"And, now, when he and Davie are such friends," went on Jem, who did not know when he had said enough. "I think if Davie approves of him, that ought to be enough for Violet."

"Quite enough, I acknowledge, Jem," said Violet. "I wonder where Davie has gone;" and she rose and went to the door as if to see.

She did not find him, if she looked for him, for David and Philip, after walking up and down the railway track for some time, went down to David's favourite seat on the stones of the abutment of the bridge close by the water. They were silent for some time after they went there.

David sat gazing at the bright clouds that lingered after the sunset, while his friend moved up and down and flung stones into the water. By and by he sat down by David's side, saying--

"And so I am all at sea again."

"I don't see why you should be 'at sea again,' as you call it," said David. "Mr Caldwell's offer was made without any reference to me, and my refusal can make no real difference."

"It will make all the difference in the world to me."

"Philip, promise me one thing. Don't decide till your father comes and Frank. I don't know when I was so glad. See how pleased your father will be."

"Nonsense, Davie! It is no such great thing as all that--a partnership with old Caldwell."

"Hear what your father will say. I can't say how fine a thing it will be to be his partner, but your father will think it a high compliment that he should have wished it. It will be good for you--and for him too. I don't know which I congratulate most."

David was growing enthusiastic.

"It would do, I think, if you were coming with us. A clerkship now, and a partnership afterwards. There is no hope of making you change your mind, Davie?"

"Would you wish me to change my mind, Philip?" said David laying his arm over his friend's shoulder, in a way that would have satisfied Violet of his interest and affection.

"I don't know. I am not sure. I don't understand it."

"Yes, you do, Philip--or you will sometime. I mean, you will understand why this should be the best thing for me to do. You cannot quite understand all I feel about it, because you never knew my father."

"Tell me about him," said Philip.

"It is not what I could tell you that would make you understand. But-- we speak about aspirations and ambitions, Philip; but if I had my choice what I should do, or what I should be, I should choose the life, and work, and character of my father."

David's voice faltered.

"Since when has that been your choice?" asked Philip.

"Always! I mean, always since he died. And, before that, he was my ideal of wisdom and goodness, though I did not particularly wish or try to be like him then?"

"And it was his wish that you should choose his profession, and live his life, and do his work?"

"He wished it,--yes. And now I wish it, not merely because of his wish, but because--I love my Lord and Master, and because I wish to honour Him as His soldier and servant--"

David did not find it easy to say all this to Philip, and there was silence for a minute or two.

"But haven't you been losing time?" said Philip.

"No. Mamma does not think so. Time should try a decision so important, she thinks. I am young yet, and I have been keeping up my reading pretty well. And, besides, she thinks the care, and the steady work, and our life altogether,--having to manage with just enough, you know,-- has been good discipline for me, and a sort of preparation."

"I see! And when is the other sort of preparation to begin?"

"I don't know. The way will open, mamma always says. When we came here first, mamma and Violet meant to keep a school; but, after Violet went to teach your sisters, we could get on without it, and it was so much better for us to have mamma all to ourselves. She may think of it again, and Violet is better able to help her now."

"It is a slave's life."

"No; I don't think mamma objects to it on that ground. But there is no haste about it. I always remember what mamma said to me once--'If your master has a special work for you to do, He will provide the means for special preparation.'"

"What a wonderful woman your mother is!" said Philip.

David laughed, such a happy laugh.

"Is she? She does not think so."

"I wonder if she would be on my side if I were to tell her all about old Caldwell's plans, and how much good you could do with us--and a future partnership, and all that. Why, Davie, you might, when you are a rich man, educate any number of ministers. Wouldn't that do as well as to be one yourself?"

"That will be something for you to do. No; I don't think mamma would be on your side."

"But you are her bread-winner, as I have heard her say. How can she spare you?"

"And I shall always be so while she needs me. I can wait a long time patiently, I think. But I cannot give it up now. It would be 'looking back,' after putting my hand to the plough."

They were silent for a good while, and then Philip said:

"Tell me about your father."

David doubted whether he had anything new to tell, for, as they had come to care more for each other's company, he had often spoken to Philip of his father. But if he had nothing new to tell, he told it all over in a new way--a way that made Philip wonder. He told him all that I have told you, and more,--of his father's life and work--how wise and strong he was--how loving and beloved. He told him of his love for his Master, of his zeal for His service. He told him of his own lessons with him, of how he used to go with him to the North Gore and other places, and of what he used to say, and how happy the days used to be. He told him of his last days, and how, when it came to the end, he was so joyful for himself and so little afraid for them, though he was going to leave them alone and poor--how sure he was that G.o.d would care for them and keep them safe until they all should meet again. Sometimes he spoke with breaking voice, and sometimes, though it had grown dark by this time, Philip could see that his cheeks flushed and his eyes shone as he went on, till he came to the very last, and then he said:

"He told me then, at the very last--even after he had spoken about mamma, that I was to take up the armour that he was laying down. And, G.o.d helping me, so I will," said David, with a sob, laying down his face, to hide his tears, on the shoulder of his friend. But, in a little, he raised it again, and said, quietly:

"I couldn't go back after that, Philip."

"No," said Philip; and he said nothing more for a long time, nor did David. Philip spoke first:

"And so it must be 'Good-bye,' Davie?"

"Good-bye?" repeated David. "I don't understand?"

"You are to take one way and I another; so we part company."

David was silent from astonishment.

"As our fathers did," said Philip. "They were friends once, as we are, Davie, but their paths divided, as ours must, I fear."

"It need not be so."

"It is curious to think of it," went on Philip. "If my father were to die to-night, he would leave his children as poor as your father left his when he died. Not that it would matter; but then my father has lost his whole life, too. No, Davie, I fear the end will be that we must go different ways."

"Dear Philip," said David, standing before him, and speaking with much earnestness, "there is only one thing that can separate us--your serving one master and I another; and that need not be. Your work may be as much for Him as mine. Philip, dear friend--is He your Lord and Master, as He is mine?"