I was so eager to finish my conversation with Mrs. Owen that as soon as our lights were out that night I slipped out of bed and crept downstairs in my night clothes. She was sitting alone in the living room, so I sat down on the rug and went on where I’d left off.
“It’s funny Philippa doesn’t think she’s got any sins,” I began, “because she’s really awfully selfish and cross. Couldn’t you come and explain it to her, Auntie?”
She was silent for a moment, and then, instead of answering me, she said, “I’ll tell you a story, and you try to think what it means.
“There was once an old woman who lived in a little village in the mountains, and one day in winter she went to town and bought a packet of washing powder that was supposed to be very good. She did her laundry and hung it out to dry, and it certainly did look whiter than the clothes in the other cottage gardens. She was so pleased that she left it out for two whole days so that everyone could see it. Then it became bitterly cold, and she thought, ‘I must bring in my washing before nighttime.’ So out she went, but when she got into the garden, she threw up her hands in horror and said, ‘Who’s been meddling with my washing? It’s not white anymore—in fact, it looks almost gray.’
“No one had meddled with her washing, and in a moment or two she realized what had happened. While she was busy indoors, the snow had fallen on the mountains. And against that pure dazzling whiteness—God’s whiteness—her laundered clothes seemed gray.”
She glanced at me, smiling, but I was frowning in a puzzled way, not quite understanding.
“Lots of people are like that old woman,” said Mrs. Owen. “They look at their neighbors and say, ‘I’m not a sinner, I’m better than So and so, and I’m much less selfish than So and so.’ And they quite forget that God never tells them to be like So and so. He says, ‘Be holy, for I am holy,’* and He sent Jesus to show us just how perfect and holy He is. It’s when we look at Jesus in the Bible that we see God’s perfect, shining whiteness, perfect courage, perfect goodness, and perfect love. And the more we look, the more we realise, ‘I am not like that.’”
“I see,” I answered slowly. “I’ve got to keep telling Philippa about Jesus, and when she sees what He’s like, she’ll see what she’s like, and till then, I suppose she mustn’t ask to be made better.”
Mrs. Owen shook her head, smiling.
“Lots of people came to Jesus in the Bible who only thought about getting better,” she said simply. “He was so kind and loving that He always said ‘Come.’ He never turned anyone away. He just gave them more than they asked for. He let them see His face and hear His voice, and I expect that was far more wonderful to them than being healed. You let Philippa pray any way she likes; Jesus Himself will teach her if she really means what she is saying. You’ve got just three things to do.”
“What?” I asked.
“First, pray for her, and we all will, too. Then make special times to go and visit her and read the Bible together, and stick to them faithfully. Lastly, show her the love and care and patience of Jesus in your own life. If He is really living in your heart, she ought to be able to see Him in you, not only in the Bible.”
I sat thinking silently, and a few moments later Mr. Owen came in, and we told him what we had been talking about. He was very interested and asked whether Philippa had a Bible of her own.
“No,” I answered, “but I could buy her one for a birthday present. What would it cost?”
“A nicely printed one would cost quite a lot,” said Mr. Owen, “but I think Janet would like to help. Tell her about it in the morning, and you could go into town together and choose it.”
I went up to bed feeling very happy, and the next morning I told Janet about my plan. She was delighted and promised to give every penny she had, but that was not much, because she was an extremely generous little girl and was always giving presents.
We were spreading our joint collection on the table to count it properly when Peter came in.
“What are you doing with all that money?” he asked suspiciously. “Don’t forget; we’ve got to save for camp. I’m going to try to buy a map and a compass, so you’ll have to help with other things.”
“But it’s for Philippa’s Bible,” explained Janet, “and I think it’s more important than camp. Elaine has started telling her about Jesus.”
“Oh, I see,” said Peter, scratching his head thoughtfully. He was a very shy boy in some ways and never talked about his deepest thoughts.
“Well, you don’t seem to have much between you,” he said suddenly, and marched out of the room.
“Oh, dear!” said Janet, who adored her brother. “I’m afraid he’s cross. After all, we did say we’d save for camp, but I thought there was still time for that. We’ve got all our pocket money for two months, and we can do some odd jobs.”
She was interrupted by Peter’s clattering feet. He marched into the room and threw some coins on the table.
“Might as well get her a decent one while you’re about it,” he said gruffly. “And when you go to choose it, I’ll come with you.” He was gone before we could even say “Thank you,” slamming the door very hard behind him.
We set off early the next morning on our bicycles, since the nearest town where Bibles could be bought was seven miles away. We went the back way through winding roads to avoid the traffic.
It was Whitsun holiday, and the town was very busy and crowded with holidaymakers. At last we found the bookshop, and a kind shop girl asked us which Bible we wanted.
“We’d like to see them all, please,” said Peter grandly, “as long as they don’t cost too much.”
The girl smiled and waited patiently. For ten minutes we looked and argued and discussed and changed our minds. But in the end we all agreed on a beautiful clothbound one with large print and pictures.
“Good,” said Peter with a sigh of relief. “Now, let’s have one ice cream each, and that still leaves a bit for camp. Come on!”
We were standing in a doorway eating our ice cream when I suddenly saw him, and my heart seemed to miss a beat. I looked again. Yes, it was definitely the face that had haunted me for weeks—an ugly, unshaven face with wild, frightened eyes.
“Peter,” I whispered, clutching hold of him so hard he dropped his ice cream. “Peter, it’s him!”
“Who?” retorted Peter. “Look out, Elaine!”
“Never mind your ice cream, Peter,” I breathed urgently. “Look, look! There by the crossing! It’s the man I saw in the Thomases’ garden! Oh, Peter, let’s get away quick. He may see me!”
I cowered down in a doorway, but I was too late. At a sign from a policeman, a crowd swarmed across the road, leaving a gap. The man turned suddenly and recognized me. The next instant he dived off into the crowds and disappeared up a side street.
“Quick!” shouted Peter. “There’s a policeman—tell him!”
He plunged toward the policeman. “We’ve seen the thief who took the things from Mrs. Thomas’s house,” he yelled, clutching hold of his sleeve. “He’s just run off, but I’m sure you could catch him if you tried.”
The policeman shook him off impatiently. “I don’t care if you’ve seen the thief who robbed Buckingham Palace,” he retorted, his eyes on the traffic. “I’ve got my job to do. If you have anything to report, you can go to the police station up Emrys Street.”
“It’s no good,” said Peter disappointedly. “It would take us half an hour to get to Emrys Street in these crowds, and he could have gone anywhere by then. There are buses leaving all the time. Oh, to think I got as near as that and missed him!”
We moved into a side street and leaned miserably against the wall.
“I don’t think the police take much notice of children, anyhow,” Peter went on. “We’d better get home quickly and tell Dad. He could always phone if he liked. Anyhow, one good thing—I’ve seen him myself now, and I would know him again anywhere!”
* 1 Peter 1:16