“Oh, do, please do, just as if I were a little child.”
“It is in the New Testament. Jesus had sent His disciples in a boat across the sea of Galilee, while He should go up alone on a mountain to pray. The night came, and with it a storm swept down against the disciples. The smooth sea was lashed into great foam-crested waves which broke over their little ship. They tugged hour after hour at the oars, but in vain. The night grew darker, the wind more contrary, the waves higher and more threatening, their arms wearied, and they may have feared that they would perish alone and without remedy in the black midnight. But we read that ‘He saw them toiling in rowing,’ though they knew it not. From the distant mountain side ‘He saw them’—marked every weary stroke of the oar, and every throb of fear. But at last, when they were most ready to welcome Him, when none could say, ‘We should have rowed through the storm alone,’ He came to them walking safely on the dark waves that threatened them with death, and said, ‘Be of good cheer, it is I; be not afraid.’ Then they gladly received Him into the ship, and immediately the rough waves were hushed, and the keel of the boat grated on the beach toward which they had vainly rowed. Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped Him, saying, ‘Of a truth thou art the Son of God.’
“Now it was on the evening of that very night that these same disciples had engaged in a scene of festivity. They had stood in the sunset on the mountain slope, and seen their Lord feed many thousand. Then all was peace, safety, and good cheer. Life changed as quickly for them as for you, but did not their Divine Master see them as truly in the stormy night as in the sunlight? Did He leave them to perish?
“He is watching you, Miss Ludolph, for He is ever the same; and before this stormy night of your sorrow passes away you will hear His voice, saying, ‘Be of good cheer, it is I; be not afraid.’ ”
“Already I hear it,” she said, in a low, glad voice, smiling through her tears. “I can, I do trust Him, and the conflicting winds of doubt and fear are becoming still. Among all these homeless people there must be many sad, discouraged hearts. You have helped me so much; can you not say a word or sing something that will help them?”
Dennis thought a moment, and then, in a sweet, clear voice that penetrated every part of the large building, sang:
“Father in Heaven, the night is around us,
Terror and danger our portion have been;
We cry unto Thee, oh, save and defend us,
Comfort the trembling, and pardon our sin.“Hearts that are heavy, look onward and upward;
Though wild was the storm that wrecked your loved homes,
Faith lifts your sad glances hopefully heavenward,
To mansions prepared with glory-crowned domes.“Hearts that are breaking, whose lov’d ones have vanished,
Swept down in the seething ocean of fire,
E’en now they may rest where pain is all banished,
And join their glad songs with the heavenly choir.“Hearts that are groaning with life’s weary burden,
Who fear to go forward, to sorrow a prey;
Jesus invites you—‘Oh, come, heavy laden’;
Leave sin at His feet, bear mercy away.”
After the first line there was a breathless hush; but, when he closed, low sobbings might be heard from many of the women, and in the dim light not a few tears shone in the eyes of manhood. Dennis’s voice was sympathetic in its character, and he had the power of throwing into it much feeling.
Christine was weeping quietly, but her tears now were like the warm spring rain as it falls on the precious seed. At last she said, “You have done these people much good.”
“To you belongs all the credit, for it was at your suggestion I sang.”
She shook her head, and then said, “Good night, my friend, I shall never forget this day with its mingled experience; but I think, I hope, I shall never doubt God again;” and she went to her rest.
The light of the next day brought to view many hard realities, and chief among these was the bread question. Dennis was up with the dawn, and by eager inquiries sought to comprehend the situation. Some were gloomy and discouraged, some apathetic, and some determined, courageous, and hopeful; and to this last class he belonged.
Most thankful that he had come out of the fiery ordeal unscathed, he resolved to contribute his quota toward a new and better Chicago. Young, and sanguine in temperament, he already saw the city rise from its ashes in statelier proportions and richer prosperity. With a thrill of exultation he heard the report that some Napoleonic business men had already telegraphed for building material, and were even now excavating the hot ruins.
Christine had hardly joined him as he stood at the door when a gentleman entered and asked, “Who here are willing and able to work for fair wages?”
“I am at your service,” said Dennis, stepping forward promptly.
“You are a gentleman, sir,” said the speaker, impressed with the fact by Dennis’s bearing, though his hat and coat were gone; “I need laborers who can handle the pick and shovel.”
“I will work for less, then, till I can handle these tools as well as a laborer. There is no reason why I should eat the bread of charity a day longer, especially when so many need it more than I.”
“I said you were a gentleman; I now say you are a man, and that to me means a great deal more,” said the energetic stranger. “You shall have two dollars a day with the rest.”
He turned to Christine and said, almost proudly, “The supper you have tonight shall
