Juana’s Master. ——
A picturesque object it was, this old Spanish-looking house, in the City of Mexico, with turrets and towers and balconies, set amid tall trees and clambering vines. The hot breath of the summer afternoon had sent most of the inhabitants to search out cool, dark retreats, and lose the sense of languor in sleep. Even the leaves and the flowers were drowsy, and universal silence settled upon all things, broken only by the plashing of fountains and the sleepy little songs of birds.
In an upper balcony of the old house a young wife sat, her head resting on one hand, her eyes fastened on the distant mountains just discernible through a soft haze. She was not building pretty air-castles, nor absorbed in the dreamy, wondrous beauty of the scene before her; nor when she bowed her head on the railing, did her eyes close in happy forgetfulness.
“Sleep seldom visits sorrow,” and this sad heart was breathing out sobs and moans.
Juana Valerie, descended from both Mexican and Spanish ancestors, was, with the exception of an old aunt, the last of the family, which, in its day, had been one of much note. Left an orphan at an early age, her only remaining relative—feeble in both mind and body—found it no easy task to bring the fiery, frisky little mortal under any great degree of control. As she grew older her positive nature and keen mind outgeneraled both teachers and aunt. When she chose to spend the livelong day frolicking in the grounds, or clambering trees, instead of poring over dull books, she did so, always being able by means of ready wit and winning ways to escape punishment. However, as the years went on, she contrived to secure a fair share of education, absorbing it, it must be; surely it was not accomplished by hard study.
Juana’s parents had been staunch Roman Catholics, and while they lived she was trained in the strict observance of the rules of that church. Whether it was that the little maiden was a born rebel, or that from some honest-hearted ancestor she had inherited a hatred of shams, it turned out that at a very early age she began to throw off the shackles the Church of Rome binds about its victims. The Confessional had always been to her childish mind a dread and horror, and as she grew to girlhood she stoutly refused to go to it. The aunt and the old priest scolded and threatened, which had the effect only to drive her from the church entirely. Then they persecuted and warned, holding up to her view the awful fate of an apostate soul. They tried to hedge her in on this side and that, but she shook her willful little head, and leaping over all inclosures, ran free as the wind. No threats or persuasions availing to bring her under control, she was deemed incorrigible, and the anathema of the Church pronounced against her. This did not bring the least shadow upon her spirit, however; a strange intuition seemed to make this young girl aware that truth in its purity was not there, and that a mere man had no power to pronounce either blessing or curse upon her.
She was not unloving to her old aunt, nor did she intend to be undutiful, but she did purpose always and everywhere to have her own way; so the feeble old lady settled down to the inevitable, and Juana came and went free as a bird. Hitherto, her flowers and her pets had absorbed her, but now she was awakening to the fact that a whole bright world of pleasure lay all about, beckoning her to its revelries. So she drifted in with the giddy throng, and was flattered and followed and smiled upon to her heart’s content.
In one of the gay assemblies she met Paul Everett, a young American. At first glance each became immediately fascinated by the other, and subsequent interviews served to deepen the enchantment. As Juana could speak not a word of English, and the young stranger but very little Spanish, it would seem that the attachment could not make rapid progress; but love has a mystic language of its own, and is independent of clumsy words. The reasons for this irresistible and mutual attraction were quite as good as many lovers can plead. He was carried captive by flashing dark eyes, raven hair, and the graceful form gleaming in crimson and gold, flitting through the dance like some gay tropical bird. She, in turn, fondly believed that the tall blonde young man, with locks and mustache of golden hue, with eyes of heavenly blue, and, above all, in faultless attire, was nothing short of a demi-god. On such slender basis they built fair hopes, and were ready to promise everything, and more, that lay in mortal’s power to bestow. The business that drew Paul Everett to Mexico was the same in which he had been engaged the last five years. His indulgent friends termed it “sowing wild oats,” though he himself professed to be gathering material for some literary work. In this line he had much taste, and fair talents, and might have succeeded if only it had been possible for him to engage in any pursuit with earnestness and enthusiasm; or if he had known any other rule of life than self-indulgence.
The wooing was short; they were soon married, and Paul for a time exceedingly enjoyed the little idyll he was living. The situation was most novel and delightful. The flowery land, its blue skies and balmy air suited his poetical temperament. The old castle and grounds were picturesque and spacious, and he was master of them, or would be on the death of the old aunt; besides, did he not possess the entire adoration of the most charming and unique little creature that ever breathed? Paul had a mania for the unique, and one of Juana’s greatest attractions to him was that she was unlike all the rest of womankind; of whom, as he assured himself, he was heartily weary, but this sparkling, piquant winning sprite—ah! She was as far beyond and above all other women as wine was above water— and that distance was immeasurable to Paul’s taste.
He enjoyed teaching Juana to speak English. Her musical voice stammering out pretty broken words in his own language, was a pleasant thing to hear. She was not content with simply speaking it. Should she be the wife of an American and not be able to read his language? So under his tuition, she set about the study of it with much more industry than suited her husband’s indolent temperament. These were halcyon days; seldom were a young couple more united. Their views of life and their aims were the same. The world was a gay garden, and they two were butterflies, disporting themselves in the warm sunshine and draining every drop of sweetness from every flower in their path. Innocent enough flowers they were at first; the delight in each other’s society in rambling, riding, boating, and resting under the shadows of broad spreading trees, or, from a lofty balcony enjoying the panorama the summer evening spread before them; the fair city at their feet, its spires and minarets gleaming in the moonlight, and distant mountains piled in soft masses against the crystal sky.
When Juana added to the witchery of the scene by singing sweet Spanish airs to the music of the guitar, the young husband half believed he had attained heaven and the society of the angels.
When these simple delights ceased to charm, there was the outside world which they had come near to forgetting while in this ecstatic trance. So they plunged into every amusement the gay wicked city offered, and “gave their hearts to folly.” They lived in a whirl of pleasure, and Juana felt that now there was nothing more to ask for in life. To be the chosen bride of such a man, and to take her fill of amusement, to dress and dance and sing the days and nights away—was ever cup of happiness so strangely full as hers?
If some stray breeze had whispered in her ear that she had tied her happiness to a slender thread, that the day would come when all these things would be to her as chaff, and that if her husband should weary of her, he would fling her aside as he did the rose he plucked in the morning, after breathing its sweetness a moment—then Juana would never have believed such a false whisperer.
Paul Everett tired of everything sooner or later. His restless, fickle nature demanded constant change and new sensations. So, after the first novelty of his new mode of life had worn off, he began to return to his old habits of roving, making only short absences at first, but gradually to extend them till weeks grew into months.
Juana though grieved at his long delays, had opportunity for rest from the whirl of gayeties, and for the first time in her life thought and conscience seemed to be awakening. Young as she was, she could enter somewhat into the experience of another one who “laid hold on folly,” and found it “vanity and vexation of spirit.” Of late an unaccountable feeling of depression and self-condemnation would sometimes steal over her. A voice seemed often to ask her, “If this was all of life, to frolic away a few brief days and die, and then—what? Could it be that death was the end?” One evening during her husband’s absence, she walked in the grounds with her maid, and paused by the old stone gateway to watch a little group of Protestants on their way to a prayer meeting in the small chapel just beyond. She felt sad and lonely, and wished that some of those peaceful-faced women could speak to her, so that she might find out what it was that made them seem so different from all others.
“Those people are happy, Ria,” she said to the maid; “they look as if they had found something that rests them. I wish I knew what it was.” And Ria, casting a puzzled glance at her young mistress, wondered what she had to weary her. Juana dismissed her maid after a little and betook herself to an upper veranda, where the music of sweet hymns from the little chapel stole softly up on the evening breeze. The tender airs melted her to tears, and an unutterable yearning for something better and higher than she had ever known filled her heart. It was the first dawning cry of an immortal soul, unsatisfied with earthly good, seeking for its God.
These feelings did not pass away with the next morning’s sunlight. She felt wretched and dissatisfied, and gloom settled down upon her. This could not be accounted for by the long absence of her husband; for when he returned for a brief stay the solemn thoughts still oppressed her, though she tried to shake them off and appear as usual. Genuine affection would have detected and searched out with tender sympathy the trouble that just hinted itself in the sobered look of the dark eyes. But Paul liked sunshine and laughter; and, true to his selfish nature, was only annoyed that his wife seemed to be taking on something of the dignity of womanhood, and was less like a butterfly or a frisky kitten.
There was a fascination to Juana in watching the small company of worshipers go to and from the chapel. One evening, as the melody of their hymns floated up to her, she became possessed of a desire to come nearer to the heavenly sounds. So, enveloping her head and shoulders in a large veil, she glided softly forth into the moonlight alone; her husband was down in the city and would not return until late. She was glad to go alone, though for some reason that she did not herself understand. She stole silently along, and stood under the shadow of the trees where she could observe without being seen. Now their heads were bowed in prayer. In the earnest petitions from one and another she often caught the name “God.” She had never heard it in English. If they had spoken the word in her own language, though, no distinct idea would have been conveyed to her; only a dim, shadowy something that she had heard of long ago.
Soon they broke out into song again:
“Come, happy souls, approach your God
With new melodious songs.”
Although Juana could converse in simple broken words in English, she could comprehend scarcely nothing of what she now heard; and yet the music thrilled and animated her. How joyful these faces and voices were, and yet subdued and tender, and they sang about “God”—that same name! Still she lingered as if fascinated until the closing hymn, that lullaby for trusting souls in all ages:
“Glory to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light:
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Beneath thine own almighty wings.”
And still they sang that same name—“God.” If only the poor heart standing there in the shadows could know about the “Almighty wings!” Juana did not forget the sound of the new name she had heard—that Being to whom those people prayed and sang praises, and read about in their Bible. If she could but read English and have one of their Bibles, then she should know all about Him! Oh! If somebody would tell her about Him.
“If those English people know about God, why should not Paul?” she mused, as they sat together one afternoon.
Paul was reclining in a hammock, the smoke of a cigar curling far above his head, absorbed in a French novel.
When Juana broke the silence by asking him if he owned a Bible, he answered with a frown, “Of course not.”
“Paul, could you tell me about God?” Juana ventured again.
“Very easily,” said Paul, puffing out a whiff of smoke. “There is no God. So you see you needn’t bother your pretty head any more about that question.”
He did not see the startled, disappointed look in Juana’s face as he settled himself again to his book with an air that said he was not to be further disturbed. Paul’s word, ordinarily, was law to Juana, but in this case she was not satisfied. She could not believe there was no God. She knew there must be one, and that not by reasoning it out. A greater than human reason had taught her. If now she could but find out about Him! She had not looked into a Spanish Bible since she was a very little child, but she could not go to that for help. She distrusted everything that the Church of Rome had to do with. “But if a Spanish Bible tells Catholics about their religion, why should not an English Bible teach the Protestant religion?” she reasoned. She resolved to have one, if possible, and when Juana resolved, her strong will left no stone unturned toward accomplishment.
A day or two after, as her husband was making preparations for another journey, Juana preferred her request:
“There is one thing I do much want. Will you not please get it for me, dear Paul, before you go? I do so want it! And that is an English Bible.”
“Pray, what in the world would you do with that?” Paul asked, in much astonishment. “You cannot read English.”
“Ah! Shall I not read it soon if I study much? I can try to read the stories in it, and it will help make the time to fly, so you will soon come back to me,” she added coaxingly.
Paul was willing enough that other people should have what they wanted if it did not interfere with his pleasure. So as he went about attending to various purchases for himself, he remembered Juana’s request, and was at not a little pains to obtain for her a copy of the Bible. “Every one to his taste,” he remarked to himself as he looked it over. “I think I could find fables that would prove more entertaining to me than this one.”
During her husband’s stay at home Juana had much of the time been carrying on an inward struggle. She had endeavored to quiet her unrest by plunging into reckless dissipation, but the still small voice followed her even to the midnight revel. And often, when she had filled all her waking hours with busy trifles—purposely to crowd out these intrusive thoughts—she would wake as by a flash, her spirit filled with a strange dread, and then, in the still solemn hour the eternal would speak to the mortal, who, shrinking away in conscious guilt, felt that there were just two things in the universe; herself, and an awful presence who searched her through.
When left again to her lonely life, Juana gave herself with unceasing application to the study of English, so that she might read her new Bible. She could already spell out texts made up of simple words, and form a tolerably clear conception of their meaning. If she was going to read a book, she must of course begin at the beginning and read it through; so she plunged boldly into the great volume. As well might one essay to cross the ocean in a tiny sail-boat, as for this dark-minded girl to get any available knowledge from such a deep; the unbeliever would say, and truly, the undertaking would have been hopeless had it not been a wonderful Book, with a wonderful Teacher.
She labored through the first chapter of Genesis with that great name in almost every verse. Never was tale more fascinating than this one. It was read in a poor blundering way; but the truth had been gleaned that God made the world and all it contains. No doubt as to the truth of it entered her mind for a moment. Day after day she spelled her way through succeeding chapters. It was all new and wonderful, but disappointing. It was not what she craved: something that would remove the strange heaviness that weighed upon her. On the contrary she gathered that all the world had gone astray from God and were under his wrath and curse, and that agreed with what she had conceived. God to be; a stern, awful being, holding a sword over the heads of his creatures. The more she read the greater grew the mystery. “I cannot make it out,” she said, almost despairingly, “it is all confusion;” then, with the superstition of her race, resolved, “I will put the book of God under my pillow; I will see if some good may not come to me from it while I sleep.” Perchance there might be sweeter sleep if the “book of God” oftener pillowed troubled heads. Finally she abandoned the project of reading the Bible through, and puzzled out bits here and there, hoping to chance upon something that she could understand.
“All have sinned and come short of the glory of God,” she read, then sadly murmured, “Yes, I know that; the very first of the book tells it, and that is what I am, a sinner. I have a bad heart, oh! so bad. But how shall I make it good I know not.” And just here Juana discovered the old remedy that many burdened souls resort to. She would propitiate Heaven with good works. So she gave money freely and liberally whenever a hand was stretched out, and tried to be amiable and lovely, and made a solemn vow to perfectly keep all the commandments. The result was the usual one that comes to a sinner trying to justify himself by the law. Every dormant evil in the poor girl’s heart awoke and clamored. Satan worried and buffeted at every turn, and, growing irritable and impatient she declared, “What should I want of a book that makes me so unhappy? It must be bad, for since I know it I am not so good as once I was.”
After that the book was not opened for days, but rested in the bottom of Juana’s trunk, “under much clothes, so that I could not see it,” she said, and she herself wandered up and down like a lost spirit, out of heart with everything within and about her. Then, to fill up the wretched, lonely days with something, she again brought out her Bible and plunged into the laborious task more earnestly than before.
Gracious and kind as He ever is, the Lord was teaching this one poor little scholar as if she were the only soul in the universe. After Juana had thoroughly learned that she was a sinner, this blessed truth flashed up at her one day as she was toiling through a verse: “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” She went through it again, eagerly, with dilating eyes and suspended breath. “Ah! What is this!” she exclaimed. “This is news indeed! Christ Jesus: Who can he be? He saves sinners! And that is me.”
At last she found the key. And now how intently she searched out that name, drinking in the truth, as one dying of thirst would seize a cup of cold water. Little by little she got it all—the old, old story; the birth in Bethlehem, the lowly, lovely life in Nazareth, the cross, the death, the tomb, the resurrection, the ascension, and, at last, the gracious invitation—
“Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.”
“Oh! I want rest,” she cried; and falling upon her knees breathed her first prayer, “I come, I come. O, save me, Christ Jesus!” Without even realizing that this was prayer, she poured out all her heart before Him. “I know not how long I did talk to Him,” she told some one afterward; “a long time it was, but I had so much to tell Him I could not stop. And when I get up from my knees, my trouble be all gone! I feel so light it seems to me I could fly. When I look out the window I say, ‘O, what a world! So beautiful! The sky so blue, the trees so grand and the flowers so bright! I wonder I never see the glory before.’ Then something say, ‘It is wrong for you to be so happy When you are such a sinner,’ so I try to get back the big heavy load, but I cannot; I can only sing for joy.”
Secure in her newly found peace, Juana watched unceasingly for her husband’s return, eager to tell him the good news.
“Paul is very wise,” she told herself, “he will not have so hard a time to understand as I. He will soon see when he comes to read the dear book that God lives; then he will love him, and he will get rest to his soul and stay much at home, and then so happy will we be.”
In a few days Paul came, bringing as he always did loving greeting. He was not insensible to the fact that it was a pleasant thing to have such comfortable headquarters, and a pretty creature ready to minister to him, glad to obey his slightest nod, for Juana, spirited maiden though she was, had found in Paul her master, bending her head meekly to the reins that were not always silken, or guided by a gentle hand; consequently her married life had flowed on without a ripple of discord, and thus far conscience had put in no parleying voice. Why would she not gladly please and obey him? Was not her Paul the embodiment of manly beauty, grace and goodness?
“My love doth so approve him, that even his stubbornness, his checks and frowns have grace and favor in them,” was the honest feeling of this deluded soul.
It was pitiful to see her childlike trust thrown back upon itself when she first told Paul the glad secret that she had been keeping for him, pouring out with sweet enthusiasm the story of her struggles and triumphs. Paul sat like a stone giving no word or sign of sympathy, but as she went on pledging undying faith and love to her new master, he grew darkly angry, and then, when eager to justify herself and convince him, she placed in his hands her Bible, saying, “Do, dear Paul, read about the wonderful Christ Jesus for yourself; you will see it is all true,” he dashed the book from him and strode out of the room.
Juana picked it up with a low cry of pain and a tender clasping of it to her heart, as if it had been human and was hurt, too.
The young husband would have been jealous indeed, could he have seen her hasten to her chamber, and tell all her sorrows in another ear than his own.
He waited sullenly for Juana to come to him with penitential tears, and promises that she would certainly abjure any faith that did not meet his perfect approval. He waited in vain, though, and was not a little puzzled by the gentle sad dignity of her manner. He finally resolved to treat the whole affair as a bit of childish nonsense, and little by little in the gayeties that should surround her, she would forget her new whims.
To please her husband Juana accompanied him once to the theatre, and spent one night whirling in the dance. Then this pagan girl’s conscience asserted itself clearly and unmistakably. She was not thrown into a bewildering state of perplexity such as troubles young converts in our Christian land. She needed not to consult the authorities of any church, or inquire of wise theologians “what she must give up” if she became a disciple. Her heart in absolute self-abandon had turned to Christ, as naturally and gladly as the flower to the sun, and the way was not clearer for the dews and life-giving rays to reach the tiny blossom, than for his slightest wish or suggestion to reach and control his child. She knew, without settling it by a process of argument, that Christ and worldly pleasures are antagonistic, and that whoever merges heart and soul in the one must give up the other. To her surprise and delight she found, too, that the keen relish for scenes of revelry had left her. How could it be otherwise? Christ had come into her heart. By a law of natural philosophy, two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time; so, by a law of divine philosophy, Christ and the world cannot occupy a soul at the same time; and every spiritually-minded Christian is acquainted with that law, either by sad or sweet experience.
Paul Everett loved his young wife as well as he was capable of loving anything besides himself. Like many weak, tyrannical natures, he rejoiced in a sense of ownership concerning her, and in the hitherto complete submission of her will to his. What, then, was his astonishment and anger when she told him, as gently as she could, that her conscience would not allow her any more to attend balls and theaters, or engage in several other forms of amusement which used to delight her?
What wonderful transformation was this? A wild, frolicsome girl, a doll, a plaything, suddenly discovering that she had a conscience, and asserting her right to rule her own soul, even daring to have a thought contrary from his!
“What do you mean by such foolishness, Juana?” he demanded.
What a heart of stone he had that it did not melt when the dark eyes, filled with tears, turned pleadingly up to his, and the stammering tongue in pretty, crooked words, said: “The Lord, Christ Jesus, he is my Master,” and Juana’s tongue lingered lovingly over the word—she had lately learned it in English, and it meant so much to her—“I fear, oh! very much, to not please Him; I must follow what He says to me here,” and both small hands clasped themselves over her heart.
Paul’s answer was a torrent of invectives and reproaches, ending with—“I am your master! You are to obey me and none other.” And then he stooped lower, close to her ear, and whispered words that he knew would be terrible to her: “If you do not, I will cast you off!”
It was not will-power, nor strength of purpose—inherited from any ancestor, either Spanish or Mexican—but grace divine, that enabled Juana to maintain outward calmness, though her cheek blanched, and lift her soul to her Lord, breathing a solemn vow to be faithful to Him, come what would.
When Paul was angry, he came nearer to being in earnest than at any other time. He hated “religionists,” and was determined not to have the wings of the pretty bird he had caught clipped by such fanaticism. Moreover, he wished to be the God himself to whom she bowed down. He would brook no rival. So he ordered her to give up her Bible reading and her praying, and cast her faith to the winds, expecting to be meekly obeyed; but Juana, although nearly heart-broken at his displeasure, remained firm, and when he saw that neither commands, threats, nor persuasions availed with her, he was furious, and resolved to leave her to herself, hoping that by an unusually protracted absence, loneliness would bring her to terms.
“I shall soon return if you write me that you will be perfectly obedient,” Paul had said, as he rode away, and now Juana, in the glory and beauty of the summer afternoon, sat on that upper balcony watching him disappear through the great gateway—gone and she alone in her sorrow. “What if he never came up that flower ’broidered path again? Her Paul was firm, he would not relent.” (The poor, blind child did not know that Paul was stubborn instead of firm.)
Martyrs of all ages have cheerfully given up their lives, but who shall say which is most heroic—to be torn limb from limb, or to tear the heart from its clay idol? To give the body to be burned, or through the slow-going years yield the heart to the crucible for His sake?
Weary days, and weeks, and months passed, and still Paul remained away, but the heart of the young disciple, though it often fainted, did not fail. Her Bible was her constant occupation, and the blessed Saviour her friend and guest, for he did abide at her house and in her heart; so that the loneliness was not so great as Paul imagined. He received many letters from her, but with no word of retraction. She plead for his return, begging him not to cast her off. She would do anything for him but deny or displease “the dear Christ Jesus.” “He do make me happy even in my sorrow,” she wrote. This was more than the vain man could bear; as if Juana should be made happy by anything when he was absent!
Paul’s next letter brought news that made the blood stand still in the heart of the young wife. He was to leave that part of the country for years, perhaps forever. Whether they ever met again depended on herself. When she was ready to give up her religion she might write to him to a certain address and it would be forwarded, otherwise he wanted to hear nothing from her. She need not try to seek him out, neither should she have any word from him. It may have been that Paul came to this cruel decision more easily from just having received news that Juana’s old aunt had died, and had willed the bulk of the estate to the church, leaving her niece but a small sum on account of her apostasy from the faith. It was all this elegant young man could do to maintain himself, with his refined and luxurious tastes. How, then, could he be burdened with a portionless wife? He had not planned in that way.
For weeks after this blow Juana lingered between life and death. As strength returned she prayed to die. She said over and over in her anguish, “I can never, never live without him.”
She did not die. The Lord had a work for her. When fully recovered, a wild desire took possession of her to look again upon the face of her husband. She must go to the United States, his home. She might find him, he might forgive her, or, joyful possibility, he might change. She could not change, but she must see him once more. Disposing of her small property, she started on her unknown way, and after a dreary journey arrived—a stranger in a strange land. Wearily she traversed the cities mid towns, till courage and purse were well-nigh spent. The search proved fruitless, and her heart was sore and almost rebellious. Faint and ready to perish—did some one speak her name? “Child, come unto me, I will give you rest.” And then Juana’s heart leaped, and she answered quickly, “Master.” Then were her eyes opened, and she knew that the Lord was with her, knew, too, that she had again been setting up in her heart a clay idol in his place. When she sorrowfully sought forgiveness, he showed the “vividness of His mercy,” and gave her not only comfort, but an overcoming faith which enabled her to lay herself and her husband at his feet with, “Thy will be done.”
In loving submission she asked now, “What wilt Thou have me to do?” And for answer came the thought of her country in bonds of Romanism and idol worship. Her heart yearned over its darkness and misery, but what could she do for it now, far away in a strange land, with very little money left? Soon, however, the divine plan began to unfold itself! As she walked the city street one day and passed a church, the door stood invitingly open, and the sound of singing reached her ear. Juana was always attracted by music. As other ladies were passing in she followed and took a seat among them. It proved to be a woman’s missionary meeting. After the hymn came reports and papers on different subjects. Some of these were very long and dull, and read in such low tones that she understood scarcely nothing of what was said; but then, the faces of those good women rested her, and she was sure it was a good place to be. Besides, they sang often, and that was sweet, and then, they prayed. Ah! Now she felt at home, she could understand that. After prayer, a lady spoke in clear, distinct tones a few words about Mexico. She did not read, she talked. Her sentences were not long and fine, her words were short and simple, and Juana comprehended them. She listened as if spell-bound, and then forgetting all else but her commission and her country, stood up and with downcast eyes and timid tones, said, “Ladies, Mexico is my dear country. Let me say one little word for her?” It was only a few sentences, in broken words, but never was appeal more effective as she pleaded with them to “send help now, for they are dying every day, and they know not Christ Jesus at all.”
Then, half-frightened at what she had done, she sank into her seat. But the ladies begged her to go on, to talk as long as she would, persuading her to come up to the front. At first the consciousness of so many eyes fastened upon her was confusion, but presently, forgetting everything else, she told them the simple story of her conversion. The eloquent face and vivid words, with pretty foreign accent, as she described her despair and her joy, stirred the hearts of those women to their depths. What a fair field for work was Mexico if gems such as this young stranger were hidden away there.
The fire thus kindled rapidly spread. Juana went from church to church, and the tide of enthusiasm rose high, gifts flowed in, and many hearts turned warmly to the “land of the sun,” as this young wife, a miracle of God’s grace, told the tale of his redeeming love, and in broken, eager words, pleaded with tears for “my dear Mexico.”
Gladly would these Christians have sent her through the land that by this means the hearts of many of her Christian sisters might be reached and moved to lay upon the altar themselves or their treasures.
The Master, though, had other work for Juana. He had her return to her native country, and in her own tongue tell her own people the good news, and she obeyed, glad that He counted her worthy to do this work for Him. She came out poor and friendless. She went back laden with treasures; means to carry on the work, and followed by the prayers and loving farewells of hosts of God’s people.
To-day in her musical mother tongue, Juana in her own fair city, tells the glad story, and hungry souls are hanging on her words. While she works her prayer goes up that Paul may become “a new creature in Christ Jesus,” and that the glad day will dawn when he shall come and work by her side. Let us have faith to plead it with her, believing that the Divine Alchemist can transmute even such worthless material into a saint.
Patiently, trustingly, Juana is waiting. Through all her sorrows she has come to “the valley of blessing,” to rest and peace, and the song she loves best to sing, is—
“Emptied, that He might fill me,
As forth to His labor I go,
Broken, that so unhindered
His life through me might flow.”