Christie, the King's Servant / A Sequel to Christie's Old Organ""

akfast, and set to work at my picture as soon as possible. I had not been painting long

to him,' sa

, I daren't;

're a boy,' said the first speaker; 'fat

and big people ought to be

presently a small piece of pink paper was thrown over the wall, and fluttered down upon my palette. I caught it

e on Sunday Morning at 11 o'clock, when y

: WHAT

said aloud. 'Wh

then a little voice just abo

can't talk to children whom I can't see

was as round and rosy as an apple, his eyes were dark blue, and had the happiest and most roguish expression that it would be possible for eyes to have. When the child laughed (and whenever was he not laughing?), every part o

o see children's faces when I talk to

' said the little g

n't it, little Jack? Come and look at my picture, little

ld me that her father had sent the paper. Father was going to preach on Sunday;

to be sure, a chubby little

e said, patting my hand with

s a fine day, perhaps I shall w

oice; 'it's on Sunday father preaches, and

'perhaps I'll come and h

said, with a merry twink

ching on the shore

ongst us, and has meetings in the hall yonder in winter, and in summer, why, we have 'em on the shore, and the visitors comes mostly. There's a few won't come, but we get t

ained two such strange contrasts, the big burly fisher

ed out of it lately, and I thought I should feel myself a fish out of water. However, when the next day came, every one s

she laid my breakfast; 'he always likes to go

given me, and distributing them to every group of his mates which he came across. Yes, I felt that I was expected to go, and it would be hard work to keep away. But if I had still had any doubt about the matter, it wou

he small Jack put his little fat hand into th

d stockings who had been barefooted all the week, many a weather-beaten sailor, many a sunburnt fisher lad, many elderly people too, old men, and white-haired women in closely-plaited white caps. There were visitors, too, coming down from the rocks, and these mostly kept i

le Jack, having seen me safely to the spot, climbed into it and stood proudly in the stern. He had a hymn-book in his hand, which I knew he could not read, for he was holding it upside down, but he lo

ed in a quiet haven. For whilst I noticed in his face the traces of heavy sorrow, still at the same time he looked happier and more peaceful than any of those who stood round him; in fact, it was the most restful face I had ever seen. He was not an educated man, nor was he what men call a gentleman, and yet there was a refinement about him which made one feel at once

that morning. As I looked at the brown fishermen who had taken off their oilskin caps, as I glanced at the earnest face of the preacher, as I noticed

g amongst us. It was a very simple prayer, but it was the outpouring of his heart to God

s or stilted sentences; it was exactly what his prayer had been, words spoken out of the abundance of his earnest heart. The prayer had contained the outpouri

eted their babes, the children sat with their eyes fixed on the speaker; even

ject to-day. What are you? How many different answers I

n the world.' 'I am a busy merchant, toiling hard to make money, and obliged to come to this quiet place to recruit my wearied energies.' 'I am an artist, with great ambition of future success.' 'I am an old man, who has weathered many a storm, but my work is d

ists, merchants, gentlemen, the old man and the little child? Yes, I can. If I could hand you each a piece of paper and a pencil this day, there is one description of yourself whi

rvant; you who listen, a

lf. 'I thought he was going to say we were all sinners, and that, I s

eat company of servants, but they also see that we are not all servants of the same master. They see what we do not see, a dividing line between us.

sees, and the angels see, another co

men on the bank there, what are you? Little child, what

back to me, the question which the speaker had repeated so often, 'What are you?' I answered it by saying to myself

untry. I had always been accustomed, to paint on Sunday, but only one of the artists seemed to be at work, and Duncan and Polly had been so much shocked by seeing him, that I did