June 1930
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greater worth than the thing paid for by the great sacri fice. The parallel was perfectly drawn. “No man taketh it from me, but I lay it down of my self.” John Dowling’s voice trembled after this as well. It was evident now that he knew the contents of Uncle Alan’s letter, and that he perhaps thought this the best way to make it known to those most interested. Where were Harold and Elise ? He could not see them, look as he would. And now came the last surprising part. The young man before them was telling them, as fellow alumni, that he had felt the call to go, and that he was there to bid them farewell. He was leaving almost at once for those Islands to take up the work just laid down. One other was to go with him, he continued. Harold, their classmate, son of the modest missionary hero, had cast his lot with John Dowling. He wished to go on at once with his father’s work. The familiar old gray grandstand swam a little before Uncle Alan’s eyes. Oddly enough, his everyday mind per sistently wrestled with the problem, comparatively trivial, how had John Dowling and Harold received the news be fore himself? And then in a flash it came. A cable had been sent to headquarters here on the coast. Harold and John had kept it from them until now for reasons of their own. Elise and Pauline were probably with their brother now hearing this plan and praying even as they wept over the sad news. It was all God’s way of solving the insoluble. The ■ matter had been taken out of his hands that were too weak to adjust or to guide. And Harold, true son of a brave father, had given up that postgraduate year he had longed for. What was it the doctor, his old friend, had said to him the other day?
, got, who was tucked in, up on the back row, clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. This was the man who had helped her boy, Donald Donaldson, of the Cameron Clan, and made possible the Home for Devout Men out of Every Nation, as Donald had in a moment of unusual lightness named the group she cared for. It was well- named, and God had blessed it, Aunt Margot reflected, in her grateful old heart. Her cheeks were pinker than ever, and the little rose in her modest, out-of-date bonnet gave her the appearance of an old picture. They had not expected Mr. Snowdon to mention their Thin Red Line, at all. But that is just what he did. He referred, after a few introductory words, to the well- dcnown story that every approved piece of rope in the British Navy is supposed to contain a red strand; and he wove this very cunningly into a tribute to the red strand that had run through their university life during the past year. “I refer,” he. continued, “to that group of young peo ple who have called themselves the Thin Red Line. They have drawn their members from every nation. Their one requirement being a whole-hearted belief in that grand old Book of God, the Bible, and a genuine acceptance of the Saviour found therein. I was glad,” his eyes twinkled a little, “when I found that John, here, who is to speak to you today, had taken up with the Thin Red Line. You couldn’t have done better, John!” A ripple of laughter ran over the mass Qf students. They had never seen the grave “Jeremiah” so genial. “I used to know John Dowling in his undergraduate days,” he went on. “For his lighter moments of recreation he read Walter Pater. ‘Marius the Epicurean’ was a book he was—ah— you would say ‘razzed’ about! He took it on a fishing trip for light reading. So it rejoiced my heart when I saw him give his splendid mind and entire life to serving Jesus Christ.” Were they offended by all this ? Uncle Alan won dered. They did not seem to be, these young men arid women of the graduating class—“our country’s best!” Were they then hungry, after all, for some of the old manna? Many of them, he was certain, had belonged to the Lord, and had gotten away from Him in the rush of college life. Arid now from the eminently respectable and wealthy senior Trustee they were receiving a spiritual touch, familiar though long forgotten! And it was wel come, that was evident. Why, he wondered, were people so afraid to offer the simple Gospel to the college student ? It was often just what they needed—consciously or un consciously ! John Dowling turned to John’s Gospel, the tenth chap ter. His face was full of deep gravity—no, it was sorrow. His voice was quivering a little as he read verses fourteen and fifteen. “I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine. As the Father knoweth me, even so know I the Father: and I lay down my life for the sheep.” It was a talk of service and of sacrifice. A simple talk, full of the quietness that is not of earth but of heaven. A Spirit-filled messenger was before them. The light that played upon his face proclaimed his ever-deep ening intimacy with God. But what was this story that John was using in his address? Uncle Alan’s hand tight ened its grip on Little Sister’s small fingers. The story of a shepherd-missionary in some far away islands, who had laid down his life, even as the great and good Shep herd, the Lord Jesus, laid down His life, to save appar ently worthless humanity. The price paid was of so much
R e s t in th e Lord Rest in Him, His peace is mine; So weak am I, But He—divine. I rest in Him, I know He cares, For I have proved He hears my prayers. I' rest in Him, His arms beneath; This rest has come Through trust and faith.
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I rest in Him, Can I do less
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When He has shown How He can bless? I rest in Him,
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Secure—at peace; His will supreme, All doubtings cease, v — The Churchman’s Magazine.
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