CAST ON THE WATERS.

Auckland Star, Volume XXX, Issue 87, 14 April 1899, Page 7

CAST ON THE WATERS.

•At, Jacob, now you sec how all ■oar hopes are gone. Here we arc, j-rn out with nge—all our children moved from us by the hand of death, d ere long we must be inmates of is poorhouse. Where, now, is all the read J'ou nave cast; u P.on ne waters?' The old, white-haired man looked up this wife. He was, indeed, beat, o*n with years, and age sat trembfafrly upon him. Jacob Manfred had Jja a comparatively wealthy man, a i while fortune had smiled upon him he had over been among the first ;0 lend a listening ear and a helpingland to the call of distress. T>ut now misfortune was his. Of his Tour boys D ot one was left. Sickness and failing" strength I'ound him with but little, fjid they left him penniless. An optressive embargo upon the shipping1 msiness had been the first weighi. npuii his head, and other misfortunes : ame in painful succession, .lacob ant! kjs wife were all alone, and gaunt poverty looked them coldly in the face. i-'Don't repine, Susan,' said the old gall, "True, we are poor, but we are Hot yet forsaken.' 'jS'ot forsa.ken, Jacob. Who is there {p help us now?' Jacob Manfred raised bis trembling linger toward heaven. ' 'Ah, Jacob, L know (iod is our friend; but we should have friends here. Look back and see how many you have befriended in days long past. You cast your bread upon the jyaters with a free hand, but it. lias not yet returned to you.' i 'Hush, Susau, you forget what yon Bay. To be sure, I may have hoped that some kind hand of earth would lift me from the cold* depths of utter yrant; but I dp not expect it as are- : Ward for anything I may have done If I have helped the unfortunate in Says gone by, I have, had my full reward in knowing that 1 have done my duty to my fellows. Oh, of all the kind deeds I have done to my Suffering fellows, I would not for gold have one of them blotted from ray memory. Ah, ray fond Avife, 'tis the memory of the good done in life <hat makes old age happy. Even now I can hear again the warm thanks pf those whom 1 have befriended, and pgain I can see their smiles.' I 'Yes, Jacob,' returned his wife in.a lower tone, 'I know you have been good, and in your memory you can be Jiappy; but, alas! there is a present jupon which we must look—there is jn reality upon which we must dwell. tye must beg for food, or starve.' I The old man started, and a deep Snark of pain was drawn across his features. I 'Beg!' he replied, with a quick fehudder. 'iS'o, Susan —we are—' * He hesitated, and a big tear rolled jlown his furrowed cheek. I 'We are what, Jacob?' f 'We are going to the poorhouse!' I 'Oh, Heaven! I thought so!' fell "from the poor wife's lips, as she covfered her face with her hands. 'I fiave though so, and I have tried to fjchool myself to the thought; but my tsoor heart will not bear it.' f 'Do not give up, Susan,' softly Ibrged the old man, laying1 'hip hand Inpon her arm. 'It makes but little Hifference to us now. We have not •long to remain on earth, and let us wear out our last days in useless |repihings. Come, come.' ! 'But when—when shall we go?' j*. 'Now—to-day.' j 'Then God have mercy on us!' h 'lie will,' murmured Jacob. r The old couple sat for a while in 'Ifeilence. When they were aroused Ifrom their painful thoughts, it was [-"by the stopping of a waggon in front iof the door. A man entered the room iwhere they sat. He was an official from the poorhouse. l I 'Come, Mr Manfred.' he said, 'they Have managed to crowd you into the poorhouse. The waggon is at the I'Moor, and you can get ready as soon j lis possible.' Jacob Manfred had not calculated the strength he should need for this brdeal. There was a coldness in the ,very tone and manner of the man jwho had come for him that went like fin ice-bolt to his heart, and with a Beep groan he sank back in his seat. 'Come—be in a hurry,' impatiently 1 Iprged the official. At that moment a heavy covered Victoria drove up to the door. 'Is this the house of Jacob ManThe question was asked by a man frho entered from the carriage. He Svas a kind-looking man, about forty Wears of age. 'That is my name,' said Jacob. •: 'Then they told me truly.' uttered -the newcomer. 'Are you from the poorhouse?' he continued, turning to the official. 1 *Yes.* ■If 'And are you after these people?' l\ 'Yes.' , „ :•;'»' 'Then you may return. Jacob Manirlred goes to no poorhouse while I The official gazed inquisitively into the features of the man who addressfed him, and then he left the house. ' 'Don't you remember me? exJ fclaimed the stranger, grasping the old man by the hand. 'I cannot call you to my memory Jiow'. . „.., •Do you remember Lucius Williams?' 'Williams?' repeated Jacob, starting tip from his chair, and gazing- earnestly into the face of the man before him. 'Yes, Jacob Manfred - Lucius Williams. That little boy whom, thirty years ago, you saved from the house of correction; that poor boy whom you kindly took from the bonds of the law and placed on board one of your own vessels.' , 1 'And you are ' I 'Yes—yes. I am the man you made. You found me a rough stone from the hands of poverty and bad example. It was you who brushed off the evil, and who first led me to the sweet waters of moral life and happiness. 1 have profited by the lessons you gave me in early youth, and the warm spark which your kindness lighted up in my bosom has grown brighter ever since. With an affluence for life I have setiled down to enjoy the remainder of toy days in peace and quietness, with such good work as my hands may 'find to do. I heard of your losses and bereavements. I knew that the chilt dren of your own flesh are all gone but I am a child of your bounty—a i child of your kindness, and now you Shall be still my-parent. Come, 1 have a home and a heart, and your presI -ence will make them both warmer, J brighter and happier You_ made my i youth all bright, and I will not fcee your old age doomed to darkness. 4 Jacob Manfred tottered forward and Sank upon the bosom of his preserver. ■ He could not speak Ms thanks,^ foi ithey were too heavy for words. .When

he looked up again he sought his wife. 'Susan,' he said, in a choking, trembling tone, 'my bread has come back to me.' 'Forgive me, Jacob.' '-\o, no, Susan. It is not I who must forgive—God holds us in His hand.' 'Ah,' murmured his wife, as she raised her streaming e yes to heaven. 'I will never doubt Him again.'