Of course there was no possibility of his going to the Gore in the afternoon. He could only rest at home, hoping and believing that he would be well in a little while. Indeed, the thought of the disappointment to the congregation who would a.s.semble in the afternoon, was more in his thoughts than any future danger to himself. There need be no disappointment--at least, the people need not be made to wait; and David and Jem were sent to tell them that their father was not able to come, and that they were to read a sermon, and Mr Spry was to conduct the service as he had sometimes done before.

They took with them a sermon chosen by their father; but Mr Spry was not there, nor Mr Fiske, nor any one who thought himself capable of reading it as it ought to be read.

"Suppose you give them Miss Bethia's sermon, Davie," said Jem, laughing.

"Don't, Jem," said David, huskily. Something rising in his throat would hardly let him say it, for the remembrance of old Tim, and that fair day, and of his father's face, and voice, and words, came back upon him with a rush, and the tears must have come if he had spoken another word.

"Is there no one here that can read? Papa will be disappointed," said he, in a little.

No. There seemed to be no one. One old gentleman had not brought his gla.s.ses; another could not read distinctly, because of the loss of his front teeth; no one there was in the habit of reading aloud.

"Suppose you read it, David? You will do it first-rate," said old Mr Wood. "We'll manage the rest."

David looked grave. "Go ahead, Davie," said Jem.

"What would papa say?" said David.

"He would be pleased, of course. Why not?" said Jem, promptly.

So when the singing and prayers were over, some one spoke to him again, and he rose and opened the book with a feeling that he was dreaming, and that he would wake up by and by, and laugh at it all. It was like a dream all through. He read very well, or the people thought he did; he read slowly and earnestly, without looking up, and happily forgot that Jem was there, or he might have found it difficult to keep from wondering how he was taking it, and from looking up to see.

But Jem had the same dreamy feeling on him, too. It seemed so strange to be there without his father, and to be listening to Davie's voice; and nothing was farther from his mind than that there was anything amusing in it all. For sitting there, with his head leaning on his hands, a very terrible thought came to Jem. What if he were never to hear his father's voice in this place again? What if he were never to be well?--what if he were going to die!

He was angry with himself in a minute. It was a very foolish thought, he said; wrong even, it seemed to him. Nothing was going to happen to his father. He was not very ill. He would be all right again in a day or two. Jem was indignant with himself because of his thoughts; and roused himself, and by and by began to take notice how attentively all the people were listening, and thought how he would tell them all about it at home, and how pleased his father and mother would be. He did not try to listen, himself, but mused on from one thing to another, till he quite forgot his painful thoughts, and in a little the book was closed and David sat down.

They hurried away as quickly as they could, but not before they had to repeat over and over again to the many who crowded round them to inquire, that their father was not ill, at least not worse than he had been, only he had taken cold and was hoa.r.s.e and not able to speak--that was all.

But the thought that perhaps it might not be all, lay heavy on their hearts all the way home, and made their drive a silent one. It never came into Jem's mind to banter Davie about the new dignity of his office as reader, as at first he had intended to do, or, indeed, to say anything at all, till they were nearly home. As for David, he was going over and over the very same things that had filled his mind when he drove his father from old Tim's funeral--"A good soldier of Jesus Christ," and all that was implied in the name, and his father's words about "the enrolling of one's name;" and he said to himself that he would give a great deal to be sure that his name was enrolled, forgetting that the whole world could not be enough to buy what G.o.d had promised to him freely--a name and a place among His people.

"I hope we shall find papa better," said Jem, as old Don took his usual energetic start on the hill near the bridge.

"Oh! he is sure to be better," said David. But he did not feel at all sure of it, and he could not force himself to do anything for old Don's comfort till he should see what was going on in the house. The glimpse he got when he went in was re-a.s.suring. Violet was laying the table for tea, and singing softly to herself as she went through the house. His father and mother were in the sitting-room with the rest of the children, and they were both smiling at one of little Polly's wise speeches as he went in.

"Well, Davie, you are home again safely," said his mother.

"All right, mamma. I will tell you all about it in a minute," said David. "All right," he repeated, as he went out again to Jem, lifting a load from his heart, and from his own, too, with the word.

But was it really "all right?" Their father's face said it plainly, they thought, when they went in, and their mother's face said it, too, with a difference. A weight was lifted from Jem's heart, and his spirits rose to such a happy pitch that, Sunday as it was, and in his father's presence, he could hardly keep himself within quiet bounds, as he told them about the afternoon, and how David had read so well, and what all the people had said. David's heart was lightened, too, but he watched the look on his mother's face, and noticed that she hardly spoke a word--not even to check Jem, when the laughter of the children and Letty grew too frequent, and a little noisy, as they sat together before the lamp was lighted.

"It is all right, I hope," said he, a little doubtfully. "It would be all right for papa, whichever way it were to end--and for mamma, too,-- in one sense--and for all of us," added he, with a vague idea of the propriety of submission to G.o.d's will under any circ.u.mstances. "But papa is not worse--I think he is not worse, and it will be all right by and by when summer comes again." But he still watched his mother's face, and waited anxiously for her word to confirm his hope.

It _was_ all right, because nothing which is G.o.d's will can be otherwise to those who put their trust in Him. But it was not all right in the sense that David was determined to hope. Though he found them sitting so calmly there when he came home that night, and though the evening pa.s.sed so peacefully away, with the children singing and reading as usual, and the father and mother taking interest in it all, they had experienced a great shock while the boys were away.

Gradually, but very plainly, the doctor had for the first time spoken of danger. Absolute rest for the next three months could alone avert it.

The evidence of disease was not very decided, but the utter prostration of the whole system, was, in a sense, worse than positive disease. To be attacked with serious illness now, or even to be over-fatigued might be fatal to him.

It was not Dr Gore who spoke in this way, but a friend of his who was visiting him, and whom he had brought to see his patient. He was a friend of the minister, too, and deeply interested in his case, and so spoke plainly. Though Dr Gore regretted the abruptness of his friend's communication, and would fain have softened it for their sakes, he could not dissent from it. But both spoke of ultimate recovery provided three months of rest--absolute rest, as far as public duty was concerned, were secured. Or it would be better still, if, for the three trying months that were before him, he could go away to a milder climate, or even if he could get any decided change, provided he could have rest with it.

The husband and wife listened in silence, at the first moment not without a feeling of dismay. To go away for a change was utterly impossible, they put that thought from them at once. To stay at home in perfect rest, seemed almost impossible, too. They looked at one another in silence. What could be said?

"We will put it all out of our thoughts for to-day, love," said Mr Inglis, in his painful whisper, when they were left alone. "At least we will not speak of it to one another. We must not distrust His loving care of us, dear, even now."

They did not speak of it to one another, but each apart spoke of it to Him who hears no sorrowful cry of his children unmoved. He did not lift the cloud that gloomed so darkly over them. He did not by a sudden light from Heaven show them a way by which they were to be led out of the darkness, but in it He made them to feel His presence. "Fear not, for I am with thee. Be not dismayed, for I am thy G.o.d!" and lo! "the darkness was light about them!"

So when the boys came home the father's face said plainly what both heart and lip could also say, "It is all right." And the mother's said it, too, with a difference.

Of course, all that the doctors had said was not told to the children.

Indeed the father and mother did not speak much about it to each other for a good many days. Mr Inglis rested, and in a few days called himself nearly well again, and but for the doctor's absolute prohibition, would have betaken himself to his parish work as usual. It was not easy for him to submit to inactivity, for many reasons that need not be told, and when the first Sabbath of enforced silence came round, it found him in sore trouble, _knowing_, indeed, where to betake himself, but _feeling_ the refuge very far away.

That night he first spoke to David of the danger that threatened him.

They were sitting together in the twilight. The mother and the rest were down-stairs at the usual Sunday reading and singing, which the father had not felt quite able to bear, and now and then the sound of their voices came up to break the stillness that had fallen on these two. David had been reading, but the light had failed him, and he sat very quiet, thinking that his father had fallen asleep. But he had not.

"Davie," said he, at last, "what do you think is the very hardest duty that a soldier may be called to do?"

David was silent a minute, partly from surprise at the question, and partly because he had been thinking of all that his father had been suffering on that sorrowful silent day, and he was not quite sure whether he could find a voice to say anything. For at morning worship, the father had quite broken down, and the children had been awed and startled by the sight of his sudden tears. All day long David had thought about it, and sitting there beside him his heart had filled full of love and reverent sympathy, which he never could have spoken, even if it had come into his mind to try. But when his father asked him that question, he answered, after a little pause:

"Not the fighting, papa, and not the marching. I think perhaps the very hardest thing would be to stand aside and wait, while the battle is going on."

"Ay, lad! you are right there," said his father, with a sigh. "Though why you should look on it in that way, I do not quite see."

"I was thinking of you, papa," said David, very softly; and in a little he added: "This has been a very sad day to you, papa."

"And I have not been giving you a lesson of trust and cheerful obedience, I am afraid. Yes, this has been a sad, silent day, Davie, lad. But the worst is over. I trust the worst is over now."

David answered nothing to this, but came closer, and leaned over the arm of the sofa on which his father lay, and by and by his father said:

"My boy, it is a grand thing to be a soldier of Jesus Christ, willing and obedient. And whether it is marching or fighting, or only waiting, our Commander cannot make a mistake. It ought to content us to know that, Davie, lad."

"Yes, papa," said David.

"Yes," added his father, in a little. "It is a wonderful thing to belong to the great army of the Lord. There is nothing else worth a thought in comparison with that. It is to fight for Right against Wrong, for Christ and the souls of men, against the Devil--with the world for a battle ground, with weapons 'mighty through G.o.d to the pulling down of strongholds'--under a Leader Divine, invincible, and with victory sure. What is there beyond this? What is there besides?"

He was silent, but David said nothing, and in a little while he went on again:

"But we are poor creatures, Davie, for all that. We grow weary with our marching; turned aside from our chosen paths, we stumble and are dismayed, as though defeat had overtaken us; we sit athirst beside our broken cisterns, and sicken in prisons of our own making, believing ourselves forgotten. And all the time, our Leader, looking on, has patience with us--loves us even, holds us up, and leads us safe through all, and gives us the victory at the end. 'Thanks be to G.o.d who giveth us the victory!'" said Mr Inglis, and in a minute he repeated the words again.

Then he lay still for a long time, so long that it grew dark, except for the light of the new moon, and David, kneeling at the head of the sofa, never moved, thinking that his father slumbered now, or had forgotten him. But by and by he spoke again:

"When I was young, just beginning the conflict, I remember saying to myself, if G.o.d will give me twenty years in which to fight His battles, I will be content. The twenty years are almost over now. Ah! how little I have gained for Him from the enemy! Yet I may have to lay down my armour now, just as you are ready to put it on, Davie, my son."

"Papa! I am not worthy--" said David, with a sob.

"Worthy? No. It is a gift He will give you--as the crown and the palm of the worthiest will be His free gift at last. Not worthy, lad, but willing, I trust."

"Papa--I cannot tell. I am afraid--"

He drew nearer, kneeling still, and laid his face upon his father's shoulder.