May 1931
214
T h e
K i n g ’ s
B u s i n e s s
Her hands trembled as she tore open the envelope. “There is no reply,” she said mechanically to the boy still waiting. It was not from Bob. “Do not come. Am writing. Cousin Rhetta.” She read the words through twice. Then she felt suddenly weak and dropped on the nearest chair.- What did it mean? What had happened to make the change in all their plans? It must be that Peter had something to do with it. Peter was the young nephew that Cousin Rhetta had raised from his babyhood, and he was the only one besides Marian who it seemed had any claim up on her. ' Cousin Rhetta herself could not be sick or she would never have wired the girl not to come. Marian hoped the delay would not be more than a week; she sim ply could not stand it here another week. And besides, her room was rented to some people who were coming in a few days. But there was nothing to do but wait. Two days later came the letter. Peter’s wife was sick and must go away at once to a sanitarium for at least six months. And there was nothing to do but Cousin Rhetta must go and take care of Peter’s three young chil dren while their mother was gone. She was sorry to put off Marian’s visit; she had looked forward with real pleasure to having her, but Peter needed her, and of course she must go. She was very sorry, and she hoped Marian would find another home somewhere among her friends for the next six months, or it might be a year before she could leave Peter and his wife in this crisis. She was closing her little home, but hoped that she could come back to it and still have Marian there with her, but that would be postponed now indefinitely. Marian read the letter through again. It was kind, every line of it. It was one of those things that could not be helped, and nobody was to blame. But to the girl’s tortured imagination it seemed just another blow, another calamity, another evidence that God could not know, or that He did not care. She flung herself down in a storm of tears. She had had more than she could endure. Was there ever any one so utterly wretched, so desolate, helpless, alone? As she lay there on the bed weeping her heart out, she suddenly stopped. “What doest thou here, Elijah?” Where did those words come from? Wjierehad she ever heard them? What did they mean? It was as though some one had spoken to her. But who? She sat up and tried to think. “Elijah, Elijah,” she repeated slowly. Who was. Eli jah? She had heard of him somewhere. Ah, now she remembered, he was in the Bible somewhere. She had once had a Sunday-school teacher who could tell the Bible stories with a vividness that left an indelible impression on the minds of her hearers. She could see herself with a circle of other little girls, sitting spellbound, with eyes wide open and sometimes mouth open, too, as this teacher made live before their very eyes those matchless stories from the old Bible. But what made her think of him now? She tried to recall the story. Yes, she once heard a sermon about him, too, in the college chapel. It was just at examination time, and she remembered the understanding smiles that spread over faces as the speaker portrayed the discouraged proph et weeping under the juniper tree and then hiding in a cave1. He knew that some of his young hearers were al ready heading for that juniper tree, he said, and he want
We Can Help You Did you miss the first installment of “The Return of the Tide” ? Send in your subscrip tion today, and we will begin it with the April number in which the story began. ed to warn them beforehand that there was no help or comfort to be found there. Their only help was in the Lord God of Elijah. Yes, she recalled, he had said that those words, “What doest thou here?” were God’s voice, and they reached the man who was down in the dumps. Had God spoken to her just now? She had been taught that God spoke through the words of the Book, but she had come to doubt it. Well, what did it mean? What did He want her to do? She had been too bitter to pray for weeks and weeks. But now, as. she sat there on the bed, she lifted up her eyes toward heaven and said simply, “Yes, God, but what am I to do?” It was a crude prayer, if it could be called that. But she felt better instantly. God had spoken to her, in the words of the Book; of that she felt sure. And she had answered. But what was she to do? She must do something, it was no time to lie there and moan. Perhaps that story would tell her what to do. Where was it anyway? In the Bible somewhere, but how did one find such things? Out of regard for her friend, who cared about such things, she had brought her Bible with her, and it lay unused on the dresser. She picked it up now and idly turned the leaves. She recalled after a moment that it was in the Old Testament—of that she felt sure. She noticed the name of Isaiah at the top of a page. So many of the pages seemed to be named after people. Why didn’t they have an index ? Yes, sure enough, there was one here on the first pages. She ran her eye down the column of the books of the Bible. There were names and names, but Elijah’s was not among them. In disgust she closed the Book and shoved it under some magazines on the table. But the still small Voice had spoken, and her mood was softened. As she moved restlessly about the room, the thought came to her that God could tell her what to do. After a moment’s struggle she surrendered her pride and her bitterness and took the first step on her way back home. . She dropped on her knees and cried with a true repentance, “Father, forgive me, and help me.” That was all she could pray. But God heard, and He had hours before started His answer on the ' way. Marian felt she must tell her friend of the change of plans that evening; but how could she do it when she had nowhere to go, and the room there was rented? In the last mail of the day the postman handed her a letter, forwarded from her own old address. It was in an unfamiliar hand and postmarked in a city several hundred miles away in which she knew no one. She broke -the seal wonderingly. It was from one of her former college mates, a quiet girl to whom she had
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