The Letter of Credit

_Peter was sleeping_. All sorts of characters do sleep, it is said, the night before the day when they know they are to be put to death; in weariness, in despair, in stolid indifference, in stoical calmness, in proud defiance. But Rotha knew it was upon no such slumbers that the "light shined in the prison," and to no such sleeper that the angel of the Lord came, or ever does come. That was the sleep of meekness and trust.

  The list of passages given by the "Treasury" on that clause of the third psalm here came to an end. Rotha had not enough, however; she took up the words in the 6th verse--"I will not be afraid," etc. And then she came to the burst of confident triumph in the 27th psalm. And then,

  "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea."--Ps. xlvi. 1, 2.

  Here was a new feature. Trouble might come, yea, disaster; and yet the children of God would not fear. How that? Such absolute love, such perfect trust, such utter devotion to the pleasure of their Father, that what was his will became their will, and they knew no evil could really touch them? It must be so. O but this is a step further in the divine life. Or does this devotion lie also at the bottom of all those declarations of content and peace she had been reading? Rotha believed it must, after she had studied the question a little. O but what union with God is here; what nearness to him; what consequent lofty and sweet elevation beyond the reach of earthly trouble. Rotha got no further. She saw, in part at least, what she wanted; and falling on her knees there by the open window, she prayed that the peace and the life and the sweetness of the May might come into her heart, by the perfecting of love and faith and obedience there. She prayed for protection in her loneliness, and for the trust which saves from fear of evil. A great asking! but great need makes bold. She prayed, until it seemed as if she could pray no longer; and then she went back to her Bible again. But gradually there began to grow up a feeling in Rotha, that round the walls of her room there was an invisible rampart of defence which nothing evil could pass. And when one of her Bible references took her to the story of Elisha, shut up in a city enclosed by an army of enemies, but whose servant's eyes in answer to his prayer were opened to see "the mountain full of horses and chariots of fire round about Elisha"--her faith made a sort of spring. She too seemed to have a sight of the invisible forces, mostly undreamed of because unseen, which keep guard around the Lord's people; and she bowed her head in a sort of exulting gladness. Why this was even better than to need no defence, to know that such defence was at hand. Without danger there could be no need of guard; and is not such unseen ministry a glorious companionship? and is it not sweeter to know oneself safe in the Lord's hand, than to be safe, if that could be, anywhere else?

  I have learned one thing, said Rotha to herself, as she rose to make some final arrangements for the evening. I wonder if I came here partly to learn this? But what can I have been brought here for, indeed? There is some reason. There is the promise that everything shall work for good to them that love God; so according to that, my coming here must work good for me. But how possibly? What am I to do, or to learn, here? It must be one thing or the other. My learning in general seems to be stopped, except Bible learning. Well, I will carry that on. I shall have time enough. What else in all the world can I do?

  Her unfinished calico dresses occurred to her. There was work for some days at least. Perhaps by that time she would know more. For the present, with a glad step and a lightened heart she went about her room, arranging certain things in what she thought the prettiest and most convenient way; got out some clothes, and even work; and then wished she had a book. Where was she to get books to read? and how could she live without them? This question was immediately so urgent that she could not wait to have it settled; she must go down without delay to Mrs. Purcell, and see if any information respecting it was to be had in that quarter.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  ROTHA'S REFUGE.

  The kitchen was all "redd up," as neat as wax; everything in its place; and at the table stood Mrs. Purcell with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her arms in a great pan, hard at work kneading bread. She looked clean too, although her dress was certainly dilapidated; perhaps that was economy, though a better economy would have mended it. So Rotha thought. She did not at once start the business she had come upon; she stood by the table watching the bread-making operation. Mrs. Purcell eyed her askance. This woman had most remarkable eyes. Black they were, as sloes, and almond shaped; and they could look darker than black, and fiery at the same time; and they could look keen and sly and shrewd, and that is the way they looked out of their corners at Rotha now, with an element of suspicion. A little while without speech. She was kneading her dough vigorously; the large smooth mass rolling and turning under her strong wrists and fingers with quick and thorough handling.

  "Isn't that rather hard work?" Rotha said.

  "I think all work's hard," was the morose-sounding answer.

  "Do you? But it would be harder not to do any."

  "That's how folks looks at it. I'd rather eat bread than make it. There aint no fun in work. I'd like to sit down and have somebody work for me. That's what you've been doin' all your life, aint it?"

  "Not quite," said Rotha gravely.

  "Can you make bread?"

  "No."

  "Then I s'pose you think I'll make your bread for you while you are here?"

  "I do not think about it," said Rotha with spirit. "I have nothing to do with it. My aunt sent me here. If you cannot keep me, or do not wish to keep me, that is your affair. I will go back again."

  "What did you come for?"

  "I told you; my aunt was leaving home."

  "Joe says, there's fish in the brook that'll jump at a fly made o' muslin--but I aint that sort o' fish. I didn't engage to make no bread for Mis' Busby when I come here."

  "Shall I write to my aunt, then, that it is not convenient for me to stay here."

  "You can if you like, for it _aint_ convenient; but it's no use; for Mr. Purcell don't care, and Mis' Busby don't care. I'll make all the bread you'll eat; I guess."

  "What do Mrs. Busby and Mr. Purcell not care about?"

  "They don't care whether I make bread all day, or not."

  "I hope it will not be for long," said Rotha, "that I shall give you this trouble."

  "I don't know how long it will be," said Mrs. Purcell, making out her loaves with quick dexterity and putting them in the pans which stood ready; "but I aint a fool. I can tell you one thing. Mis' Busby aint a fool neither; and when she pays anybody to go from New York here in the cars, it aint to pick her a bunch o' flowers and go back again."

  Rotha was not a fool either, and was of the same opinion. This brought her back to her business.

  "If I stay a while, I shall want to get at some books to read," she said. "Are there any in the house?"

  "Books?" said Mrs. Purcell. "I've never seen no books since I've been here."

  "Where can I get some, then? Where are there any?"

  "I don't know nothin' about books. I don't have no use for no books, my own self. I don't read none--'cept my 'little blue John.'"

  "Your 'little blue John'? What is that?"

  "I s'pose you have a big one."

  "I do not know what you mean."

  "I don't mean nothin'," said the woman impatiently. "There's my 'little blue John'--up on the mantel shelf; you can look at it if you want to."

  Looking to the high shelf above the kitchen fireplace, Rotha saw a little book lying there. Taking it down, she was greatly astonished to find it a copy of the gospel of John, a little square copy, in limp covers, very much read. More surprised Rotha could hardly have been.

  "Why, do you like this?" she involuntarily exclaimed.

  "Sometimes I think I do,"--was Mrs. Purcell's ambiguous, or ironical, answer; as she carefully spread neat cloths over her pans of bread. Rotha wondered at the woman. She wa
s handsome, she had a good figure and presence; but there was a curious mixture of defiance and recklessness in her expression and manner.

  "I see you have read it a good deal."

  "It's easy readin',"--was the short answer.

  "Do you like the gospel of John so much better than all the rest of the Bible?"

  "I don' know. The rest has too many words I can't make out."

  "Well, I am very fond of the gospel of John too," said Rotha. "I think everybody