Originally published in The Quiver (John Cassell) vol.1 #2 (30 Sep 1865).
"Uncle John is coming!" shouted the children, and instantly four pairs of little feet went scampering down the gravel walk, each striving to be the first to receive the cordial embrace and affectionate kiss from mamma's brother, dear Uncle John.
Uncle John was always a welcome guest at Elm Cottage. There was a pleasant room overlooking the garden, which had been for a long time reserved for his especial use, and which had been on this very day thoroughly swept out and garnished in anticipation of his arrival. As he came up the broad avenue, holding a child by each hand, with two more clinging to the skirts of his coat, he looked the picture of good nature and content.
Uncle John had the most unwavering faith in and reverence for children, and they, with their unerring instincts, knew it. The afternoon had been oppressively warm, and the children had been allowed, as an especial favour, to sit up an hour beyond their usual time. They were heartily enjoying a romp upon the lawn, when mother's voice was heard, in gentle but decided tones, summoning them to the nursery. Reluctantly they brought their game to a close, and with lagging steps entered the house.
"Mamma," said Jack, "please give us half an hour longer! I, for one, am not a bit sleepy, and our game is not half finished."
"No, my dear," replied his mother; "I have already indulged you as far as I think best. Now, bid Uncle John good night, and Adie come and kiss mamma, then go up to nurse, who is waiting for you. Above all, children, do not forget to thank your heavenly Father for having given you such a happy day."
The children's faces, which had been slightly overcast, resumed their former cheerfulness as they severally bade us good night, excepting Jack, who walked sullenly up-stairs without wasting civilities upon any one. Mamma sighed audibly, but said nothing further.
On the following day, as we had had the promise of a ramble and a pic-nic in the woods, you may besure we were all awake betimes. Jack's brow was unclouded as he gave mamma the usual morning kiss. The ceremony of breakfast having been gone through with—for, of course, none of us children had any appetite—we began to muster our forces for the day's sojourn in the woods. Numberless baskets were put in requisition, filled with all sorts of appetising things, and by ten o'clock the cavalcade was in readiness, Uncle John and mamma heading the procession.
The pleasures of that day will long dwell in our remembrance. After we had exhausted every available source of amusement, and had eaten our luncheon with vigorous appetites, in striking contrast with our indifference to the morning meal, we all gathered round Uncle John, who was stretched at length beneath the shade of a large oak, and unanimously voted to hold him prisoner until he should agree to tell us a story. Uncle John's collection of stories was inexhaustible. He always drew largely upon his own experience; consequently the impression upon us children was all the deeper and more lasting. He readily acceded to our request, and as soon as we were all quietly seated, thus commenced:—
"Children, I will telt you a sad but a true story. It is an incident in my own early life, and one which I never can forget. Although nearly thirty years have passed since the occurrence I am about to relate, the recollection of it still rankles in my heart, awakening even now the most painful emotions of grief and shame. I was a headstrong and wilful boy, and although I loved my mother dearly, I often wounded her kind and loving heart, and, as I have reason to believe, caused her many hours of pain and bitter sorrow. When I was about the age of Jack, my mother's youngest sister came from her home in the West Indies, to spend the summer with us, and relieve my mother, whose health had been for a long time delicate, of some of her household cares. She had brought as a present to myself and my younger sister, who bore her name, a set of battledoors and shuttle cock.
One lovely evening we were out upon the lawn playing in high glee. We had practised until we had become quite expert in the game, and had sent the delicate shuttle backward and forward for the hundredth time without allowing it to touch the ground, when, in the midst of our eagerness and excitement, Susan, the nursery-maid, came with a message from mother to the effect that it was past our usual bedtime, and as the dew was falling, we must come in immediately. Lucy—good and obedient child that she was—without a word of dissent, threw down her battledoor and ran into the house. But I stood rooted to the spot, declaring firmly that I would not go; that I was not a baby to be sent to bed at dark, and Susan might tell my mother so. I lingered out of doors until the twilight was rapidly merging into night, when I stalked sullenly upstairs to my own little room, so carefully fitted up, by that mother's watchful care, whose tender, loving spirit I had so deeply grieved. I lay tossing on my prayerless bed long after midnight. I had not invoked the care of my heavenly Father, or implored his forgiveness for the sins and follies of the day. How could my sleep be peaceful and refreshing? I awoke from my feverish, restless slumbers at the first dawn of day, and with the morning light came bitter repentant thoughts, and a resolution to seek the forgiveness, first of Him who is ever ready to welcome back his erring, penitent children, and then of my dearest mother, to whom my next obedience and love were due. I hastily dressed myself, and on knocking at my mother's door, it was softly opened by my aunt, who told me sorrowfully that my mother was very ill, that the physician had given orders that she must be kept very quiet, and free from everything that could agitate her. I rushed back to my own little room, and threw myself on the bed in a perfect agony of grief and remorse.
"Five weary days dragged themselves along, and all the while my mother lay dangerously ill, until at length, one summer evening as the sun was going down in a perfect sea of glory, angel forms bore her pure spirit up the shining ladder to that immortal land where there is no more pain.
"Those loving lips were for ever sealed, never to speak the words of forgiveness which my penitent, agonised heart so longed to hear! No words can portray my sorrow and remorse. It seemed beyond endurance. It was only at the foot of the cross, and on the bosom of a merciful and compassionate Saviour, that my sad heart found at last peace and comfort.
"My dear children, God has placed over you parents, who havea right to your instant and unqualified obedience. Yield it cheerfully and without a murmur, although you may not always see the wisdom of the command. Let it be your constant aim to seek the happiness of those who have all your lives long sacrificed and toiled for you. Then you will never know the feelings of remorse and unaveilirg sorrow which, sooner or later, must plant with thorns the pillow of the thankless and disobedient child."
There were not many dry eyes in our little group when Uncle John finished his touching recital, and we wended our way homeward, sadder but wiser children.