: Working in the Shade Lowly Sowing brings Glorious Reaping by Wilson Theodore P - Christian life Juvenile fiction; Orphans Juvenile fiction; Domestic fiction; England Social life and customs 19th century Juvenile fiction; Kindness Juvenile fiction; Selfishn

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Illustrator: F. A. F.

Working in the Shade; or, Lowly Sowing Brings Glorious Reaping

This is just such a book. You could look at it as no more than a very hard-hitting sermon on the theme of Selfishness, but it is well-written enough, with various episodes of selfishness leading to disaster, and unselfishness leading heavenwards.

WORKING IN THE SHADE; OR, LOWLY SOWING BRINGS GLORIOUS REAPING

BY THE REVEREND THEODORE P WILSON

THE NEW-COMER.

Curiosity was on tiptoe in the small country-town of Franchope and the neighbourhood when it was settled without a doubt that Riverton Park was to be occupied once more.

Park House, which was the name of the mansion belonging to the Riverton estate, was a fine, old, substantial structure, which stood upon a rising ground, and looked out upon a richly undulating country, a considerable portion of which belonged to the property.

The house was situated in the centre of an extensive park, whose groups and avenues of venerable trees made it plain that persons of consideration had long been holders of the estate. But for the last twenty years Riverton Park had been a mystery and a desolation. No one had occupied the house during that time, except an old man and his wife, who pottered about the place, and just contrived to keep the buildings from tumbling into ruin. The shutters were always closed, as though the mansion were in a state of chronic mourning for a race of proprietors now become extinct, except that now and then, in summer-time, a niggardly amount of fresh air and sunshine was allowed to find its way into the interior of the dwelling.

But why did no one purchase it? Simply because its present owner, who was abroad somewhere, had no intention of selling it. At last, however, a change had come. Riverton Park was to be tenanted again. But by whom? Not by its former occupier; that was ascertained beyond doubt by those who had sufficient leisure and benevolence to find out other people's business for the gratification of the general public. It was not so clear who was to be the new-comer. Some said a retired tradesman; others, a foreign princess; others, the proprietor of a private lunatic asylum. These and other rumours were afloat, but none of them came to an anchor.

It was on a quiet summer's evening in July that Mary Stansfield was walking leisurely homeward along the highroad which passed through the Riverton estate and skirted the park. Miss Stansfield was the orphan child of an officer who had perished, with his wife and other children, in the Indian Mutiny. She had been left behind in England, in the family of a maiden aunt, her father's sister, who lived on her own property, which was situated between the Riverton estate and the town of Franchope. She had inherited from her father a small independence, and from both parents the priceless legacy of a truly Christian example, and the grace that rests on the child in answer to the prayers of faith and love.

The world considered her position a highly-favoured one, for her aunt would no doubt leave her her fortune and estate when she died; for she had already as good as adopted her niece, from whom she received all the attention and watchful tenderness which she needed continually, by reason of age and manifold infirmities. But while our life has its outer convex side, which magnifies its advantages before the world, it has its inner concave side also, which reduces the outer circumstances of prosperity into littleness, when "the heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger doth not intermeddle with its joy." So it was with Mary Stansfield. She had a refined and luxurious home, and all her wants supplied. She was practically mistress of the household, and had many friends and acquaintances in the families of the neighbouring gentry, several of whom had country seats within easy walk or drive of her home. Yet there was a heavy cross in her lot, and its edges were very sharp. In her aged aunt, with whom she lived, there were a harshness of character, and an inability to appreciate or sympathise with her niece, which would have made Mary Stansfield's life a burden to her had it not been for her high sense of duty, her patient charity, and God's abiding-grace in her heart. Misunderstood, thwarted at every turn, her attentions misinterpreted, her gentle forbearance made the object of keen and relentless sarcasm or lofty reproof, her supposed failings and shortcomings exposed and commented upon with ruthless bitterness, while yet the tongue which wounded never transgressed the bounds imposed by politeness, but rather chose the blandest terms wherewith to stab the deepest,--hers was indeed a life whose daily strain taxed the unostentatious grace of patience to the utmost, and made her heart often waver, while yet the settled will never lost its foothold.

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