It was Sabbath morning. Jacob stood at his cottage door, gazing out. Each tiny blade of grass bent quivering under its glistening dew-drop. The little ground-birds on the gravel walk were picking up their early breakfast; the robins were singing overhead. The little swallows flew twittering round the cottage eaves. The leaves were rustling with their mysterious music. The silver mist wreathed playfully over the hill-sides, whose summits lay bathed in sunshine. Every thing seemed full of joyous life. Where was the Master hand which regulated all that harmony? The birds sang--the leaves danced--the brooks sparkled--the bee hummed--why did He make _man_ only to suffer? It was all a riddle to poor Jacob. He took his staff, and sauntered away under the drooping lindens. The Sabbath bell was calling the simple villagers to church. Across the meadows, down the grassy lane--the rosy maiden, the bent old man, and the lisping little child. Jacob looked after them as they went. Jacob never had been to church--not since he was a little child. Sunday he always posted his books, squared up his accounts, wrote business letters and the like of that; shortening the day at both ends by getting up later and going to bed earlier. Sunday to him was no different from any other day in the week--except that he transferred his business from his counting-room to his parlor; and yet--here he was, leaning on his staff, before the village church, almost wishing to go in with its humble people. He looked about as if he expected somebody to be astonished that Jacob Ford should be standing so near a church door; but nobody seemed to notice it, or look at all surprised. By-and-by he crept on a little further, and seated himself on a stone bench in the porch, with his chin upon his staff. The butterfly and the bee passed in and out; even the little birds flew in at the church door, and out at the open window; and still old Jacob sat there--he could scarcely have told why. Now he hears the choir sing, “Jesus, I my cross have taken, All to leave, and follow Thee; Naked--poor--despised--forsaken-- Thou from hence my all shalt be. “Though the world despise and leave me, They have left my Saviour too; Human hearts and hopes deceive me, Thou art not like them, untrue.” As the song died away, old Jacob’s tears flowed down his cheeks; the words soothed his troubled spirit like a mother’s lullaby. “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Who promised that? How did the minister know how “heavy laden” was Jacob’s spirit? How did _he_ know that for sixty years he had been drawing water from broken cisterns? Chasing shadows even to the grave’s brink? How did _he_ know that on that balmy Sabbath morning, his heart was aching for _something_ to lean on that would not pass away? “Come unto me.”