As many as touched Him

"OH dear! I do wish the postman would make haste and come," said Ellen Mansfield to herself, as she stood at the farmyard gate, looking eagerly up the narrow lane into which it opened.

It was a bright July morning, and the sun was pouring its warm rays on her fair hair and rosy cheeks, as she waited bareheaded in the open air, having no fear of the effects of such exposure to its influence. She was so absorbed in her watch for the country letter-carrier, who was never very punctual to his time, as to give heed to naught besides. Wolf, the old sheep-dog, crept close to her side, and put his nose into her hand, but his mute expression of affection met with no response. The chickens gathered round her, and chirped in vain, with the hope of attracting her attention, and being rewarded with some bread-crumbs or grains of corn, such as she often bestowed on them.

Ellen's thoughts were all of the letter which she hoped would arrive that morning. But presently, she was roused by the sound of her mother's voice calling to her from within the house—

"Ellen, Ellen, where are you? I want you directly!"

Ellen looked annoyed, and her lip pouted.

"How tiresome!" she muttered to herself.

And instead of hastening to obey the summons, she went a few steps down the lane, so that the thick hedge might hide her from her mother's view, in case she came to the door to look for her.

Ellen was a tall, well-grown girl, about sixteen years of age, with a bright, intelligent face, having the fresh complexion and clear blue eyes which only country girls can boast. She was strong and active, and her mother naturally expected much help from this daughter, the eldest child of a family of ten. But Ellen hated house-work, and thought it a hardship that she should be expected to undertake such tasks, and was always glad when, as now, she managed to elude her mother's vigilance and enjoy some minutes of idleness.

The minutes were many this morning, for the postman did not come any the quicker because she was waiting for him. And her conscience told her more than once that she ought to return to the house, yet still she lingered. At last, she caught sight of the old man coming slowly down the lane, sorting some letters in his hand as he came.

"Oh dear! Why can't he walk a little faster?" thought Ellen, impatiently. "He moves like a snail. I am sure one of those letters must be from Aunt Matilda."

There was a house on the other side of the lane for which the postman was bound before he came to Ellen's home. Ellen watched him go in at the gate, and waited anxiously for his reappearance. But when he came out again, there were no letters in his hand.

"He must have one for us," said Ellen to herself; and she hurried forward to meet him.

"No letter for you this morning," he said, in reply to her questioning glance.

"No letter?" repeated Ellen, in dismay. "Are you quite sure? Have you not made a mistake?"

"No, indeed; I don't make mistakes so easily," he replied, smiling at the notion. "Bring you one to-morrow, perhaps."

So saying, he passed on his way, leaving Ellen overwhelmed with disappointment. She had counted so on the arrival of this letter, and had felt so sure that it would come, that she scarcely knew how to bear the delay.

The idea of waiting another whole day, only perhaps to be again disappointed, was disheartening. She stood still where she was, for she felt little inclination now to set about the domestic tasks which should have been commenced earlier.

As she stood idly leaning against the hedge, her face wearing a most discontented expression, the sound of approaching steps fell on her ear. A young man was walking quickly down the lane, looking about him with the air of one unacquainted with the locality, and in search of some particular place. Ellen observed him with curiosity, for he was to her a stranger, and the appearance of a stranger in that rural neighbourhood was a rare event. His demeanour was different from that of any of the country folk thereabout. He was dressed in a black suit, which showed a spotless shirt-front set off by a little black tie, and wore a "wide-awake" hat. His was a pleasant, honest face, with a kindliness of expression which conquered Ellen's usual shyness, as, to her surprise, he stopped short on seeing her, and addressed to her a question:

"Will you kindly tell me if this is the way to Farmer Holroyd's?"

"Yes, sir," replied Ellen. "But you must turn to the left when you get to the bottom of the lane, and take the path across the fields, which you will see. That will take you direct to the house."

"Thank you, thank you," said the stranger, standing still, however, and looking about him with an observant eye. "Do you live in that house?"

"Yes, sir," answered Ellen.

"Will you tell your parents, for perhaps they may not have heard of it, that there will be preaching this evening in Farmer Holroyd's barn at seven o'clock, and that I shall be very happy to see them there, if they are able to be present—and you also, if you can accompany them," he added, kindly.

"Thank you, sir," said Ellen, with some hesitation. "I'll tell them. But father and mother are mostly too busy to go anywhere."

"Are they? I'm sorry for that. But you are not too busy, I suppose?"

Ellen coloured, for she knew she must appear to him an idler. She felt no desire to attend the meeting in Farmer Holroyd's barn, yet was at a loss for an excuse for not doing so.

"No," she said, in answer to his remark. "But I do not know that I shall be able to come."

Her manner plainly said, "I do not care to come"; and so he understood it.

"I shall be glad to see you there, if you can manage it," he said, gently. "I should be sorry to think that your heart is indifferent to Him who is your best friend. Do not, I pray you, make the great mistake of finding time and inclination for everything save the 'one thing needful.'"

With these words he turned away, and Ellen, feeling rather disconcerted, and ashamed at having wasted so much of her morning, hastened back to the house.

"Where have you been all this time, Ellen?" asked her mother, who was engaged in hushing the baby to sleep. "I have been calling you for the last quarter of an hour. It is too bad of you to get out of the way when you know there is so much to be done. Here it is past nine o'clock, and the beds are not made nor the breakfast things washed. What have you been about?"

Mrs. Mansfield, a pale, anxious-looking woman, spoke in low, querulous accents, as though she did not expect her remonstrances to have much effect.

"I have been watching for the postman, mother," replied Ellen. "But he brought no letter. I can't think why Aunt Matilda does not write."

"She would need to think awhile before she answered my letter," returned her mother. "She is not one to do things in a hurry. I could have told you there would be no letter this morning. You'd much better have been about your work than loitering at the gate."

Ellen gave her head an impatient toss at this rebuke, and began, with much unnecessary bustle and clatter, to wash the cups and saucers which had been used for the morning meal.

"Where is Lucy?" she asked, presently.

"Upstairs, giving Jerry his breakfast," her mother answered; adding with a sigh, "The poor lad has had a bad night, and is sadly this morning."

Ellen said nothing, but her mother's words awakened within her some self-reproach, for in her eagerness to get the letter she had forgotten the wants of her favourite brother, to whom she generally attended.

She worked busily for some time, in the vain hope of making up for lost time, and the breakfast things were soon washed and replaced on the dresser. She did not forget to tell her mother of the stranger she had seen, and of the meeting to be held that evening in Farmer Holroyd's barn.

"Ah!" remarked Mrs. Mansfield. "It's all very well for those who have nothing else to do to go to those meetings, but it wouldn't do for me to think of it."