Their Yesterdays Read online

  RELIGION

  It was springtime--blossoming time--mating time. The world was a riotof color and perfume and song.

  Every twig that a few weeks before had been a bare, unsightly stickwas now a miracle of dainty beauty. From the creek, below the littlegirl's house, the orchard hill appeared against the soft, blue, sky awonderous, cumulus, cloud of fleecy whiteness flushed with a glow ofdelicate pink. The meadows and pastures were studded with stars ofgold and pearl, of ruby and amethyst and silver. The fairy hands thathad thrown over the wood a filmy veil of dainty color now dressed eachtree and bush in robes of royal fabric woven from many tints ofshimmering, shining, green.

  Through the amber light above new turned furrows; amid the jewel glintof water in the sun; in the diamond sparkle of the morning; againstthe changing opal skies of evening; the bees and all their winged kinfloated and darted, flashed and danced, and whirled, from flower toflower and field to field, from blossom to blossom and tree to tree,bearing their pollen messages of love and life while sweet voicedbirds, in their brightest plumage, burdened the perfumed air with thepassionate melody of their mating time.

  All nature seemed bursting with eager desire to evidence a Creator'spower. Every tint and color, every breath of perfume, every note ofmusic, every darting flight or whirling dance, was a call to life--achallenge to love--an invitation to mate--a declaration of God. Theworld throbbed and exulted with the passion of the Giver of Life.

  Life itself begat Religion.

  Not the least of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life is Religion.Religion is an exaltation of Life or it is nothing. To exalt Lifetruly is to be most truly religious.

  But the man, when he first awoke that morning, did not think ofReligion. His first thought was a thought of lazy gratitude that heneed not get up. It was Sunday. With a long sigh of sleepy content, heturned toward the wall to escape the too bright light that, from theopen window, had awakened him and dozed again.

  It was Sunday.

  There are bitter cold, icy, snowy, Sundays in mid-winter when one hugsthe cheerless radiator and, shivering in chilly discomfort, wishesthat Sundays were months instead of days apart. There are stifling,sticky, sweltering. Sundays in midsummer when one prays, if he canpray at all, for the night to come. And there are blustering, rainy,sleety, dismal, Sundays in the fall when the dead hours go in funeralprocession by and the world seems a gloomy tomb. But a Sunday inblossoming time! That is different! The very milk wagons, as theyclattered, belated, down the street rattled a cheery note offellowship and good will. The long drawn call of the paper boy had init a hint of the joy of living. And the rumble of an occasionalpassing cab came like a deep undertone of peace.

  The streets were nearly empty. The stores and offices, with closeddoors, were deserted and still. A solitary policeman on the cornerappeared to be meditating, indifferent to his surroundings. The fewpedestrians to be seen moved leisurely and appeared as though in amood for reflective thought and quiet interest in the welfare of theirfellows. The hurrying, scrambling, jostling, rushing crowd; theclanging, crashing, roaring turmoil; the racking madness, the fierceconfusion, the cruel selfishness of the week day world was as adreadful dream in the night. In the hard fought battle of life, theworld had called a truce, testifying thus to the place and power ofReligion.

  This is not to say that the world professes Religion; but it _is_to say that Religion possesses the world. In a thousand, thousand,forms, Religion possesses the world. In thoughts, in deeds, inwords--in song and picture and story--in customs and laws andindustries--in society, state, and school--in all of the ThirteenTruly Great Things of Life, Religion makes itself manifest anddeclares its power over men. If one proclaim himself without Religionthen is its power made known in that one's peculiarity. If Religiondid not possess the world, to scorn it would mark no one as differentfrom his fellows, And this, too, is true: so imperial is the fact ofReligion, that he who would deny it is forced to believe so firmly inhis disbelief that he accepts the very thing he rejects, disguised ina dress of his own making, and thus bows down in worship before a Godof his own creation.

  To many, Sunday is a day of labor. To many others, it is a day ofroistering and debauch. To some, it is a day of idleness andthoughtless pleasure. To some, it is a day of devotion and worship.But still, I say, that, whatever men, as individuals, may do with theday, the deserted streets, the silent stores, the closed banks, theempty offices, evidence that, to the world, this day is not as otherdays and give recognition--not to creeds and doctrines of warringsects indeed--but, to Religion.

  Again the man awoke. Coming slowly out of his sleep and turningleisurely in his bed he looked through the open window at the day. Andstill he did not think of Religion.

  Leisurely he arose and, after his bath, shaved himself with particularcare. With particular care he dressed, not in the garb of every day,but in fresher, newer, raiment. Thus did he, even as the world, giveunthinking testimony to the power and place of Religion.

  Later, when the church bells sent their sweet voiced invitationsringing over the city, the man went to church. He did not go to churchbecause he was a religious man nor because he was in a religious mood;he went because it was his habit to go occasionally. Even as most mensometimes go to church, so this man went. Nor did he, as a member ofany religious organization, feel it his duty to go. He went as he hadalways gone--as thousands of others who, like himself, in habit ofdress and manner were giving unconscious testimony to the power ofReligion in the world, went, that day, to some place of publicworship.

  The streets of the city were now well filled with people. Yesterday,these same people, in the same streets, had rushed along with anxious,eager, strained, expressions upon their faces that told of nervestense, minds intent, and bodies alert, in the battle they waged fordaily bread, for gain, and for all the things that are held by men tobe worth the struggle. To-morrow, these same people would again losethemselves in the fierce and strenuous effort of their lives. Butto-day, they walked leisurely; they spoke calmly; they thought coolly;they had time to notice each other; to greet each other, to smile, toshake each others' hands. There were many children, too, who, dressedin their Sunday clothes, with clean faces and subdued manners, even astheir parents, evidenced the power of Religion in the life ofhumankind. And, even as their parents, the children knew it not. Theydid not recognize the power of Religion in their lives.

  The man did not think of the meaning of these things; though he feltit, perhaps, somewhat as he felt the warm life of the sun filled air:he sensed it, perhaps, as he sensed the beauty of the morning. He didnot realize, then, how, in his Dreams, Religion had subtly manifesteditself. He did not realize, that, in his Occupation, he was, everyday, revealing the influence of Religion in his life. He had seenReligion but dimly when he had thought to follow the golden chain ofKnowledge, link by link, to its hidden end. Dimly had he seen it whenhe was learning the value of Ignorance. And yet, in all of thesethings it had been even as it would be in all the things that were yetto come. No man can escape Religion. Man may escape particular formsof Religion, indeed, but Religion itself he cannot escape.

  With many others the man entered a church. An usher gravely led him toa seat. I do not know what church it was to which the man went thatmorning nor does it, for my story, matter that I do not know. My storyis not of churches nor of sects nor of creeds. This is my story: thatthe man came to realize in his life the power of Religion.

  It may have been the beauty of the morning that did it; it may havebeen that the week just past was unusually hard and trying and thatthe day of rest, therefore, was more than usual, needed: or, perhaps,it was because the man had learned that he could never follow thegolden chain of Knowledge to its hidden end and had come to know thevalue of Ignorance for Religion walks ever close to both Knowledge andIgnorance, hand in hand with each; whatever it was that brought itabout, the man, that Sunday, came to realize the power of Religion inthe world and in his own manhood life.

  It was very quiet i
n the church but it was not a sad quietness. Thepeople moved softly and, when they spoke at all, spoke in whispers butthere was no feeling of death in the air; rather was there a feelingof life--a feeling of life, too, that was very unlike the feeling oflife in a crowded place of business or amusement. The sweet,plaintively pleading, tones of the organ trembled in the air. Theglorious sunshine came through the stained glass windows softened andsubdued. Here and there heads were bowed. The people became verystill. And, in the stillness, the man felt strongly the spirit of theday and place. The organ tones increased in volume. The choir filedin. The preacher entered. The congregation arose to sing an oldtriumphant hymn.

  The man did not sing, but, as he listened to the music and followedthe words of the hymn, he smiled. The people were singing aboutunknowable things--of streets of gold and gates of pearl--of crownsand harps and the throne of God.

  All his life, the man had known that hymn but he had never beforethought of it just as he thought of it that morning. He looked aboutat the people who were singing. Who were they? Uneducated,irresponsible, fanatical dreamers of no place or importance in theweek day world? No indeed! They were educated, responsible, practical,hard headed, clear brained, people of power and influence--and--theman smiled again--they were singing about unknowable things. For thefirst time in his life, the man wondered at the strangeness of it all.

  When the minister prayed, the man listened as he had never listened toa prayer before. He felt baffled and bewildered as though he hadwandered into a strange land, among strange people, of whose customshe was ignorant, and whose language he could neither speak norunderstand. Who was this man who seemed on such familiar terms withthe Infinite? Upon what did he base his assurance that the wealth ofblessings he asked for himself and his people would be granted or evenheard? Had he more than finite mind that he could know the Infinite?

  The sermon that followed was largely a sermon about unknowable things.It was full of beautiful, helpful, thoughts about things that it wasimpossible for anyone to really know anything about. Very familiarwere the things that the minister said that morning. Since hischildhood, the man had heard them over and over many times; but he hadnever before thought of them in just that way.

  The sermon was finished and the beautifully mysterious and impressivewords of the benediction were spoken as the people stood with bowedheads, hushed and still. Again the deep tones of the organ trembled inthe air as the crowd poured forth from the building into the street.

  The man was thoughtful and troubled. He felt as one, who, meeting anold friend after many years, finds him changed beyond recognition. Hewas as one visiting, after years of absence, his old home to find thefamiliar landmarks all gone with the years. He was sadly consciousthat something had gone out of his life--that something exceedinglyprecious had been taken away from him and that it could never bereplaced.

  Seriously, sadly, the man asked himself: must his belief in Religiongo as his faith in fairies had gone? Was Religion, after all, but abeautiful game played by the grown up world, even as children play?And if, indeed, his faith must go because songs and prayers andsermons have to do so largely with unknowable things, what of thespirit of the world expressed in the day that is so set apart from allother days? Sunday is a fact knowable enough. And the atmosphere ofthe church is another fact as knowable as the atmosphere of a racetrack, a foundry, or a political convention. And the fruits ofReligion in the lives of men--these are as clearly knowable as thefruits of drunkenness, or gambling, or licentiousness. The man was assure of the fruits of Religion as he was sure that the sun wasshining--that the day, so warm and bright, was unlike the cold, hard,stormy, days of winter. And still--and still--the songs and prayersand sermons about unknowable things--must his belief in Religion go ashis faith in fairies had gone?

  Unknowable things? Yes--as unknowable as that mysterious somethingthat colors the trees and plants and flowers with tints of infiniteshadings--as unknowable as that which puts the flavor in the peach,the strength in the corn, the perfume in the rose--as unknowable asthe awful force that reveals itself in the lightning flash or speaksin the rolling thunder--as unknowable as the mysterious hand thatholds the compass needle to the north and swings the star worlds farbeyond the farthest reach of the boasting eye of Science. Unknowable?Yes--as unknowable as that which lies safe hidden behind the mostcommonplace facts of life--as unknowable indeed, as Life itself.

  "Nature," said the man, in answer to himself, and smiled at thefoolishness of his own answer. Is nature then so knowable? Are all herlaws revealed; all her secrets known; all her ways understood; all hermysteries made clear? Do the wise men, after all, know more of naturethan they do of God? Do they know more of earth than of heaven? Dothey know more of a man's mind than they do of his soul? And yet--andyet--does one refuse to live because he cannot understand the mysteryof life? Does one deny the earth because the secrets of Mature areunknowable? Does one refuse to think because thoughts are not materialthings--because no one has ever seen a thought to say from whence itcame or whither it went?

  Disbelief demands a knowledge as exact as that demanded by belief. Todeny the unknowable is as impossible as to affirm it. If it be truethat man knows too much to believe in miracles these days, it is justas true that he does not know enough to disbelieve in them. And, afterall, there is no reason why anyone should believe in miracles; neitheris there any reason why one should disbelieve in them.

  Every altar is an altar to an unknown God. But man does not refuse tobelieve in bread because he cannot understand the mystery of the wheatfield. One believes in a garden, not because he knows how, from thesame soil, water, and air, Nature produces strawberries, potatoes,sweet corn, tomatoes, or lettuce, but because fresh vegetables aregood. The hungry man neither believes nor disbelieves but sits down tothe table and, if he be a right minded man, gives thanks to the God ofgardens who, in ways so unknowable, gives such knowable gifts to man.

  Nor was the man, at this time, able to distinguish clearly betweenReligion and the things that men have piled about and hung uponReligion. Therefore was he troubled about his waning belief andworried because of his growing doubt. He did not wish to doubt; hewished to believe.

  In all these many years, through intellectual pride or selfishambition, because of an earnest but mistaken purpose to make clear, orin a pious zeal to emphasize, men have been piling things about andhanging things upon Religion; and, always, they have insisted thatthis vast accumulation of things _is_ Religion.

  These things that men have hung upon Religion are no more a part ofReligion than the ivy that grows upon the stone wall of a fortress isa part of the nation's defensive strength. These things that men havepiled about Religion belong to it no more than a pile of trash dumpedat the foot of a cliff belongs to the everlasting hills. But thesetraditions and customs of men, with their ever multiplying confusionsof doctrines and creeds and sects, beautiful as they are, hideReligion even as the ivy hides the wall. Even as the accumulated trashof the ages piled at the foot of the cliff is of interest to thearchaeologist and the seeker after curious junk, so these things thatmen have piled about Religion are of interest. But the observer, inadmiration of the ivy, is in danger of ignoring the stern reality ofthe fortress. The curious digger in the pile of trash, if his interestbe great, heeds not the grandeur of the cliff that towers above hishead.

  That afternoon the man went for a long walk. He wished to think out,if he could, the things that troubled him.

  Without plan on his part, his walk led toward a quarter of the citywhere he had never been before and where he came at last to an oldcemetery. The ancient iron gates, between their vine clad columns ofstone, were invitingly open and within the enclosure were great treesthat locked their green arms above the silent, grass grown, graves asthough in sheltering kindness for the dead. Tempted by the beauty ofthe place the man entered, and, in the deep shade of the old trees,screened from the road by their mossy trunks, found a seat. Here andthere, among the old graves under the trees, a few p
eople movedslowly; pausing often to decipher the inscriptions upon the leaningand fallen tombstones. So old was that ancient burying place thatthere was left among the living no one to keep the flowers upon thegraves and visitors came only from idle curiosity.

  And it was so, that, as the man sat there under the quiet old trees,the graves with their leaning and fallen tombstones, or, perhaps, theday itself, led his mind back to those companion graves that markedthe passing of his boyhood--back to father and mother and to theirreligion--back to the religion of his Yesterdays. And the week of toiland strife, of struggle and of storm, slipped far, far, away. Thedisturbing questions, the doubt and the uncertainty of the morning,raised as the fogs lift to leave the landscape clear.

  It was such a little way from the boy's home to the church that, whenthe weather was fine, they always walked. And surely no day could havebeen finer than that Sunday to which the man went back. As the boy,all washed and combed and dressed in his Sunday best, sat on the biggate post waiting for his father and mother, it seemed to him thatevery living thing about the place knew what day it was. In thepasture across the road, the horses, leisurely cropping the new grass,paused often to lift their heads and look about with an air of kindlyinterest in things to which they would have given no heed at all hadthey been in week day harness. And one old gray, finding an invitingspot, lay down to roll--got up--and, because it felt so good, lay downagain upon his other side; and then, as if regretting that he had nomore sides to rub, stretched himself out with such a huge sigh ofcontent that the boy on the gate post laughed; whereat the horseraised his head and looked at him as though to say: "Little boy, don'tyou know that it is Sunday?" Under the big elm, in the corner of thepasture, the cows stood, with half closed eyes, chewing their cudswith an air of pious meditation. The hens strolled sedately aboutsinging solemnly: ca-w-w, ca-w-w, ca-w-w, and the old red rooster,standing on tiptoe, flapped his wings as if to crow then checkedhimself suddenly and looked around as if to say: "Bless me, I nearlyforgot what day it is!" Then the clear, mellow, tones of the churchbell floated across the little valley and the boy's parents came outof the house. The dog, stretched at full length on the porch, liftedhis head but did not offer to follow. He, too, seemed to know, thoughtthe boy as he climbed down from the post to walk soberly away with hisparents.

  Before they reached the lower end of the garden, the little girl withher mother and uncle came out of their house and, at the gate, waitedfor them while the little girl waved her hand in greeting. Then thetwo men and the two women walked on ahead and, as the boy and girlfollowed, the boy, looking shyly at his companion, saw the sunlight onher soft, brown, hair that was so prettily arranged with a blueribbon--saw the merry eyes under the broad brim of her best hat--sawthe flushed, softly rounded, cheek with the dimple, the curve of thered lips, and the dainty chin--saw her dress so clean and white andstarched--saw and wondered if the angels in heaven could be morebeautiful than this little girl.

  So they went, that Sunday, down the hill, across the creek, and up thegentle slope beyond, until they came to the cross roads where thewhite church stood under the old elm and maple trees. Already therewere many teams standing under the sheds or tied to the hitch racksalong the side of the road. And by the roads that led away in fourdirections, through the fields and meadows and pastures of the farms,other country folk were coming from their homes and their labors toworship the God of seedtime and harvest.

  There were no ushers in that church of the Yesterdays for there wouldbe no strangers save those who would come with their friends; but thepreacher himself was at the door to greet his people or was movinghere and there among them, asking with care for the absent ones.Neither was there a great organ to fill the air with its tremblingtones; but, at the humble instrument that served as well, the motherof the little girl presided, while the boy's father led the countrychoir. And the sunlight of that Sunday streamed through the openwindows, softened only by the delicate traceries of gently wavingbranches and softly rustling leaves.

  And in the songs and prayers and sermons of that worship in theYesterdays, the boy heard the same unknowable things that the man hadheard that morning in the city church. Among those people, the boyfelt stirring the same spirit that had moved the man. The old preacherwas long ago resting in the cemetery on the hill, with the boy'sparents, the mother of the little girl, and many, many, others of hisflock. A new and more modern minister would be giving, now, to thechildren of that old congregation, the newest and most modern thingsthat theologians do not know about Religion. But the same old spiritwould be there still; doing the same work for the glory of the race.And the boy in the Yesterdays, as he listened to the songs and prayersand sermons, had wondered in his heart about the things he heard--evenas the man, he had asked himself many unanswerable questions... Butthere had been no doubt in the questions of the boy. There had been nodisbelief in his wonder. Because the girl's mother played theorgan--because the boy's father sang in the choir--because his motherand the little girl were there beside him--the boy believed that whichhe could not understand.

  "By their fruits"--it is a text as good for grown up children as forboys and girls.

  What the preachers say about Religion matters little after all. It isthe fathers and mothers and the little girls who keep the faith of theworld alive. The _words_ of those sermons and prayers and songsin his Yesterdays would go with the boy no farther than the churchdoor; but that which was in the hearts of those who sang and preachedand prayed--that which song and sermon and prayer attempted but couldnot express--_that_ would go with the boy through all the yearsof his life. From _that_ the man could never get wholly away. Itbecame as much a part of him as his love for his parents was a part.

  When church and Sunday school were over the boy went home to themiracle of the Sunday dinner. And, even as the unknowable things uponthe Sunday dinner table contributed to his manhood's physical strengthand health, so the things expressed by the day that is set apart fromall other days contributed to that strength of manhood that is morevital than the strength of bone and muscle and nerve and sinew. In thebook wherein it is written: "Man shall not live by bread alone," it iswritten, also: "Except ye become as little children."

  Slowly the man arose. Slowly and regretfully he turned to leave hisplace under the great trees that, in the solemn, quiet, twilight ofthe old cemetery, locked their arms protectingly above the dead.

  "Except ye become as little children."

  Must men in Religion be always trying to grow up? Are the wisest andthe greatest among scholars nearer the secrets of the unknowablepower, that, through Religion, possesses the world, than theunthinking children are? As the man in the late afternoon went outthrough the ancient iron gates, between the vine covered columns ofstone, he knew that his belief in Religion would not go as his faithin fairies had gone. Because of those companion graves and all thatthey meant to him--because of the little girl in his Yesterdays--hisfaith in Religion would not go.

  * * * * *

  The woman, alone in her room, sat at the open window looking out overthe city. The long, spring, Sunday was drawing to its close. Above theroofs of the houses across the street, above the towering stories ofthe buildings in the down town districts, above factory chimneys,church steeples, temple dome, and cathedral spire, she saw the eveningsky light with the glory of the passing day. Over a triumphant arch inthe west, through which the sun had gone, a mighty cloud curtain ofpurple was draped, fold on fold, all laced and looped with silver andedged with scarlet flame. Above the curtain, far flung across the widesky, banners of rose and crimson and gold flashed and gleamed; while,marching in serried ranks, following the pathway of the sun, wentinnumerable thousands of cloud soldiers in their uniforms of light.Slowly the procession passed--the gleaming banners vanished--themarching armies disappeared--the curtain in the west was drawn close.The woman at the window watched until the last of the light was goneand, in the still sky above, the stars hung motionless. Like abenediction, the sweet mystery of twil
ight had come upon the land.Like a softly breathed blessing from heaven, the night had come.

  Because of the experience through which she had passed in the weekjust gone, that day, dedicated to Religion, had held for the woman anew meaning.

  Looking into the darkness that hid the city from her eyes sheshuddered. There were so many there to whom the night came not as ablessing, but as a curse. Out there, in the soft darkness into whichthe woman looked, dreadful crimes were being committed, horrid deedswere being planned. Out there, in the quiet night, wretched poverty,gaunt pain, and loathsome disease were pulling down their victims. Outthere, in the blackness, hideous licentiousness, beastly passion,debasing pleasure were stalking their prey. Out there, murderers ofsouls were lying in wait; robbers of hearts were creeping stealthily;slayers of purity were watching; killers of innocence were lurking. Tothe woman at the window, that night, the twinkling lights of the citywere as beacon fires on the outskirts of hell.

  And to-morrow--to-morrow--she must go down into that hell. All thatwas there in the darkness, she must see, she must know, she must feel.All those things of evil would be watching her, crowding her, touchingher, hungering for her; placing pitfalls in her way; longing for herto slip; waiting for her to fall; testing her, trying her, alwaysready with a damnable readiness; always hoping with a hellish hope.Into that she must go--even into that--this woman, who knew herself tobe a woman, must go.

  And what--what--of her dreams? Could she, she asked herself thatnight, could she go into that life, day after day, and still have aheart left for dreaming? Against the unclean strength that threatenedher, where would she find the strength to keep her womanhood pure andstrong for the holy mission of womanhood?

  Clear and sweet from out the darkness of the night came the sound of abell. Then another, and another, and another, until, from everyquarter of the city, their music came, as though in answer to herquestion. Some, near at hand, rang loud, triumphant, peals as thoughrejoicing over victories already won; others, farther away, in softertones, seemed to promise strength for present need; while stillothers, in more distant places, sounding soft and far away, seemed togently warn, to beckon, to call, to plead. Lifting her tear filledeyes from the lights of the streets the woman looked at the stars,and, so looking, saw, lifting into the sky, the church spires of thecity.

  In a little, the music of the bells ceased. But the woman, at thewindow, sat still with her face upturned to the stars.

  Gone, now, were the city lights that to her had seemed as beacon fireson the outskirts of hell. Gone, now, the horrors of that life to whichnight comes not as a benediction. Gone, now, her fears for her dreams.The woman lived again a Sunday evening in her Yesterdays.

  It may have been the flaming glory of the sky; it may have been themusic of the bells; it may have been the stars--whatever it was--thewoman went again into the long ago. Once again she went back into herYesterdays--to a Sunday evening in her Yesterdays.

  The little girl was on the front porch of her home with mother. Thesun was going down behind the great trees in the old churchyard at thecross roads while, across the valley, the voice of the bell wascalling the people to evening worship. And, with the ringing of thebell, the boy and his mother came to sit with them while the men weregone to church.

  Then, while the mothers, seated in their easy chairs, talked in lowtones, the boy and the girl, side by side, on the steps of the porch,watched the light go out of the sky and tried to count the stars asthey came. As the twilight deepened, the elms in the pasture acrossthe road, the maples along the drive, and the willows down by thecreek, became shadowy and indistinct. From the orchard, an owl sentforth his quavering call and was answered by his mate from the roof ofthe barn. Down in the shadow of the little valley, a whip-poor-willcried plaintively, and, now and then, a bat came darting out of thedusk on swift and silent wings. And there, in the darkness across thevalley, shone the single light of the church. The children gave uptrying to count the stars and grew very still, as, together, theywatched the lights of the church. Then one of the mothers laughed, alow happy laugh, and the children began telling each other about God.

  Many things the boy and the girl told each other about God. And who isthere to say that the things they told were not just as true as manythings that older children tell? Though, I suppose, as the boy andgirl did not quarrel or become angry with each other that Sundayevening, their talk about God could scarcely be considered orthodox.Their service under the stars was not at all regular, I know. Withchildish awe and reverence--with hushed voices--they only told eachother about God. They did not discuss theology--they were not churchmembers--they were only children.

  Then, by and by, the father and uncle came, and, with his parents, theboy went home, calling through the dark, as he went, many goodnights--each call sounding fainter and farther away. And, when shecould neither hear nor make him hear more, the little girl went withher mother into the house, where, when she was ready for bed, sheknelt to pray that old familiar prayer of the Yesterdays--forgettingnot in her prayer to ask God to bless and keep the boy.

  Oh, childish prayers of the Yesterdays! Made in the strength of achildish faith, what power divine is in them to keep the race fromdeath! Oh, childish understanding of God, deep grounded in that wisdomto which scholars can never attain! Does the Master of Life still setlittle children among His disciples in vain?

  The woman no longer feared that which lay in the darkness of the city.She knew, now, that she would have strength to keep the treasures ofher womanhood safe for him should he come to lead her into the life ofher dreams. She knew, now, what it was that would help her--that wouldenable her to keep that which Life had committed to her.

  As she turned from the window, strength and peace were in her heart.As she knelt beside her bed to pray, her prayer was that prayer of herYesterdays. The prayer of a child it was--the prayer of a woman whoknows that she is a woman it was also.