what to do with the things. At last he brought over the wagon and reluctant pony and with the help of the other men he loaded them. Christie Bailey didn't wait at the store that night as long as he usually did. He had intended to go home by moonlight, but decided to try to make it before the sunset. He wanted to understand about the freight at once. When he went back to the post office, he couldn't sit with the same pleasure on a nail keg and talk as usual. His mind was on the wagon load, so he bought a few things and started home. The sun had brought the short winter day to a sudden close as it has a habit of doing in Florida by dropping out of sight and leaving utter darkness with no twilight. Christie lit an old lantern and got the things into the cabin at once. Then he took his hatchet and screwdriver and set to work. First the packing case, for he instinctively felt that herein lay the heart of the matter. But not until he pulled the entire front off the case and took out the handsome organ did he fully realize what had come to him. More puzzled than ever, he stood back with his arms folded and whistled. He saw the key attached to a card and unlocking the organ touched one of the ivory keys gently with his rough finger as one might touch a being from another world. Then he glanced around to see where to put it. Suddenly, even in the dull smoky lamp light, the utter gloom and neglect of the place burst upon him. Without more ado he selected the freest side of the room and shoved everything out of the way. Then he brought a broom and swept it clean. After that he set the organ against the wall and stood back to survey the effect. The disorderly table and the rusty stove were behind him and the organ gave the spot a strange cleared up appearance. He didn't feel at home. Something must be done about the confusion behind him before he opened anything more. He felt somehow as if the organ were a visitor and mustn't see his poor housekeeping. He seized the frying pan, scraped the contents into the yard and called the dog. The dishes he put into a wooden tub outside the door and pumped water over them. Then the masses of papers and boxes on the table and chairs, he piled into the darkest corner on the floor and straightened the row of boots and shoes. Having done all he could, he returned to the roll and box still unopened. The roll came first. He undid the strings with awkward fingers and stood back in admiration once more when he brought to light a thick bright rug and a Japanese screen. He spread the rug down and puzzled some time over the use of the screen. Finally he stood it up in the worst end of the room and began on his box. There at last on top was a letter in a fine unknown hand. He opened it slowly with the blood mounting into his face. He didn't know why and read.  Of course you may be an old lady or a nice comfortable middle-aged one, then perhaps you will think we're silly but we hope and believe you're a girl like us and so our hearts have opened to you and we're sending you some things for Christmas. An account of the afternoon at the freight station followed, written in Hazel's most winning way, conveying her words and ways and almost the voices and faces of Victoria Landis and Ruth and Esther and Marion and the rest. The color on the young man's face deepened as he read and he glanced up uneasily at his few poor chairs and miserable couch. Before he read further he went and pulled the screen along to hide more of the confusion. He read the letter through and his heart woke up to the world and to longings he never knew he possessed before. To the world in which Christmas has a place and young bright life gives joy. He read it to the end where Hazel inscribed her bit of sermon full of good wishes and a prayer that the spirit of Christmas might reign in that home and the organ might be a help and a blessing to all around. A look of almost helpless misery crossed the young man's face when he finished. The good old times when God was a reality were suddenly brought into his reckless isolated life. He knew that God was God even though he neglected him so long and that tomorrow was Christmas day. Seeking refuge from his own thoughts he turned back to the brimming box. The first article he took out was a pair of dainty lavender slippers with black and white ermine edges and delicate satin bows. Emily Whitton's aunt had knitted them for her to take to college with her. Since Emily's feet were many sizes smaller than her aunt's supposed she never wore them and tucked them in at the last minute to make a safe place for a delicate glass vase. She said the vase would be lovely to hold flowers on the organ on Sundays. The girls wrote their nonsense thoughts on bits of labels all over the things and the young man read and smiled and finally laughed out loud. He felt like a little boy opening his first Christmas talking. Kristie unpinned the paper on the couch cover and read in Victoria's large stylish angular hand full directions for putting it on the couch. He glanced with a twinge of shame at the old lounge and realized the girls had seen his shabby belongings and pitied him. He resented the whole thing until the delight of being pitied and cared for overcame his bitterness and he laughed again. A soft restful green was chosen for the couch cover. It couldn't have fit better if Victoria Landis had secretly had a tape measure in her pocket and measured the couch, which perhaps she did on her second trip to the freight house. Ruth Summers made the two pillows, large comfortable and sensible, of harmonizing greens and browns and a gleam of gold here and there. With careful attention to the directions the new owner dressed his old lounge and placed the pillows as directed, with a throw and a pat, not laid stiffly, from a post script in Ruth's clear feminine hand. Then he stood back in awe that a thing so familiar and ugly could suddenly assume such an air of ease and elegance. Could he ever bring the rest of the room up to the same standard? But the box invited further investigation. A bureau set of dainty blue and white, a cover for the top and pin cushion to match, were packed inside, with a few yards of material and a rough sketch with directions for a possible dressing table to be made of a wooden box in case Christie had no bureau. It was from Emily Whitten, who said she couldn't remember seeing a bureau among the things, but she was sure any girl would know how to fix one up and perhaps be glad of some new things for it. The young man looked helplessly at these things. He finally walked out into the moonlight and hunted up an old box, which he brushed off with the broom and brought inside. He clumsily spread the blue and white frill over its splintery top, then fumbled in the lapel of his coat for a pin and solemnly tried to stick it into the cushion. He was growing more bewildered with his new possessions. As each one came to light, he wondered how he could maintain and keep up to such luxuries. Mother Winship included a bright knit afghan, which looked perfect over the couch. Next came a layer of Sunday school songbooks, a Bible and some lesson leaflets. A card said that Esther Wakefield sent these and hoped they would help in the new Sunday school. A roll of chalkboard cloth, a large cloth map of Palestine, and a box of chalk followed. The young man grew more helpless. This was worse than the bureau set and the slippers. What was he to do with them? He start a Sunday school. He would more likely start children in the opposite way from heaven if he continued as he had the last two years. His face hardened. He was almost ready to sweep the whole lot back into the box, nail them up, and send them back where they came from. What did he want with a lot of trash was such burdensome obligations attached. But curiosity made him return to see what was left in the box, and a glance around his room made him unwilling to give up this luxury. He looked curiously at the box of fluffy lace things with Marion Halston's card on top. He could only guess that they were some girls' things and wondered vaguely what he should do with them. Then he unwrapped a photograph of six girls, which was hurriedly taken and inscribed, Guess Which Is Which, with a list of their names written on a circle of paper like the spokes of a wheel. He studied each face with interest, somehow it was for the letter writer he sought, Hazel Winship, and he thought he should know her at once. This would be very interesting to pass some of the long hours when there was nothing worthwhile to do. It would keep him from thinking how long it took Orange Groves to pay, and what hard luck he'd always had. He decided at first glance that the one in the center with the clear eyes and firm mouth was the instigator of all this bounty. As his eyes traveled from one face to another and came back to hers each time, he felt more sure of it. Her gaze held something frank and pleasant in it. Somehow it would not do to send that girl back her things, and tell her he didn't need her charity. He liked to think she'd thought of him, even if she did think of him as a poor discouraged girl or an old woman. He stood the picture up against the pincushion lace and forever gave up the idea of trying to send those things back. One thing more was in the bottom of the box, fastened inside another protecting board. He took it at last from its wrappings, a large picture, Hoffman's Head of Christ, framed in broads dark Flemish oak to match the tent of the etching. Dimly he understood who the subject of the picture was, although he'd never seen it before. Silently he found a nail and drove it deep into the log of the wall. Just over the organ he hung it, without the slightest hesitation. He recognized at once where this picture belonged, and knew that it, not the bright rug or the restful couch, or the gilded screen, or even the organ itself, was to set the standard henceforth for his home and his life. He knew this without its quite coming to the surface of his consciousness. He was weary by this time, with the unusual excitement of the occasion. He felt like a person suddenly lifted up a little way from the earth and obliged against his will to walk along unsupported in the air. His mind was in a whirl. He looked from one new thing to another, wondering more and more what they expected of him. The ribbons and lace for the bureau worried him, and the lace collars and pincushion. What did he have to do with such things? Those foolish little slippers mocked him with something that wasn't in his life, a something for which he wasn't even trying to find himself. The organ and the books, and above all the picture seemed to dominate him and demand of him things he could never give.  He rebelled against it and turned away from the picture. He hated all the things, and yet the comfort of them drew him irresistibly. In sheer weariness at last, he put out his light and wrapping his old blankets around him, lay down upon the rug, for he would not disturb the couch lest the morning should dawn, and his new dream of comfort look as if it had fled away. Besides, how was he ever to get it together again? And when the morning broke and Christie awoke to the splendor of his things by daylight, the wonder of it dawned too, and he went about his work with the same spell still upon him. Now and again he raised his eyes to the pictured Christ and dropped them again reverently. It seemed to him this morning as if that presence were living and had come to him in spite of all his railings at fate, his bitterness and scoffing, and his feckless life. It seemed to say with that steady gaze, What will you do with me? I am here, and you cannot get away from my drawing. It wasn't as if his life had been filled in the past with tradition and teaching, for his mother died when he was a little fellow, and the thin-lipped, hard-working maiden aunt who had cared for him in her place, whatever religion she might have had in her heart, never thought it necessary to speak it out, beyond requiring a certain amount of decorum on Sunday and regular attendance at Sunday school. In Sunday school it was his lot to sit under a good elder who read the questions from a lesson leaflet and looked helplessly at the boys who were employing their time in more pleasurable things. The very small amount of holy things he absorbed from his days at Sunday schools failed to leave him with a strong idea of God's love or any adequate knowledge of the way to be saved. In later years of course he listened indifferently to preaching. When he went to college, a small insignificant one, he came into contact with religious people, but here, too, he heard as one hears a thing in which one has not the slightest interest. He had gathered and held this much, that the God in whom the Christian world believed was holy and powerful, and that most of the world's inhabitants were culprits. Up to this time God's love had passed him by unaware. Now the pictured eyes of the Son of God seemed to breathe out tenderness and yearning. For the first time in his life, the possibility of love between his soul and God came to him. His work that morning was much more complicated than usual. He wasted little time in getting breakfast. He had to clean house. He couldn't bear the idea that the old regime and the new should touch shoulders as they did behind that screen. So with broom and scrub brush he set to work. He had things in pretty good shape at last, and was just coming in from giving the horse a belated breakfast. When a strange impulse seized him.  He never noticed them before. Weren't they just weeds? But with a new insight into possibilities in art, he stooped and gathered a few of them. Holding them awkwardly he went into the house and put them into his new vase. He felt ashamed of them and held them behind him as he entered. But with the shame was mingled in eagerness to see how they would look in the vase on the blue bureau thing. Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly, to the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy, sang out a rich tenor voice in greeting. I say, Chris, what are you setting up for? What does it mean? Ain't going to get married or nothing, are you man? Because I'll be obliged to go to town and get my best coat out of pawn if you are. Oh, now that's great. Drawed another voice in an English accent. Got anything good to drink? Trotted out, and will be better able to appreciate all this luxury. CHAPTER III And what are you going to say to her? The young man felt a rising tendency to swear he'd forgotten all about the fellows and their agreement to meet and spend a festive day out. So great was the spell on him that he forgot to put the feminine things away from curious eyes.  Far off the sound of a cracked church bell gave a soft reminder, which the distant popping of firecrackers at a cabin down the road confirmed, that this was Christmas Day, Christmas Day, and the face of the Christ looking down at him tenderly from his own wall. The oath that rose to his lips at his foolish plight was stayed. He couldn't take that name in vain with those eyes upon him. The spell wasn't broken even yet.  It was like him to brave it out and tell the whole story now that he was caught. He was a broad-shouldered young man, firmly built, with a head well-set on his shoulders. Except for a certain careless slouch in his gait, he might have been fine to look upon. His face wasn't handsome, but he had good brown eyes with deep hazel lights in them that kindled when he looked at you. His hair was red, deep and rich, and decidedly curly. His gestures were strong and regular. If his face didn't have a certain hardness about it he would have been interesting, but that look made one turn away disappointed. His companions were both big men like him. The Englishman was loose-jointed and awkward, with pale blue eyes, hay-colored hair, and a large jaw with loose lips. He belonged to that large class of second or third sons with a good education, a poor fortune, and very little practical knowledge how to better it, so many of whom came to Florida to try growing oranges. The other was handsome and dark, with a weak mouth and daring black eyes that continually warred with one another. Both were dressed in rough clothes, trousers tucked into boots with spurs, dark flannel shirts and soft riding-hats. The Englishman wore gloves and affected a certain loud style in dress. They carried their riding-whips and walked undismayed upon the bright colors of the rug. Oh, I say now, get off there with those great clods of boots, can't you? exclaimed Christie with sudden house-wifely carefulness. Anybody'd think you were brought up in a barn, Armstrong. Armstrong put on his eyeglasses. He always wore them as if they were a monocle, and examined the rug carefully. Oh, I beg pardon, awfully nice, ain't it? Sorry I didn't bring my patent leathers along. Remind me next time, please, Mortimer. Christie told the story of his Christmas gifts in as few words as possible. Somehow he didn't feel like elaborating it. The guest seized upon the photograph of the girls and laughed hilariously over it. Takes you for a girl, does she? said Mortimer. That's great. Which one is she? I'd choose that fine one with snapping black eyes and handsome teeth. She knew her best point, or she wouldn't have laughed when her picture was taken. Victoria Landis's eyes would have snapped indeed if she'd heard the comments about her and the others, but she was safely out of hearing far up in the north. The comments continued most freely. Christie found himself disgusted with his friends. Only yesterday he would have laughed at all they said. What made the difference now? Was it that letter? Would the other fellows feel the same if he read it to them? But he never would. The red blood stole up in his face. He could hear their shouts of laughter now over the tender girlish phrases. It shouldn't be desecrated. He was glad indeed that he'd put it in his coat pocket the night before. The letter, the pictures, and the things seemed to have a sacredness about them, and it went against the grain to hear the coarse laughter of his friends. At last they spoke about the girl in the center of the group, the clear-eyed, firm-mouthed one he'd selected for Hazel. His blood boiled, he could stand it no longer.  At this point his companions' fun took a new turn. They examined the table decked out in blue and lace. The man named Mortimer knew the lace collars and handkerchiefs for women's attire, and they turned upon their most unwilling host and decked him in fine array. He sat helpless and mad with a large lace collar over his shoulders.  And what are you going to say to her for all these pretty presents, Christy, my girl? laughed Mortimer. Say to her, gassed Christy. It hadn't occurred to him before that he would need to say anything.   He got up, kicked at the rug, and tore the lace finery from his neck, stumbling on the lavender slippers which his tormentors had stuck on the toes of his big shoes. Why, certainly, man, I beg your pardon, my dear girl, continued Mortimer. You don't intend to be so rude as not to reply or say I thank you very kindly. Christy's thick, auburn brows settled into a scowl, and the attention of the others was drawn to the side of the room where the organ stood. That softly fine, don't you know? remarked Armstrong, leveling his eyeglasses at the picture. It spiced somebody great, I don't just remember who. Fine Frame said Mortimer tersely as he opened the organ and sat down in front of it. And the new owner of the picture felt for the first time his acquaintance with those two men that they were somehow out of harmony with him. He glanced up at the picture with a color mounting in his face, half-pained for the friendly gaze that was treated so lightly. He didn't in the least understand himself. But the fingers touching the keys now were not altogether unaccustomed. A soft, sweet strain broke through the room and swelled louder and fuller until it seemed to fill the little log house and bewapted through the open windows to the world outside. Christy stopped in his walk across the room, held by the music. It seemed to express all he had thought and felt during the last few hours. A few chords and the player abruptly reached up to the pile of songbooks above him. Dashing the book open at random, he began playing and in a moment in a rich sweet tenor sang. The others drew near and each took a book and joined in. He holds the key of all unknown and I am glad. If other hand should hold the key or if he trusted it to me I might be sad. The song was a new creed spoken to Christy's soul by a voice that seemed to fit the eyes in the picture. What was the matter with him? He didn't at all know. His whole life was suddenly shaken. It may be that the fact of his long residence alone in that desolate land, with only a few acquaintances, had made him more ready to be swayed by the sudden stirring of new thoughts and feelings. Certainly it was that Christy Bailey was not acting like himself, but the others were interested in the singing. It had been a long time since they had an instrument to accompany them, and they enjoyed the sound of their own voices. They would have preferred perhaps a book of college songs or better still the latest street songs, but since they weren't at hand and gospel hymns were, they found pleasure even in these. On and on they sang, through him after him, their voices growing stronger as they found pieces that had some hints of familiarity. The music filled the house and floated out into the bright Christmas world outside. Presently Christy felt rather than saw movement at the window and, looking up, beheld its dark with little eager faces of the black children. Their supply of firecrackers had given out and seeking further celebration were drawn with delight by the unusual sounds. Christy dropped into a chair and gazed at them. His eyes growing troubled and the frown deepening, he couldn't make it out.   It seemed like a fulfillment of the prophecy of the letter that came with the organ. He trembled at the possibilities that might be required of him with his newly acquired and unsought-for property. And yet he couldn't help a feeling of pride that all these things were his and that a girl of such evident refinement and cultivation had taken the trouble to send them. To be sure she wouldn't have done it at all if she had any idea who or what he was, but that didn't matter. She didn't know and never would.  Why hadn't he noticed? Amid all these thoughts the concert suddenly closed. The organist turned upon his stool and addressing the audience in the window remarked with a good many flourishes. That finishes the program for today, dear friends. Allow me to announce that a Sunday school will be held in this place on next Sunday afternoon at half past two o'clock, and you are all invited to be present.  Half past two, and bring your friends. Now will you all come? Amid many a giggle and a bobbing of round black heads they answered as one boy and one girl. Yesa, and went rollicking down the road to spread the news, their bare feet flying through the sand, and vanished as they had come. Chapter 4 The Letter That Wrote Itself What did you do that for? Thundered Christy, suddenly realizing what the outcome of this performance would be. Don't speak so loud, Christy, dear. It isn't ladylike, you know. I was merely saving you the trouble of announcing the services. You'll have a good attendance, I'm sure, and will come and help you out with the music, said Mortimer, in a sweetly unconscious tone. Christy came at him with clenched fists, which he laughingly dodged and then went on bantering, but the two young men soon left, for Christy was angry and wasn't good company. They tried to coax him off to meet some of their other companions, but he answered shortly, no, and they left him to himself. Left alone he was a no happy frame of mind. He'd intended to go with them. There'd be something good to eat, and of course something to drink, and cards, and a jolly good time all around. He could forget a little while his hard luck, the slowness of the oranges, and his own wasted life, and feel some of the joy of living. But he had the temper that went with his hair, and now nothing would induce him to go. Could something else be holding him back to, a subtle something that he didn't understand, somehow connected with the letter and the picture and the organ? Well, if there was, he didn't stop to puzzle it out. Instead, he threw himself down on the newly covered couch, let his head sink down on one of those soft pillows, and tried to think. He took out the letter and read it over again. When he read the sentences about praying for him, a choking sensation came in his throat, such as he hadn't felt since he nearly drowned, and realized he had no mother to go to anymore. This girl wrote as a mother might talk, if one had a mother. He folded the letter and let it slip back in his pocket. Then closing and locking the door, he sat down at the organ and tried to play it. Since he knew nothing whatever about music, he didn't succeed very well. He turned from it with a sigh to look up at those pictured eyes once more, and find them following his every movement. Some pictures have that power of seeming to follow one around the room. Christie got up and walked away, still looking at the picture, and turned and came back again. The eyes still seemed to remain upon his face, with that strong compelling gaze. He wondered what it meant, and yet he was glad it had come. It seemed like a new friend. Finally he sat down and faced the question that was troubling him. He must write a letter to that girl, to those girls, and he might as well have done with it at once, and get it out of the way. After that he could feel he had paid the required amount and could enjoy his things. It simply wasn't decent not to acknowledge their receipt. But the tug of war was how to do it, should he confess that he was a young man and not the Christie they thought, and offer to send back the things for them to confer upon a more worthy subject? He glanced around on his new belongings with sudden dismay. Could he give up all this? No, he would not. His eyes caught the pictured eyes once more. He'd found a friend and a little comfort. It had come to him unbidden. He would not bid it depart. Besides it would only make those kind people uncomfortable. They would think they'd done something dreadful to send a young man presents, especially one they'd never seen. He knew the ways of the world a little, and that Hazel Winship who wrote the letter, she was a charming person.  Let her keep her ideas, they could do no harm. He would write and thank her as if he were the girl they supposed him. He was always good at playing a part, or imitating anyone. He'd write the letter in a girlish hand, it wouldn't be hard to do, and thank them as they expected to be thanked by another girl. That would be the end of it. Then when his oranges came into bearing, if they ever did, he would send them each a box of oranges anonymously, and all would be right. As for that miserable business Mortimer got him into, he'd fixed that up by shutting up the house and riding away early Sunday morning. The children might come to Sunday school to their hearts content. He wouldn't be there to be bothered or bantered. In something like a good humor, he settled to his task. He wrote one or two formal notes and tore them up. As he looked around on the glories of his room, he began to feel that such thanks were inadequate to express his feelings. Then he settled to work once more and began to be interested. My dear unknown friend, he wrote, I scarcely know how to thank you for the kindness you have showered upon me. He read the sentence over and decided it sounded right and not at all as if a man had wrote it. The spirit of fun took possession of him, and he made up his mind to write those girls a good long letter and tell them all about his life. Only tell it just as if he were a girl. It would while away this long unoccupied day. He wrote on, You wanted to know all about me, so I'm going to tell you. I don't, as you suppose, teach school. I had a little money from the sale of father's farm after he died, and I put it into some land down here planted with young orange trees. I'd heard a great deal about how much money was to be made in orange growing, and thought I would like to try it. I'm alone in the world, not a soul who cares in the least about me, and so there was no one to advise me against it. I came down here and boarded at first, but found it would be a good thing for me to live among my trees so I could look after things better. So I had a little cabin built of logs right in the grove, and sent for all the old furniture that was saved from the old home. Which wasn't much, as most things were sold with the house. You saw how few and poor they were. It seems so strange to think that you, who evidently have all the good things of the world to make you happy, should have stopped to think and take notice of poor and significant me. It is wonderful, more wonderful than anything that ever happened to me in all my life. I looked about on my beautified room and can't believe it is I. I live all alone in my log cabin, surrounded by a lot of young trees, which seem to me very slow in doing anything to make me rich. If I'd known all I know now, I never would have come here, but one has to learn by experience, and I'll just have to stick now until something comes of it. I'm not exactly a girl just like as you say, for I'm 28 years old, and judging by your pictures, not one of you is as old as that. You're none of you over 22 if you're that. Besides, you're all beautiful girls, while I most certainly am not. To begin with, my hair is red, and I'm brown and freckled from the sun and wind and rain. In fact, I'm what is called homely. So you see, it isn't a serious a matter for me to live all alone down here in an orange grove, as it would be for one of you. I have a strong pony who carries me on his back, or in my old buckboard around the grove. I hire to have done, of course. I also have a few chickens and a dog. If you could have seen my little house the night your boxes arrived and were unpacked, you'd appreciate the difference the things you sent make in my surroundings, but you can never know what a difference they will make in my life. Here the rapid pin halted, and the writer wondered whether that might be a prophecy. So far he reflected, he had written nothing that wasn't strictly true, and yet he hadn't revealed his identity. This last sentence seemed to be writing itself, for he had no idea that the change in his room would make much difference in his life, except to add a little comfort. He raised his eyes. As they met those in the picture, it seemed to be impressed upon him that there was to be a difference, and somehow he wasn't sorry. The old life wasn't attractive, but he wondered what it would become. He felt as if he were standing off watching the developments in his own life, as one might watch the life of the hero in a story. There was one more theme in Hazel Winship's letter that he didn't touch upon, he found, after he went over each article by name and said nice things about them all, and what a lot of comfort he would have from them. He was especially pleased with his sentence about the slippers and lace collars. They are much too fine and pretty to be worn, especially by such a large, awkward person as I am, but I think they would look nice on some of the girls who sent them to me. But all the time he was reading his letter over, he felt that something would have to be said on that other subject. At last he started it again. There's a cabin down the road a little way, and this morning a friend of mine came in and played a while on the organ. I can't play myself, but I'm going to learn. He hadn't thought about learning before, but now he knew he should. And we all got to singing out of the books you sent. Eventually I looked up and saw the doorway full of little children listening for all they were worth. I presume I can give a good deal of pleasure listening to that organ sometimes, though I'm afraid I wouldn't be much of a hand at starting a Sunday school. That sentence sounded rather mannish for a girl of twenty-eight, but he had to let it stand, as he could think of nothing better to say. As I never knew much about such things, though I'm obliged for your praying I'm sure, it will give me a pleasant feeling at night when I'm alone to know someone in the world is thinking about me. And I'm sure if prayers can do any good, yours ought to, but about the Sunday school. I don't want to disappoint you after you've been so kind to send all the papers and books. Maybe I could give the children some of the papers and let them study the lessons out for themselves. I used to be quite a hand at drawing. I might practice up and draw them some pictures to amuse them sometime, when they come around again. I'll do my best. I'd like to think of you all at college having a good time. My school days were the best of my life. I wish I could live them again. I have a lot of books, but when I come in tired at night it seems so lonely here, and I'm so tired I just go to sleep. It doesn't seem to make much difference about my reading any more anyway. The oranges won't know it. They'd grow just as soon for me as if I kept up with the procession. I appreciate your kindness, though I don't know how to tell you how deeply it touched me. I've picked out the one in the middle, the girl with the laughing eyes and the loveliest expression I ever saw on any face, to be Miss Hazel Winship, the one who thought of this whole beautiful plan, am I right? I'll study the others up later, yours very truly. Here he paused and carefully erasing the last word, wrote, lovingly, Christy W. Bailey.  A strange warm feeling came over him while he was writing those things about Hazel Winship. He wondered what it was. He actually enjoyed saying those things to her, and knowing she'd be pleased to read them, and not think him impertinent. He wrote a good many promises after all. What led him to that? Did he mean to keep them? Yes, he believed he did. Only those fellows, Armstrong and Mortimer, shouldn't know anything about it. He would carry out his plan of going away Sundays until those ridiculous fellows forgot their nonsense, and so thinking, he folded and addressed his letter. A little more than a week later, six girls gathered in a cozy college room, Hazel's, to hear the letter read.  I was right, she's a girl like us. It doesn't matter in the least bit that she's 28, that isn't old. And for once I'm glad you see that my impulses are not always crazy. I'm going to send this letter home at once to father and mother. They really were quite troublesome about this. They thought it was the wildest thing I ever did, and I've been hearing about it all vacation. Now listen. And Hazel read the letter amid many interruptions. I'll tell you what it is, girls, she said, as she finished the letter. We must keep track of her now we've found her. I'm so glad we did it. She isn't a Christian that's evident. And we must try to help her and work through her a Sunday school. That would be worthwhile. Then maybe sometime we can have her up here for a winter and give her a change. Wouldn't she enjoy it? It can't be this winter because we'll have to work so hard here in college. We'd have no time for anything else. But after we've all graduated, would it be nice? I'll tell you what I'd like to do. I'd like the pleasure of taking Christy Bailey to Europe. I know she'd enjoy it. Just think of what fun it would be to watch her eyes shine over new things. I don't mind her red hair one bit. Red-haired people are lovely if they know how to dress to harmonize with their complexions. How fortunate we used green for that couch cover. Christy's hair will be lovely against it. Murmured Victoria in a serial comic tone while all the girls set up a shout at Hazel's wild flights of imagination. Take Christy Bailey to Europe. I'm afraid you'll be simply dreadful. Now that you've succeeded in one wild scheme, you'll make us do all sorts of things and never stop at reason. Hazel's cheeks flushed. It always hurt her a little that these girls didn't go quite as far in her philanthropic ideas as she did. She'd taken this Christy girl into her heart and she wanted them all to do the same. Well, girls, you must all write to her anyway and encourage her. Think what it would be like to be down there, a girl all alone and raising oranges. I think she's a hero. Oh, we'll write, of course, said Victoria with mischief in her eyes. But call her a heroine, do Hazel.  But a girl who confesses to being homely and red haired and 28 cannot hold for long a prominent place in the life of any but an enthusiast such as Hazel. Very soon the other five letters dropped off and Christy Bailey was favored with only one correspondent from that northern college. But to return to Florida that first Sunday morning after Christmas everything didn't go just as Christy planned in the first place he overslept. He had discovered some miserable scales on some of his most cherished trees. He had trudged to town Saturday morning a worker was using the pony plowing and get some whale oil soap and then spend the rest of the day until dark spraying his trees. It was no wonder he was too tired to wake up early the next day. Then when he finally went out to the pony he discovered that he was suffering from a badly cut foot probably the result of the careless hired man and a barbed wire fence. The swollen foot needed attention. Once the pony was made comfortable he reflected on what he would do next. To ride on that pony anywhere was impossible. To walk he wasn't inclined. The sun was warm for that time of year and he still felt stiff from his exertions the day before.  With this purpose in view he gave the pony and the chickens a liberal supply of food so he needed to come out again until evening and went into the house.  Before he could decide what to do it was thrown open and Mortimer and Armstrong entered with another young Englishman following close behind. Armstrong wore shiny patent leather shoes and seemed anxious to make them apparent. Good morning, Miss Bailey, he said affably. Glad to see you looking so fresh and sweet. We just called round to help you prepare for your little Sunday school. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of The Story of a Wim by Grace Livingston Hill. This Slipper Vox recording is in the public domain. Recording by like many waters. Chapter 5 A Sunday School in spite of itself. Christie was angry. He stood still looking from one to another of his three guests like a wild animal at bay. They knew he was angry and that fact contributed not a little to their enjoyment. They meant to carry out the joke to the end. The third man, Rushforth by name, stood grinning behind the other two. The joke was so thoroughly explained to him that he fully appreciated it. He was noted for being quick at a joke. Armstrong however seemed to have a complete sense of the ridiculous. Firmly and cheerfully they had their way. Christie, knowing resistance was futile, sat down on his couch in glum silence and let them do as they wished. I stopped on the way over and reminded our friends in the cabin below that the hour was 2.30, remarked Mortimer. He pulled a large dinner bell from his side pocket and rang a note or two. That's to let them know when we're ready to start. Christie scowled and the others laughed uproariously. Now Armstrong, you and I will go out and recon order for seeds while Rushforth stays here and helps this dear girl dust her parlor ornaments and brick bats. We'll need plenty of seeds, for we'll have quite a congregation if everyone I've asked turns out. They came back in a few minutes laden with boxes and boards which they arranged in three rows across the end of the cabin facing the organ. Christie sat and glared at them. He was very angry and was trying to think whether to bear it out and see what they would do next or run away to the woods. He had little doubt that if he attempted the latter they would all three follow him and perhaps find him to a seed to witness the performances they'd planned. They were evidently taking it out on him for having all this luxury and not taking them into the innermost confidences of his heart about it. He clenched his teeth and wondered what Hazel would say if she knew how outrageously her idea of a Sunday school was going to be burlesque. Armstrong tacked up the chalkboard and got out the chalk. Then, discovering the folded cloth map of the Holy Land, he tacked that up at the end wall where all could see it. Mortimer mapped out the program. Now Rushforth, you pass the books and the lesson leaflets and I'll stay at the organ and preside. Miss Christie's a little shy about speaking today, you see, and we'll have to help her along before we put her in the superintendent's place. Christie, you can make some pictures on the chalkboard. Anything will do. This is near Christmas. You can make Santa Claus coming down the chimney if you like. I'll run the music and we'll have quite a time of it. We can tell the fellows all about it down at the lake next week and I wouldn't be surprised if we had a delegation from Mulberry Creek next Sunday to hear Elder Bailey speak. I beg pardon, I mean Miss Bailey, you must excuse me, dear, on account of your freckles I sometimes take you for a man. Mortimer spread open a Bible that came with the song books and actually found the place in the lesson leaflet. He made them listen while he read and declared that Christie ought to give a talk on the lesson. Thus they carried on their banter the whole morning long. Christie sat glowering in the corner. He couldn't make up his mind what to do. For some strange reason he didn't want a Sunday school caricatured in his house, especially with that picture looking down upon it all, and yet he didn't know why he didn't want it. He was never squeamish before about such things. The fellows wouldn't understand it and he didn't understand it himself, but it went against the grain. Now as lunchtime approached he thought they might go if he offered no refreshments, but no, they had no such idea. Instead they sent Armstrong outside to the light wagon they'd tied at the tree by the roadside and he came back laden with a large basket which they unpacked. The basket contained canned meats and jellies and pickles and baked beans and all sorts of canned goods that had to be substituted for the genuine article in Florida where fresh meats and vegetables were not always to be had. Armstrong went out again and this time came back with a large case of bottles. He set it down with a thump on the floor just opposite the picture while he shut the door. The clink of bottles signified a hilarious hour and carried memories of many times of feasting in which Christie had participated before.  He suddenly rose with determination. Here was something he couldn't stand. He drank sometimes it's true, the fellows knew it, but both he and they knew that the worst things they ever did in their lives were done and said under the influence of liquor. They all had memories of wild debauches of several days duration when they had gone off together and not restrained themselves. Each one knew his own heart's shame after such a spree as this. Each knew the other's shame. They never spoke about it, but it was one of the bonds that tied them together, these drunken riots of theirs, when they put their senses at the service of cards and wine and never stopped until the liquor gave out. At such times each knew he would have sold his soul for one more penny to stake at the game or one more drink had the devil been around in human form to bid for it. Not one of them was a drunkard and few even constant drinkers partly because they had little money to spend in such a habit. They all had strong bodies able to endure much and their life out of doors didn't create a natural cravings of appetite. Rather they forced themselves into these reveries to amuse themselves in a land where there was little but work to fill up the long months and years of waiting. This case of liquor was not the first in Christie's cabin. He'd never felt before that it was out of place in entering there, but now the picture hung there and the case of liquor representing the denial of God seemed to Christie a direct insult to the one whose presence had in a mysterious way crept into the cabin with the picture. Also he saw in a flash what the fellows planned. They knew his weakness, they remembered how skilled his tongue was in turning phrases when loosened by intoxicants. They planned to get him drunk. Perhaps they had even drugged some of the bottles slightly and then to make him talk or even pray. At another time this might have seemed funny to him. He hadn't realized before how far he'd gone in the way from truth and righteousness, but now his whole soul rose up to loathe him, his ways and his companions.  God, make my little Chris a good man. And this was how it was answered. Poor mother. What hazel windship would think of the scene also flashed into his mind. He strode across that room in his angry strength before his astonished companions could stop him. Taking that case of liquor in his muscular arms, he hurled it far out the open door across the road and into the woods. Then he turned back to the three amazed men. You won't have any of that stuff in here, he said firmly. If you're bound to have a Sunday school, a Sunday school will have, but we won't have any drunken men at it. Perhaps you enjoy mixing things up that way, but I'm not quite a devil yet. They hadn't known he possessed such strength. He looked fairly splendid as he stood there in the might of right, his deep eyes glowing darker brown, and every bright curl trembling with determination. Oh, certainly beg pardon, said Armstrong, settling his eyeglasses that he might observe his former friend more closely. I mean no harm, I'm sure. Armstrong was always polite. If an earthquake had thrown him to the ground, he would have risen and said, oh, I beg pardon. But Christie was master in his own house. The others exclaimed a little and tried to joke with him about his newly acquired temperance principles, but he refused to open his lips further on the subject, and they ate their canned meats and jellies and bread, moistened only by water from Christie's pump in the yard. They had scarcely finished when the first installment of the Sunday school arrived and faded, but freshly starched calicoes, laundered especially for the occasion. They pattered to the door barefooted, clean and shining, some of their elders followed, lingering shy and smiling at the gateway, uncertain whether to acknowledge the invitation to Mr. Christie's cabin. Mr. Christie had never been so hospitable before, but the children, spying the rudely improvised benches, crept in, and the others followed. Christie stood scowling in the back end of the cabin. Sunday school was on his hands. He couldn't help it any more than he could help the coming of the organ and the picture. It was part of his new possessions. He felt determined that it shouldn't be a farce, how he would prevent it he didn't know, but he meant to do it. He looked up at the picture again. It seemed to give him strength. Of course, it was only his imagination that it smiled approval after he flung that liquor out the door, but in spite of his own reason, he felt that the man of the picture was enduring insult here in his house, and that he must fight for his sake. Added to that was Hazel Winship's faith in him and her desire for a Sunday school. His honor was at stake. He would never have gone out and gathered up a Sunday school to nurse to life, even for Hazel Winship. Neither would he have consented to help in one if his permission had been asked. But now, when it was, as it were, thrust upon him, like a little foundling child, all smiling and innocent of possible danger to it, what could he do but help it out? They were all seated now, and a hush of expectancy pervaded the room. The three conspirators over by the organ were consulting and laughing in low tones. Christy knew that the time had come for action. He raised his eyes to the picture once more. To his imagination the eyes seemed to smile assurance to him, as he went forward to the organ. Christy quietly picked up a song book and, opening at random, said, Let's sing number 134. When they began to sing, he was surprised to find it was the same song Mortimer had sung first on Christmas morning. His friends turned in astonishment toward him. They began to think he was entering into the joke like his old self, but instead on his face was a serious look they'd never seen there before. Mortimer put his fingers on the keys and began at once. Christy had taken the play out of their hands and turned the tables on them. They wondered what he'd do next. This was fine acting on his part, they felt, for him to take the predicament they put him in and work it out in earnest. The song was almost finished and still Christy didn't know what to do next. He announced another hymn at random and watched old Aunt Tildy settle her steel bold spectacles over her nose and fumble among the numbers. The Sunday school was entering into the music with zest. The male trio, who led, was singing with might and main, but with an amused smile on their faces as if they expected development soon. Just then an aged black man came hobbling in. His hair and whiskers were white and his worn Prince Albert coat didn't fit his bent figure, but there was a clerical manner that clung to the old coat and gave Christy hope. When the song was finished he raised his eyes without any hesitation and spoke clearly. Uncle Moses, he said, we want to begin right and you know all about Sunday schools, can't you give us a start?  I ain't much on speechifyin' Mr. Bailey, he said, but I can pray, cause you see when I was talkin' to God didn't I ain't thinkin' of my own sinful stumblin' speech. The choir didn't attempt to restrain their chuckles but Christy was all seriousness. That's it uncle, that's what we need, you pray. He wondered for an instant whether Hazel Winship was praying for her Sunday school then too. All during the prayer Christy marveled at himself, he conducting a religious service in his own house and asking somebody to pray. And yet as the trembling sentences rolled out he felt glad that homage was being rendered to the presence that seemed to have been in the room ever since the picture came. Oh our Father in heaven, we is all post sinners, said Uncle Moses earnestly, and Christy felt it was true, himself among the number. It was the first prayer the young man ever remembered feeling all the way through.  Here Christy felt the seat behind him shake, Mortimer was behaving very badly. But Lord went on the quavering old voice. We know there's a remedy, a way down in Palestine, in the Holy Land, was where the first medicine shop of the world was set up, and we've been getting the good of it ever since. Oh Lord, we praise thee today for the little child that lay in that manger a long time ago that brung the first chance of healing to us post sinners. Mortimer could scarcely contain himself, and the two Englishmen were laughing on general principles. Christy raised his bowed head and gave Mortimer a warning shove, and they subsided somewhat, but the remarkable prayer went on to its close, and to Christy it seemed to speak a new gospel, familiar, and yet never comprehended before. Could it be that these poor, uneducated people were to teach him a new way? By the time the prayer was over he'd lost his trepidation, the spirit of it put a determination into him to make this gathering a success, not merely for the sake of foiling his tormentors, but for the sake of the trusting children who had come there in good faith. He felt an exultant thrill as he thought of Hazel Winship and her commission. He would try to do his best for her sake today at least, whatever came of it in future.  Summoning all his daring he called out another hymn, which happened fortunately to be familiar to the audience, and to have many verses, and he reached for a lesson leaflet. Oh, if his curiosity had only led him to examine the lesson for today, or any lesson in fact. He must say something to carry things off, and he must have a moment to consider. The word swam before his eyes, he could make nothing out of it all. Did he dare ask one of the fellows to read the scripture lesson while he prepared for his next line of action? He looked at them. They were an uncertain quantity, but he must have time to think a minute. Armstrong was the safest. His politeness would hold him within bounds. When the song finished he handed the leaflet to Armstrong, saying briefly, You read the verses, Armstrong. Armstrong in surprise answered, Oh, certainly, adjusting his eyeglasses he began. Now, when Jesus was born in Bethlehem, hallelujah, interjected Moses, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, he was so happy to be in a meeting again. Oh, I beg pardon, sir, what did you say? said Armstrong, looking up innocently.  When the reading was over, Christie, annoyed by the actions of his supposed helpers, seized a riding whip from the corner of the room and came forward to where the map of Palestine hung. He passed his three friends. He gave them such a glare that they instinctively crouched away from the whip, wondering whether he was going to inflict instant punishment upon them. But Christie was only bent on teaching the lesson. This is a map, he said. How many of you have ever seen a map of Florida? Several children raised their hands. Well, this isn't a map of Florida, it's a map of Palestine, that place Uncle Moses spoke about when he prayed, and Bethlehem is on it somewhere. See if you can find it anywhere, because that's the place told about in the verses that we just read. Rushforth suddenly roused to help. He recognized Bethlehem, and at the risk of a cut with a whip from the angry Sunday school superintendent, he stepped forward and put his finger on Bethlehem. Christie's face cleared. He felt that the waters were not quite so deep after all. With Bethlehem in sight, and Aunt Tildy putting on her spectacles, he felt he had his audience. He turned to the chalkboard.  That was one of the first Christmas things that happened about that time. While I'm drawing it, I want you to think of some of the other things the lesson tells about, and if I can I'll draw them. The little heads bobbed eagerly this side and that, to see the wonder of a star appear on the smooth surface with those few quick strokes. I reckon you better put up a rainbow above the star for a promise, put in old Uncle Moses. Cause description say somewhere, where's the promise of his coming, and a rainbow is his promise in the heavens. All right, said Christie, breathing more freely, though he didn't quite see the connection, and soon a rainbow arch glowed at the top over the star. Then desire grew to see this and that thing drawn, and the scholars, interested beyond their leader's wildest expectations, called out. Manger, Wiseman, King. Christie stopped at nothing from a sheep to an angel. He made some attempt to draw everything they asked for, and his audience didn't laugh. They were hushed into silence. Part of them were held in thrall by overwhelming admiration for his genius, and the other part by sheer astonishment. The young men, his companions, looked at Christie with a new respect. They gazed from him to a shakily drawn cow, which was intended to represent the oxen that usually fed from the Bethlehem manger, and wondered. A new Christie Bailey was before them, and they didn't know what to make of him. For Christie was getting interested in his work. The board was almost full, and the perspiration stood out on his brow and made little damp dark rings of the curls around his forehead. There's room for one more thing, what shall it be, Uncle Moses? He said as he paused. His face was eager and his voice was interested. Better right across down, saw, because that's the reason for that babies coming into this world. He came to die to save us all. Amen, said Aunt Tildy, wiping her eyes and settling her spectacles for the last picture. Christie turned with relief back to his almost finished task. A cross was an easy thing to make. He built it of stone, massive and strong, and as its arm grew stretched out to save, something of its grandeur and purpose entered his mind and stayed. Now let's sing Rock of Ages, said Uncle Moses, closing his eyes in a happy smile. The choir hastily founded and began. As the Sunday school rose to depart and shuffled out with many a scrape and bow and admiring glance backward at the glowing chalkboard, Christie felt a hand touch his arm. Glancing down, he saw a small girl with great dark eyes set in black fringes gazing up at the picture above the organ, her little hand on his sleeve. Is that man you all's father? She asked him timidly. A great wave of color stole up into Christie's face. No, he answered, that is a picture of Jesus when he grew up to be a man. Oh, guess the little girl in admiration. Did you draw that? Did you all ever see Jesus? The color deepened. No, I didn't draw that picture, said Christie. It was sent as a present to me. Oh, said the child, disappointed. I thought you'd maybe see him some time, but he looked like you. He do. I thought he was you all's father. The little girl turned away, but her words lingered in Christie's heart. His father. How that stirred some memory. His father in heaven. Had he perhaps spoken wrong when he claimed no relationship with Jesus, the Christ. Young men who came to play a practical joke stayed to clear up. Gravely and courteously they went about the work, piled the hymn books neatly on top of the organ, and placed the boards and boxes under the house for further use if needed. The entire Sunday school had declared upon leaving the house with a bow and a smile, I'll come again next Sunday, Mr. Christie. I'll come every Sunday. And Christie hadn't told them not to. The young men bid good evening to their host, not once calling him Miss Christie, voted the afternoon a genuine success, and were actually gone. Christie sank to the couch and looked into the eyes looking down upon him. He was tired.  He was so tired he'd like to cry. And the pictured eyes seemed yearning to comfort him. He thought of the words of the little black girl. Is that men you all's father? My father, he said aloud. My father, the words echoed with a pleasant ring in the silent lonely room. He didn't know why he said it, but he repeated it again. And if the traditions of his childhood had been filled with the Bible, a host of verses would have flocked around him. But since his mind hadn't been filled with holy things, he had to learn it all. And his ideas of the man, Christ Jesus, were vague and crude. Perhaps, as to the children of old, God was speaking directly to his heart. Christie lay still and thought, went over his useless life and hated it, went over the past week with its surprises, and then over the strange afternoon. His own conduct surprised him most of all. Now why, just why, did he throw that case of liquor out the door? And why did he go ahead with that Sunday school? A mysterious power was at work within him. Was the secret the presence of the man of the picture? The sun dropped over the rim of the flat low horizon, and left the pine sluming dark against a starry sky. All the earth went dark with night, and Christie lay there in the quiet darkness, yet not alone. He kept thinking over what the little girl had said to him, and once again he said it out loud in the hush of the room. My father. But as the darkness grew deeper, a luminous halo seemed to be up where he knew the picture hung, and while he rested there with closed eyes, he felt that presence growing brighter. Those kind eyes were looking down upon him out of the dark of the room. This time he called. My father, with recognition in his voice, and out from the shadows of his life, the Christ stepped nearer until he stood beside the couch. Stooping he blessed him, breathed his love upon him, while he looked up in wonder and joy. And perhaps because he was not familiar with the words of Christ, the young man couldn't recall in what form those precious words of blessing fell on his ear, during the dream, or trance, or whatever it might be, that came upon him. When the morning broke around him, Christie, waking, sat up, and remembered, and decided it must have been a dream, induced by the unusual excitement of the day before. Yet a wondrous joy lingered with him, for which he could not account. Again and again he looked at the picture reverently, and said under his breath, My father. He wondered whether he was growing daft. Perhaps his loneliness was enfeebling his mind, so that he was susceptible to what he always considered superstition. Nevertheless it gave him joy, and he finally decided to humor himself in this notion. This was the permission of his old self toward the new self that was being born within him. He went about his work singing. He holds the key of all unknown, and I am glad. Well, I am glad. He announced out loud, as if someone had disputed the fact he just stated, about the safest person to hold the key after all, I guess. And even as a maiden might steal a glance to the eyes of her lover, so the soul in him glanced up to the eyes of the picture. The dog and the pony rejoiced as they heard their master's cheery whistle, and Christie felt happier that day than he had since he was a little boy. Toward night he grew quieter. He was developing a scheme. It would be rather interesting to write out an account of the Sunday school, not of course the part the fellows had in it, for that mustn't be known, but just the pleasant part about Uncle Moses and Aunt Tildy. He would write it to Hazel Winship. Not that he'd ever send it, but it would be pleasant to pretend he was writing her another letter. He hadn't enjoyed anything for a long time, as much as he had enjoyed writing that letter to her the other day. Perhaps after a long time, if she ever answered his letter, and here he suddenly realized he was cherishing a faint hope in his heart that she would answer it. He might revise this letter and send it to her. It would please her to know he was trying to do his best with the Sunday school for her, and she would likely appreciate some of the things that had happened. He would do it this very evening. He hurried through his day's work with zest. He had something to look forward to in the evening.  It was innocent at least, and could do no one any harm. Then, as he sat down to write, he glanced instinctively to the picture. It still wove its spell of the eyes around him, and he hadn't lost the feeling that Christ had come to him, though he'd never made the slightest attempt or desire to come to Christ. And under the new influence, he wrote his thoughts, as one might wing a prayer, scarcely believing it would ever reach a listening ear, yet taking comfort in the sending. And so he wrote, My dear new friend, I didn't expect to write you again, at least not so soon. It seems impossible that one so blessed with this world's good things should have time to think twice of one like me. I don't even know whether I'll ever send this when it's written, but it will wile away my lonely evening to write, and give me the pleasure of a little talk with a companion I appreciate very much. And if I ever send it, that will be all right. It's about the Sunday School. You know I told you I could never do anything like that. I didn't know how, and I never dreamed that I could, or would, perhaps I ought to say, more than to give the children the papers you sent and let them hear the organ sometimes. But a very strange thing has happened. A Sunday School has come to me in spite of myself. The friend who was playing the organ this Christmas morning, when the black children stood at the door listening as a joke invited them to a Sunday School, and they came. I was vexed because I didn't know what to do with them. Then too the friend came, bringing two others, and they all thought it was a huge joke. I saw they were going to act out a farce. While I never had much conscience about these things before, I sensed that it wouldn't be what you would like. Then too that wonderful picture you sent disturbed me. I didn't like to laugh at religion with that picture looking on. You may perhaps wonder at me, I don't understand myself, but that picture has had a strange effect on me. It helped me do a lot of things Sunday that I didn't want to do. It helped me take charge and do something to get that Sunday School to go right. I didn't know how in the least. Of course I've been to Sunday School. I didn't mean that. But I never took much notice of things and how they were done. And I wasn't one to do it anyway. I felt unfit. And even more because my friends were here, and I knew they were making fun. I had them sing a lot, and then I asked old Uncle Moses to help us out. I wish I could show you Uncle Moses. Here the writer paused and seemed to debate a point for a moment, and then he wrote, I'll try to sketch him roughly. There followed a spirited sketch of Uncle Moses, with both hands crossed on top of his heavy cane, his benign chin leaning forward with interest. One could fairly see how yellow with age were his whiteened locks, how green with age his ancient coat. Christy had his talents, though there were few applets for them. It is of interest to note here that, when this letter reached the Northern College, as it did one day, those six girls gathered together and laughed and cried over the pictures. Finally, after due counsel, Christy Bailey was offered a full course in a famous women's college of art. This he smiled over and quietly declined, saying he was much too old to begin anything like that, which required that one should begin at childhood to accomplish anything by it. This the girl sighed over and argued over, but finally gave up, as they found Christy wouldn't. But to return to the letter, Christy gave a full account of the prayer, which had touched his own heart deeply, then he described and sketched Aunt Tildy with her spectacles. He had a secret longing to put an arm strong with his glasses, and the incident of his interruption with the Bible reading. But, since that would reflect somewhat upon his character as an elderly maiden, to be found consorting with three such young men, he restrained himself. But he put an extra vigor into the front row of little black heads, bobbing this way and that, singing with might and bane. I knew they ought to have a lesson next, but I didn't know how to teach it any better than I know how to make an orange tree bear in a hurry. I determined to do my best, however. I happened to remember something said in what was read about a star. So I made one, and I told them each to think of something they'd heard in that lesson that they wanted me to draw. That worked first rate. They tried nearly everything in the encyclopedia, and I did my best at each till the whole big chalkboard was full. I wish you could see it. It looks like a Noah's Ark hanging up there on the wall now, or I haven't cleaned it off yet. I keep it there to remind me that I really did teach a Sunday school class once. When they went away they all said they were coming again, and I don't doubt they'll do it. I'm sure I don't know what to do with them if they do, for I've drawn all there is to draw. As for teaching them anything, they can teach me more in a minute than I could teach them in a century. Why, one little child looked up at me with her big round soft eyes, so wistful and pretty, and asked me if that picture on the wall was my father. I wish I knew more about that picture. I know it must be meant for Jesus Christ. I'm not quite so ignorant of all religion as not to see that. There is the halo with the shadow of the cross above his head. And when the sun has almost set, it touches there, and the halo seems to glow and glow, almost with phosphorescent light, until the sun is gone, and leaves us all in darkness. Then I imagine I can see it still glow out between the three arms of the cross. And now I don't know why I'm writing this, I didn't mean to when I began, but I felt as if I must tell about the strange experience I had last night. And then Christy told his dream, told it until someone reading could only feel as he felt, see the vision with him, yearn for the blessing, and be glad and wonder always after. Tell me what it means, he wrote. It seems as if there was something in this presence for me. I can't believe it's all imagination, for it would leave me when day comes. It has set me longing for something, but I don't know what. I never longed before, except for my oranges to bring me money. When I wanted something I couldn't have, before this. I went and did something I knew I shouldn't, just for the pleasure of doing wrong, a sort of defiant pleasure. Now I feel as if I want to do right, to be good, like a little child coming to its father. I feel as if I want to ask you, as that little soul asked me yesterday. Is that man you all's father? Christy folded his letter and flung it down on the table with his head upon his hands. With the writing of that experience his strength left him. He felt abashed in its presence. He seemed to have avowed something, to have made a declaration of desire and intention for which he was hardly ready yet, and still he didn't want to go back. He was like a man groping in the dark, not knowing where he was, or whether there was light, or whether indeed he wanted the light if there was any to be had. But before he retired that night he dropped on his knees beside his couch, with bowed and reverent head. After waiting silently a while he said out loud, my father, as if he were testing a call, he repeated it again more eagerly, and a third time with a ring in his voice. My father. That was all. He didn't know how to pray. His soul had grown no further than just to know how to call to his father, but it was enough. A kind of peace settled down on him, a feeling that he was heard. Once more he sensed that he was acting out of all reason, and he wondered whether he could be losing his mind. He, a red-haired hard-featured orange grower, who only yesterday carried curses so easily upon his lips, and might again tomorrow, to be allowing his emotions thus to carry him away, it was simply childish. But so deep was the feeling that a friend was near that he might really say, my father, if only to the dark, that he determined to keep up the hallucination, if indeed it was hallucination, as long as it would last. So he fell asleep again to the dream of benediction. The next day a sudden desire took him to mail that letter he wrote the night before. What harm since he would never see the girl, and since she thought him a poor forlorn creature, this letter might prove him half-daft, but even so she might write him again, which he found he wanted very much when he thought about it. So without giving himself a chance to repent by rereading it, he drove the limping pony to town and mailed it. Now as the middle of the week approached, a conviction seized superintended Christy Bailey that another Sunday was about to dawn, and another time of trial would perhaps be his. He virtually bound himself to that Sunday school by the mailing of that foolish letter. He could have run away if not for that, and those girls up north would never have bothered their heads any more about their old Sunday school. What if Mortimer should bring the fellows over from the lake? What if? His blood froze in his veins. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 OF THE STORY OF A WIM By Grace Livingston Hill This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by like many waters. Chapter 7 I Love You After his supper that night he dodgedly seized the lesson leaflet and began to study. He read the whole thing through, hints and elucidations and illustrations and all, and then began again. At last it struck him that the hints for the infant class would aboutsuit his needs, and without further ado he set himself to master them. Before long he was as interested as a child in his plans, and the next evening was spent in cutting out paper crosses as suggested in the lesson, one for every scholar he expected to be present, and lettering them with the golden text. He spent another evening still in making an elaborate picture on the reverse side of the chalkboard to be used at the close of his lesson after he led up to it by more simple work on the other side. He went so far as to take the hymn book, select the hymns, and write out a regular program. No one should catch him napping this time. Neither should the prayer be forgotten. Uncle Moses would be there, and they could trust him to pray. Christy was a little anxious about his music, for upon that he depended principally for success. He felt surprised over himself that he so much wished to succeed when a week ago he hadn't cared. What would he do, though, if Mortimer didn't turn up, or worse still, if he'd planned more mischief? But the three friends appeared promptly on the hour, dignity on their faces, and helpfulness in the atmosphere that surrounded them. They had no more practical jokes to play. They had recognized that for some hidden reason Christy meant to play this thing out in earnest. And their liking and respect for him were such that they wanted to assist in the same spirit. They liked him nonetheless for his prompt handling of the case of liquors. They carried a coat of honor in that colony that respected moral courage when they saw it. Besides, everybody liked Christy. They listened closely to Christy's lesson, even with interest.  Armstrong had passed them around, being careful to reserve three for himself Mortimer and Rushforth, and they sang with a right goodwill. And when the time came to leave they shook hands with Christy like the rest, and without the least mocking in their voices, said they had a pleasant time and would come again. Then each man took a box and a board and stowed them away as he passed out of the room. And thus Christy was set up above the rest to a position of honor and respect. This work he had taken up, that they partly forced him to take up, separated him from them somewhat. Perhaps it was this fact that Christy had to thank afterward for his freedom from temptation during those first few weeks of his acquaintance with his Heavenly Father. For how could he have grown into the life of Christ if he had constantly met and drunk liquor with these companions? The new life could not have grown with the old. Christy's action that first Sunday afternoon made a difference between him and the rest. They recognized it, admired it in him, and therefore lifted him up. What was there for Christy but to try to act his part? Before the end of another week a package of books and papers and Sunday school cards and helps arrived from the North, such as would have delighted the heart of the most advanced Sunday school teacher of the day. What those girls could not think of, the head of the large religious bookstore they went to thought of for them, and Christy had food forethought and action during many long, lonely evenings. And always these evenings ended in his kneeling in the dark, where he imagined the light of Christ's halo in the picture could send its glow upon him and saying out loud in a clear voice, My Father, outside in the night was heard only the wailings of the tall pines as they waved weird fingers dripping with gray moss or the plaintive call of the tit-lark. With the package a letter for Christy came to. He put it in his breast pocket with eager anticipation and hustled that pony home at a most unmerciful trot, at least so thought the pony. When Hazel Winship read that second letter out loud to the other girls, she didn't read all of it. The pages containing the sketches she passed around freely and they read and laughed over the Sunday school and talked enthusiastically of its future. But the pages that told of the Sabbath evening vision and of Christy's feeling toward the picture Hazel kept to herself, she felt instinctively that Christy would rather not have it shown. It seemed so sacred to her and so wonderful. Her heart went out to the other soul seeking its father. When they left her room that night she locked the door and knelt a long time praying, praying for the soul of Christy Bailey. Something in the longing of that letter from the south reproached her that she, with all her enlightenment, was not appreciating to its full the love and care of her heavenly father. And so Christy unknowingly helped Hazel Winship nearer to her master. And then Hazel wrote the letter, in spite of a Greek thesis, the thesis in fact, that was waiting and calling to her with urgency, the letter that Christy carried home in his breast pocket. He didn't wait to eat his supper, though he gave the pony his. Indeed it wasn't a very attractive function at its best. Christy was really handsome that night, with the lamp light bringing out all the copper tints and garnet shadows in his hair. His finely cut lips curved in a pleasant smile of anticipation. He didn't realize before how much he wanted to hear from Hazel Winship again. His heart was thumping as he tore open the delicately perfumed envelope and took out the many closely written pages of the letter. And his heart rejoiced that it was long and closely written. He resolved to read it slowly and make it last a good while. My dear, dear Christy, it began. Your second letter has come, and first I want to tell you that I love you. Christy gasped and dropped the sheets upon the table, his arms and face on them. His heart was throbbing painfully, and his breath felt like great sobs. When he raised his eyes eventually, as he was acquiring a habit of doing to the picture, they were full of tears. They fell and blurred the delicate writing of the pages on the table, and the Christ knew, and pitied him, and seemed almost to smile. No one had ever told Christy Bailey of loving him, not since his mother those long years ago, held him to her breast, and whispered to God to make her little Chris a good man. He grew up without expecting love. He scarcely thought he knew the meaning of the word. He scorned it in the only sense he'd ever heard it spoken of. And now, in all his loneliness, to have this free, sweet love of a pure-hearted girl rushed upon him without stint and without cause overpowered him. Of course he knew it wasn't his, this love she gave so freely and so frankly. It was meant for a person who never existed, a nice, homely old maid whose throne in Hazel's imagination was located in his cabin for some strange wonderful reason. Yet it was his too, his to enjoy, for it certainly belonged to no one else. He was robbing no one else, to let his hungry heart be filled a little while with the fullness of it. One resolved he made instantly, without hesitation, and that was he would be worthy of such love, if so be it lay in him to be. He would cherish it, as a tender flower that was meant for another, but fell instead into his rough keeping. And no thought or word or action of his should ever stain it. Then, with true knighthood in his heart to help him onward, he raised his head and read on, a great joy upon him that almost engulfed him. And I believe you love me a little too. Kristie caught his breath again, he saw it was true, although he hadn't known it before. Shall I tell you why I think so?  I haven't read that part of your letter to the other girls. I couldn't, it seemed sacred, while I know they would have sympathized and understood. I felt perhaps you wrote it just to me, and I would keep it sacred for you. And so I'm sending you this letter just to speak of that to you. I'll write in my other letter with the rest of the girls about the Sunday school and how glad we are, and about the pictures and how fine they are, and you'll understand. But this letter is about your own self. I've stopped most urgent work upon my thesis to write this too, so you may know how important I consider you, Kristie. I couldn't sleep last night for praying about you. It was a wonderful revelation to Kristie, the longing of another soul that his might be saved. To the lonely young fellow, accustomed to thinking that not another one in the world cared for him, it seemed almost unbelievable. He forgot for the time that she considered him another girl like her. He forgot everything, except her pleading that he would give himself to Jesus. She wrote of Jesus Christ as one would write of a much-loved friend, met often face to face, consulted about everything in life, and trusted beyond all others. A few weeks ago this would indeed have been wonderful to the young man, but that it could have any relation to him, impossible. Now, with the remembrance of his dream and the joy his heart had felt from the presence of a picture in his room, it seemed it might be true that Christ would love even him, and would so great a love. The pleading took hold upon him. Jesus was real to this one girl. He might become real to him. The thought of that girlish figure kneeling beside her bed in the solemn night hours praying for him was almost more than he could bear. It filled him with awe and a great joy. He drew his breath and didn't try to keep the tears from flowing. It seemed that the fountains of the years were broken up in him, and he was weeping out his cry for the lonely, unloved childhood he had lost, and the bitter years of mistakes that followed. It appeared that the Bible had a great part to play in this new life put before him, versus he recognized from Scripture abounded in the letter. He didn't recall hearing them before, but they came to him with a rich sweetness as though spoken just for him. Did the Bible contain all that, and why hadn't he known it before? He went to other books for respite from his loneliness. Why had he never known that there was deeper comfort than all else could give? Think of it, Christie, the letter read, Jesus Christ would have come to this earth and lived and died to save you if you were the only one out of the whole earth that was going to accept him. He turned his longing eyes to the picture. Was that true? And the eyes seemed to answer, Yes, Christie, I would. Before he turned out his light that night, he took the Bible from the organ and opening it random read. For I have loved thee with an everlasting love, therefore with loving kindness I have drawn thee, and a light of belief spread over his face. He couldn't sleep for many hours for thinking of it all. There was no question in his mind of whether he would or not. He felt he was the Lord's in spite of everything else. The loving kindness that had drawn him was too great for any human resistance. Then with the realization of the loving kindness came self-reproach for his so long denial and worse than indifference. He didn't understand the meaning of repentance and faith, but he was learning them in his life. Christie was never the same after that night, something changed in him. It may have been growing all those days since the things first came, but that letter from Hazel Winship marked a decided epic in his life. All his manhood rose to meet the sweetness of the girl's unasked prayer for him. It didn't matter that she didn't think of him as a man. She prayed, and the prayer reached up to heaven and back to him again. The only touch of sadness about it was that he could never see her and thank her face to face for the good she did for him. He thought of her as some faraway angel who stopped on earth for a little while and in some of his reveries he dreamed that perhaps in heaven, where all things were made right, he should know her. For the present it was enough that he had her kind friendship and her companionship in writing. Not for worlds now would he reveal his identity and the thought that this might be wrong did not enter his mind. What harm could it possibly do and what infinite good to him, and perhaps through him to a few of those little black children, he let this thought come timidly to the front. This was the beginning of the friendship that made life a new thing to Christie Bailey. He wrote long letters telling the thoughts of his inmost heart as he had never told them to anyone on earth, as he could never have told them to one he hoped to meet sometime as he would have told them to God, and the college student found time amid her essays and her activities to answer them promptly. Her companions wondered why she wasted so much valuable time on that poor cracker girl as they sometimes spoke of Christie and how she could have patience to write such long letters. But their curiosity didn't go so far as to wonder what she found to say. Otherwise they might have noticed that Hazel offered less often to read out loud her letters from the south, but they were busy and only occasionally inquired about Christie now or sent a message. Hazel herself sometimes wondered why this stranger girl had taken so deep a hold upon her, but the days went by and the letters came frequently and she never found herself willing to put one by unanswered. Some question always needed answering, some point on which her young convert to Jesus Christ needed enlightenment, then too she found herself growing nearer to Jesus because of this friendship with one who was just learning to trust him in such a childlike and earnest way. Do you know she confided to Ruth Somers one day? I can't make myself see Christie Bailey as homely. It doesn't seem possible to me. I think she's mistaken. I know I'll find something handsome about her when I see her, which I shall someday. And Ruth smiled mockingly, oh Hazel, Hazel, it will be better than for you never to see poor Christie, I'm sure, for you'll surely find your ideal different from the reality.  No, Ruth, I'm sure, a girl couldn't have all the beautiful thoughts Christie has and not be fine in expression. There'll be some beauty in her, I'm sure. Her eyes now I know are magnificent. I wish she'd send me a picture, but she won't have one taken, though I've coaxed and coaxed.