The Returned Elder

RETURNED ELDER. BY NEPHI ANDERSON.

Last Sunday evening I heard Elder Thomas Aldeen speak in ward meeting. He made his report, in fact, and it was indeed in- teresting. The speaker was no other than my old neighbor and friend, Tom Aldeen, but I introduce him by his full name and title with all due respect. Tom has earned it, if any Elder in the Church has. The meeting house was full, mostly young people, as they like to be out on a Sunday evening. As usual it was crowded near the door, with plenty of unoccupied seats up by the stand. I always go up in front. I can there see better and hear better — besides I

like to set a good example to the young folks.

I didn't know that Tom had returned, though his mother had told me a few days before that she was expecting him. I was fairly seated when there was a general turning of heads — yes, I

plead guilty of turning too, though I usually control myself in this respect — and in came Tom and his mother. He was carrying her shawl over his arm, and after finding her a seat was about to sit

down when he caught sight of the Bishop's beckoning hand and went on up towards the stand. When we obtained a full view of him, how we all did stare. Was that Tom Aldeen who had left us a little over two years ago? The timid, awkward, blundering Tom who had always come to Sun- day School in his overalls and colored shirt, and who had usually made such pitiable failures when placed on the program for con- joint sessions? Though let me say right here that Tom did very

28 IMPROVEMENT ERA.

well in the Mutual, and mark it, he never refused or shirked a duty. But here he was, walking up the aisle. His shoulders were straighter and broader, and the black ministerial coat fitted him perfectly. His steps had lost their hesitancy and now he walked as though he was sure of the ground upon which he trod. As I looked at him and listened to his remarks that evening, I couldn't help thinking what a blessed thing this missionary system is to us all, and to the Church. Tom told his experiences — of his travels, his trials, his con- versations, and other matters that go to make up the curriculum of that great school, a mission. He told of the warm, large-hearted Saints in the world, and how the Gospel had drawn them together as one. As he spoke his face lightened, his eyes beamed. He seemed charged with the divine power, love, and that whole meet- ing, I am sure, received of its blessed influence. And I thought again, what would we do, we cold, unfeeling,stay-at-home Saints, if it where not for these missionaries continually coming home with their brightly glowing Gospel love with which to re-kindle our own smouldering fires. As Tom was telling us of his first few weeks' experience, of his struggles with powers both seen and unseen, I happened to glance across the room to where a number of girls were sitting in the choir. Tom's recital was touching, and everyone listened with wrapt attention, but I could not help noticing how Helen Archer looked. Helen naturally pale, was whiter than ever, save a bright red spot in each cheek. The large eyes looked steadily at the speaker, and there were tears in them which she could not altogether suppress. Was Helen surprised at Tom's transfigura- tion? Perhaps; but I had my misgivings that other emotions besides that of mere surprise were agitating her at that moment. may as well tell the secret, seeing that I am Tom's neigh- I

ber and know an item or two about the doings of both Helen and Tom. Before Tom had left on his mission, he had, in his awkward way, made love to Helen. Seemingly she had treated him kindly enough, but it proved that she was deceiving him all the time. It was handy to have someone take her sleigh-riding and to parties

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but — I am sorry to say that Helen said unkind things of honest Tom behind his back. Once or twice she hurt him terribly. For instance: It was the spring before Tom left.Remember, Tom was a farmer and managed his mother's farm. He was in the habit of taking his milk buckets down to the pasture, milking his two cows and carrying the milk home instead of driving the cows through a muddy slough to the corral. One evening I saw Tom come along from the pasture with his buckets full of rich, foamy milk. He seemed merry that evening, for he was whistling such a lively tune that the frogs in the pond ducked their heads under and hid for shame. I still remember what a mild, beautiful spring evening it was, and just how Tom looked in his blue overalls and jumper, big straw hat, and boots smeared with mud. Some planks had been placed over the wettest part of the slough, and just as Tom got to them, who should come along but Helen Archer and her party of visitors from Ogden. As they got on the planks to tip-toe over, they held up their white dresses and balanced their dainty parasols with many a tittering exclamation of fright. Tom put his buckets on the ground and stood aside to let them pass. Tom was nervous, I could see. Helen did not catch sight of him until she was within a few feet of his buckets. She instantly colored, but went by without recogniz- ing him. The other girls stared at him as they passed. Tom whistled no more that evening. I could see that the poor boy was nearly heart broken. He bothered Helen no more after that, and strange to say, I believe no other boy has either. But Elder Aldeen is closing. "And now I am pleased to be home again," he said; "but I do not wish to cease doing good. I

hope I may be able to retain a portion of that good Spirit which God has been pleased to give me in my mission work. I wish to be still useful in building up the kingdom of God. Amen." After the meeting, I shook Tom heartily with both hands. His friends gathered around to greet him. The girls in the choir stood waiting for their turn, and Helen had separated herself from them as if she wished to be the last to shake his hand. No; I could see no difference in Tom's greeting when he came to Helen.