THE FACE IN THE PICTURE

Not a fine work of art; the keen critic would have pronounced it a daub. It did not cost much money, and the frame was of plain, uncarved wood. But the picture told a story, and told it well. For the background a rough stone wall; above it a leaden sky; in the foreground a pale, weary-looking girl. In her arms she held a sick boy. And just in front of him the Christ stood; the patient, ever-loving Christ. His hand, not yet pierced, rested upon the head of the sick boy. His eyes caught the upturned eyes of the lad, and in the faded eyes of the boy, the light was beginning to come back. The picture hung in a hospital. On a bed right opposite the picture, tossing in fever, was a boy of the slums. Born of drunken parents, the boy was born to a heritage of woe. He knew nothing of what the word “father” meant; he knew the “old man” well enough to keep out of his way; he carried marks of his cruel beatings on his face, and when the fever came, the police-man found him alone in the straw on the damp floor of his cellar. They brought him to the hospital, and hands, soft and delicate, ministered to him. He grew better; the doctor said he would pull through. One morning when the nurse came, and pulled up the blind to let the light fall upon his face, she said, “Shall I read to you?” “No,” said the boy, and his eyes sought the pic-ture. “No, tell me about that picture; who is He?” “He is the Christ,” she said; and then with a prayer in her heart she told the story of His life to the boy, and as she closed she said, “Do you believe in Him?” “I believe in you,” said the boy, and the next morning he said to the nurse, “Tell me more about Him.” How glad the nurse was to tell him! Her life had been one of trials, but now she was anchored in a haven of rest, and Christ’s Voice had brought a calm to her troubled life. As she told the old, old story, the boy said, “You know Him, don’t you?” “Yes, she said, “thank God I do.” “And He loves boys?” “He loves everybody.” “Rough boys like me?” “Everybody.” And so day by day, she talked of the Christ of the picture, and at last she said again, “Do you believe in Him?” And he said, “I believe,” and two faces, bathed in tears, were lifted to the picture. The boy went from the hospital carrying next to his heart a small Bible, and in his heart the Christ. As the years rolled on, the nurse thought often of the boy, but she was shut away from the world, and her hours were long hours, so she heard nothing of him. Finally, grey-haired and bent with age, she became ill and, at her request, they placed her in the bed opposite the picture of Christ and the child. Many came to see her: old people whom she had nursed back to health; children who loved her because her love stood between them and their fears; white-capped nurses crowded around her, for her life had blessed them. The grey light of a newborn day stole through the window, and all was still in that quiet ward. Around the bed stood the nurses, for she was dying. A young clergyman was called in from the next ward. He looked upon the face on the pillow, then his eyes sought the picture and, as he fell upon his knees, he said, “Thank God.” “Who are you?” she asked. The eyes of the dying nurse sought his. Her face was beautiful with a glory not of earth, as she listened when he spoke. “I am the boy to whom you told the story of the picture. My work is with the poor. We shall meet again.” “Lift me,” she said.” “Ah,” he whispered, “you lifted me.” His strong right arm lifted her up. Together their eyes sought the picture. The first ray of the rising sun fell upon the face of Christ, and when he gently lowered the still face to the pillow, he knew that she saw Him, “face to Face.” - Selected