The Winepress

The church was conspicuously situated on an elevation which had a dignity of its own; there was nothing steep nor abrupt about the incline, its long, smooth slopes extended smoothly and symmetrically. No fitter place could be found for a house of worship, and here those worshipfully inclined had builded this structure of architectural beauty with many embellishments, and dedicated it to their God. Here and there the long slopes were ornamented by neat dwellings and prosperous looking homes, while the town of Edgerly lay on the plain below. And the church, crowning the work of God, seemed a thing removed from the busy mart; a sentinel with a living, throbbing heart keeping watch, with eyes that slumbered not nor slept.

Was not this temple builded there, stone upon stone, to stand before the children of men, a living force to represent all that is best and most worthy, an aid to truth and purity, the earthly home of the spirit of the lowly One? And as its tireless eyes look upon the busy throng is it not the mission of this church of God to extend a helping hand to the fallen, to cheer the downcast and to bind up the broken-hearted? Are any of earth's children beyond its love and power?

The parsonage to which the pastor took his bride had about it an air of prosperity, a touch of exclusiveness that reflected creditably on this church on the summit. The grounds were well kept, the grass was velvet green, the flowers and shrubs and vines thrifty and vigorous in their springtime beauty.

The Rev. Maurice Thorpe and his wife established themselves in this modern, well-ordered home, and looked with fearless eyes into the future. A future that was to be devoted to their fellowmen, dedicated to the church of God.

The first love of the man's heart was given to his church; not even the fair and gracious woman whom he had wooed and wed came before this; and into its treasury he poured the first vigor and strength of his earnest manhood. There had been a time when he had inclined toward celibacy for the ministry. Although he had never doubted the aid and comfort the right sort of a wife could be to a pastor, there was in his heart a lurking horror of being yoked to a woman who was not in very truth, his second self, flesh of his flesh, soul of his soul, mind of his mind.

But no misgivings came to him as he watched the girlish figure of his wife at her varied duties, or as she pored over some volume in his study, or her honest eyes met his across the table at meal time. His sense of satisfaction grew from day to day, as he realized that his wife that he had won was not only good to look upon, and a comfort in his home, but that she was capable of becoming an aid and assistant to him in his work.

Mrs. Thorpe found much to occupy her time and thoughts during these first days in her new home. The house was in perfect order, and a middle-aged woman was established in the kitchen; but her ideal of a home was one where the mistress has every detail of the work well in hand, and to this end she gave every branch of the work her personal supervision. There was the arranging of the rooms to suit her taste, and the placing of the articles that she had brought with her to her new home; all the vivifying touches that convert a house into a home, and mark it with the personality of its keeper.

On the side of the house facing the church a room had been fitted up for Mrs. Thorpe's special use. Here in a curtained alcove she hung her bookshelves and placed her books. There was a small library table, some easy chairs, and a desk where she would write her letters. From the window there was an excellent view of the church; there was the smooth incline that led up to the stately edifice, and the wooded hills and blue sky in the distance.

Mrs. Thorpe stood at her window at the close of one fair day, and drank in the beauty of earth and sky. The sun was sinking behind the distant hilltops, and it bathed the church in a mellow glow, and caused the narrow taper windows to radiate halos of golden light. Mrs. Thorpe's eyes lingered upon the scene until the light faded into shadow, then she slipped into a chair near the window. Her mind had a trick of eluding her vigilance at times, of slipping its leash when she least expected it, and carrying her into strange, disquieting realms of thought. Mysteries hung about her, and enveloped her as a mist-hung world envelopes a wanderer who has lost his way. The mystery of life--her life--what does it mean? For what purpose is it given? Happiness--what is it? Contentment and peace with God--to whom are these vouchsafed? Or by what virtues do mortals attain them? Is it not through service that these things are attained? Active, honest, energetic service, this was to be her magic wand, her Aaron's rod, by means of which she was to feed her soul, keep alive the fountains of her love, and consecrate and glorify her mortal life. And yet the vague, elusive mystery of it all--the motives that actuated her--the ceaseless longing. She drew her hand across her brow as though to change her mental vision, for well she knew the futility of this line of thought.

The evening wind swayed the curtain at the window and wafted the perfume from the garden to her. A bird trilled in a treetop near by, and a blush-rose nodded just outside the window. She leaned back in her cushioned chair and yielded to the quieting influences about her.

As a child she had been diffident and retiring, questioning much, but silently. All things that came into her small world were carefully weighed and analyzed. Her surroundings and the conditions of her existence were sifted and searched in a manner that would have astonished her elders had they known of it; and the conclusions that she arrived at were final with her. She worked out problems of the gravest importance, accepted her own solutions, and lived according to her own convictions; which living was a sort of dream life. A favorite pastime was a conceit of her childish brain to look upon the life that she was living as a dream, an unreality, from which she eventually would awaken.

She reasoned in her small way with herself--always with herself alone, she never mentioned her conceits and fancies to others--that when troubled dreams came to her at night she could not know that she was dreaming. How, then, she questioned, was she to know at any time whether she was dreaming or awake?

Especially did she indulge in these fancies when things in her small world were not to her liking.

"Never mind," she would comfort herself, "this is only a dream; bye and bye I shall awaken, and then--ah, then!"

The gladness and ecstasy that awaited her were never clearly defined in her mind, but that it would be satisfying and all-sufficient her child mind never doubted.

Once when she was a small girl she was allowed to look upon the face of a playmate who had died. It was the first time that the question of death had confronted her; but she had been told that when good children die they go to live with God in Heaven. She looked at the face of the dead child, then, gently, without the least dread or fear, she laid her warm little hand on the cold hand of her late playmate. She said no word, and showed no agitation. The act was to ascertain whether the child was truly robbed of life and action. This point settled, she turned and walked away, and the firm conviction in her little heart was: "If I had been God, I would not have done it."

She spoke no word in regard to the dead child to anyone, but while the other children romped and played, and forgot the absent one, she was quiet and silent, and she pondered the question for many days. Every phase of it that her childish mind could grasp was weighed and considered, and finally the verdict came. A God who loves little children would not have taken her playmate away. There must be two Gods, a good one and a bad one. Then her imagination lived for days in a conflict between these two Gods. The conflict always ended in the restoration of the dead child to his mother and playmates.

As she grew toward womanhood there was the usual joyousness and vivacity of girlhood, but she was thoughtful and reticent, a dreamer still. When she was wooed and won by the pastor, Maurice Thorpe, she was an educated woman, gentle and thoughtful, but her real nature, and the traits in her character that were to shape her life, were as the unturned pages of a book.

Mr. Thorpe entered the room unnoticed and stood by his wife's side. He thought she appeared very frail and girlish in her attitude of abandonment.

"What does the future hold for her and for me?" he questioned. Would the hidden fountains of her life unite with his and flow in an even stream until Eternity should engulf them in her countless ages? He felt no fear, no premonition of evil to come, yet his heart was strangely stirred.

"My dear one," he whispered, "may truth, purity and peace be yours."

Yet in the years that came, this petition was granted in so different a manner from any in which he had desired it to be, that had it been in his power, he would not have hesitated to recall it.

Mrs. Thorpe, aroused by the intuition of her husband's presence, sat upright in her chair, and, catching a glimpse of her face in a mirror on the wall, she brushed the fluffy brown hair from her temples.

"I sank down here in this delightful easy chair," she said, "and its seductive restfulness, together with the twitter of the birds, the breath of the flowers, and the hum of insects conspired, I do believe, to beguile me into the land of dreams."

"I am glad to see you resting," he said. "You have been finding a great deal to keep you busy. I hope you are not overtaxing your strength."

"I am not tired," she said, but her face grew grave and the shadow of her troubled thoughts lay in her eyes. "I am anxious to get household affairs running smoothly, so that I may have leisure for other work."

And as though in answer to her restless questioning, rather than to her spoken thought, he replied: "We shall find our happiness in our work and our love." He laid his hand caressingly against her hair. "What a wonderful thing it is," he said, "this service in the Vineyard, and what a beautiful thing, Evelyn, that we two can live and love and work together."

The twilight deepened as they sat together, silent mostly, yet conscious of that understanding and sympathy that is dearer than words. The sweet summer night closed in about them and enfolded them as a perfume-laden garment; and the sea of life stretched before them, without a ripple visible on its tranquil surface.

Later in the evening, as Mrs. Thorpe made her customary round of the house before retiring, she found her serving woman still busy in the kitchen.

"Not through with your work yet, Mary?" she said.

The woman was bustling about with flushed face and somewhat unsettled manner.

"The work being new to me, comes a little awkward at first," she said. "But I think I shall get it in hand before long."

Mrs. Thorpe suspected that the woman had been out during the afternoon, or for some reason had neglected her work, else she would not be thus belated. Before leaving the kitchen she said: