"And how did it all end with Mr Strong?" asked Frank, much interested.

"Oh, it isn't ended yet," said David. "Mr Strong is fighting against his bad temper as hard as ever. It has ended as far as his trouble with his neighbours is concerned. He made them see there is something in religion more than they thought, as Job Steele said, and there is no more trouble among them. But the old man must have had some pretty hard battles with himself, before it came to that."

"And so old Mr Strong is a soldier, anyway," said Frank.

"Yes, and a conqueror," said Jem. "Don't you remember, 'He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.'"

"Yes," said David, thoughtfully. "Mr Strong is a soldier, and, Frank, he is fighting the very same battle that papa is fighting--for the honour of Christ. It is that they are all fighting for in one way or other. It is that that makes it warring a good warfare, you know."

"No," said Frank, "I am afraid I don't know much about it. Tell me, Davie."

"Oh, I don't pretend to know much about it, either," said David, with a look at Jem. But Jem shrugged his shoulders.

"You should have asked papa," said he.

"Go ahead, Davie," said Frank.

"Well," said David, with some hesitation, "it is supposed that all Christians are like their masters--more or less. He was 'holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners;' and that is not an easy thing for any man or boy to be, and so all have to fight with themselves, and the world--"

"And with the devil," said Jem. "The princ.i.p.alities and powers, you know."

"I suppose so, but we don't know much about that, only the end of it all is that they may become like Christ--so that they may make Him known to the world."

"I've heard papa speak about it," said Jem.

"Yes, it is one of papa's favourite themes. I have often heard him,"

said David.

And then they went back to the discussion of old Mr Strong again, and then of others; and there was scarcely one of their acquaintances but they discussed in the new character of a soldier. Sometimes they went quite away from the subject, and sometimes they said very foolish things. It is not to be supposed that boys like them would judge very justly, or discuss very charitably the character of people with the outside of whose lives they were alone acquainted, and besides, as David at last gravely acknowledged they could not understand all that was implied in "warring a good warfare," not being soldiers themselves.

There was silence for a good while after this, and then they went on again, saying a good many things that could hardly be called wise; but the conclusion to which they came was right and true in the main. It was against 'the world, the flesh, and the devil' that Christians were to fight, and victory meant to become like Christ, and to win over others to be like him, too. That was victory here, and afterwards there would be glory, and the crown of righteousness that Paul spoke about, in Heaven. They were all very grave by the time they got thus far.

"Nothing else in the world seems worth while in comparison, when one really thinks about it," said David.

"The only wonder is that there are not more soldiers, and that they are not more in earnest," said Frank.

"All may be soldiers of Christ Jesus," said David, softly.

"Even boys?" said Frank.

"Papa says so. Boys like you and me and Jem. Papa was a soldier in the army of the Lord, long before he was my age. He told me all about it one day," said David, with a break in his voice. "And he said the sooner we enlist the better 'soldiers' we would be, and the more we would accomplish for Him."

"Yes," said Frank, "if one only knew the way."

"It is all in the Bible, Frank," said David.

"Yes, I suppose so. It is a wonder you have not become a 'soldier' long ago, David. How glad your mother would be. It is the _only_ thing, she thinks."

All this last was said while Jem had gone to ask at a farm-house door whether they had not taken the wrong turning up above, and nothing more was said when he came back. Indeed, there was not time. The next turn brought the station in sight, and they saw the train and heard the whistle, and had only time for hurried good-byes before Frank took his place. Jem and Davie stood for a little while looking after the train that bore their friend away so rapidly, and then they turned rather disconsolately to retrace their steps over the muddy roads in the direction of home.

CHAPTER THREE.

If any one had suddenly asked David Inglis to tell him what had been the very happiest moments during all the fourteen happy years of his life, he would probably have gone back in thought to the day, when on the banks of a clear stream among the hills, his very first success as a fisherman had come to him. Or the remembrance of certain signal triumphs on the cricket ground, or at base-ball, might have come to his mind. But that would only have been in answer to a sudden question. If he had had time to think, he would have said, and truly too, that the very happiest hours of all his life had been pa.s.sed in their old wagon at his father's side.

So when he found, next day, that instead of sitting down to his lessons in a corner of the study, he was to drive his father over to the Ba.s.s Neighbourhood, to attend old Mr Bent's funeral, you may be sure he was well pleased. Not that he objected to books as a general thing, or that any part of his pleasure rose out of a good chance to shirk his daily lessons. Quite the contrary. Books and lessons were by no means ignored between him and his father at such times. Almost oftener than anything else, books and lessons came into their discussions. But a lesson from a printed page, not very well understood, and learned on compulsion, is one thing, and seldom a pleasant thing to any one concerned. But lessons explained and ill.u.s.trated by his father as they went slowly through fields and woods together, were very pleasant matters to David. Even the Latin Grammar, over whose tedious pages so many boys have yawned and trifled from generation to generation, even declensions and conjugations, and rules of Syntax, and other matters which, as a general thing, are such hopeless mysteries to boys of nine or ten, were made matters of interest to David when his father took them in hand.

And when it came to other subjects--subjects to be examined and ill.u.s.trated by means of the natural objects around them--the rocks and stones, the gra.s.s and flowers and trees--the worms that creep, and the birds that fly--the treasures of the earth beneath, and the wonders of the heavens above, there was no thought of lesson or labour then. It was pure pleasure to David, and to his father, too. Yes, David was a very happy boy at such times, and knew it--a circ.u.mstance which does not always accompany to a boy, the possession of such opportunities and advantages. For David firmly believed in his father as one of the best and wisest of living men. This may have been a mistake on his part, but, if so, his father being, what he was--a good man and true--it was a mistake which did him no harm but good, and it was a mistake which has never been set right to David.

So that day was a day to be marked with a white stone. Don got a more energetic rubbing down, and an additional measure of oats, on the strength of the pleasant prospect, for David was groom, and gardener, and errand boy, and whatever else his mother needed him to be when his younger brothers were at school, and all the arrangements about his father's going away might be safely trusted to him.

It was a beautiful day. The only traces that remained of the premature winter that had threatened them on Sunday night, were the long stretches of snow that lingered under the shadows of the wayside trees and fences, and lay in patches in the hollows of the broken pastures. The leafless landscape, so dreary under falling rain or leaden skies, shone and sparkled under sunshine so warm and bright, that David thought the day as fine as a day could be, and gave no regrets to the faded glories of summer. They set out early, for though the day was fine, the roads were not, and even with the best of roads, old Don took his frequent journeys in a leisurely and dignified manner, which neither the minister nor David cared to interfere with unless they were pressed for time.

They were not to go to the house where old Tim had died, for that was on another road, and farther away than the red school-house where the funeral services were to be held, but the school-house was full seven miles from home, and they would need nearly two full hours for the journey.

David soon found that these hours must be pa.s.sed in silence. His father was occupied with his own thoughts, and by many signs which his son had learned to interpret, it was evident that he was thinking over what he was going to say to the people that day, and not a word was spoken till they came in sight of the school-house. On both sides of the road along the fences, many horses and wagons were fastened, and a great many people were standing in groups about the door.

"There will be a great crowd to hear you to-day, papa," said David, as they drew near.

"Yes," said his father. "G.o.d give me a word to speak to some poor soul to-day."

He went in and the people flocked in after him, and when David, having tied old Don to his place by the fence, went in also, it was all that he could do to find standing-room for a while, there were so many there.

The plain coffin, without pall or covering, was placed before the desk upon a table, and seated near to it were the few relatives of the dead.

Next to them were a number of very old people some of whom could look back over all old Tim's life, then the friends and neighbours generally, all very grave and attentive as Mr Inglis rose to speak. There were some there who probably had not heard the Gospel preached for years, some who, except on such an occasion, had not for all that time, heard the Bible read or a prayer offered.

"No wonder that papa wishes to have just the right word to say to them,"

thought David, as he looked round on them all.

And he had just the right word for them, and for David, too, and for all the world. For he set before them "The glorious Gospel of the blessed G.o.d." He said little of the dead, only that he was a sinner saved by grace; and then he set forth the glory of that wondrous grace to the living. "Victory through our Lord Jesus Christ" was his theme--victory over sin, the world, death. The Gospel of Christ full, free, sufficient, was clearly set before the people that day.

David listened, as he was rather apt to listen to his father's sermons, not for himself but for others. He heard all that was said, and laid it up in his mind, that he might be able to tell it to his mother at home, as she generally expected him to do; but, at the same time, he was thinking how all that his father was saying would seem to this or the other man or woman in the congregation who did not often hear his voice.

There was less wonder that he should do that to-day because there were a great many strangers there, and for the most part they were listening attentively. In the little pauses that came now and then, "you might have heard a pin fall," David said afterwards to his mother, and the boy felt proud that his father should speak so well, and that all the people should be compelled, as it were, to listen so earnestly. This was only for a minute, however. He was ashamed of the thought almost immediately. For what did it matter whether the people thought well of his father or not? And then he tried to make himself believe that he was only glad for their sakes, that, listening so attentively to truths so important, they might get good. And then he thought what a grand thing it would be, and how happy it would make his father, if from this very day some of these careless people should begin a new life, and if the old school-house should be crowded every Sunday to hear his words.

But it never came into his mind until the very end, that all that his father was saying was just as much for him as for any one there.

All through the sermon ran the idea of the Christian life being a warfare, and the Christian a soldier, fighting under a Divine Leader; and when, at the close, he spoke of the victory, how certain it was, how complete, how satisfying beyond all that heart of man could conceive, David forgot to wonder what all the people might be thinking, so grand and wonderful it seemed. So when a word or two was added about the utter loss and ruin that must overtake all who were not on the side of the Divine Leader, in the great army which He led, it touched him, too.

It was like a nail fastened in a sure place. It could not be pushed aside, or shaken off, as had happened so many times when fitting words had been spoken in his hearing before. They were for him, too, as well as for the rest--more than for the rest, he said to himself, and they would not be put away.

As was the custom in these country places at that time, there was a long pause after the sermon was over. The coffin was opened, and one after another went up and looked on the face of the dead, and it seemed to David that they would never be done with it, and he rose at last and went out of doors to wait for his father there. It was but a few steps to the grave-yard, and the people stood only a minute or two round the open grave. Then there was a prayer offered, and poor old Tim was left to his rest.

"'Poor old Tim,' no longer," said David to himself, when they were fairly started on their homeward way again. "Happy Tim, I ought to say.

I wonder what he is doing now! He is one of 'the spirits of just men made perfect' by this time. I wonder how it seems to him up there,"

said David, looking far up into the blue above him. "It does seem past belief. I can't think of him but as a lame old man with a crutch, and there he is, up among the best of them, singing with a will, as he used to sing here, only with no drawbacks. It _is_ wonderful. Think of old Tim singing with John, and Paul, and with King David himself. It is queer to think of it!"

He had a good while to think of it, for his father was silent and preoccupied still. It had often happened before, that his father being busy with his own thoughts, David had to be content with silence, and with such amus.e.m.e.nt as he could get from the sights and sounds about him, and he had never found that very hard. But he had not been so much with him of late because of Frank's visit, and he had so looked forward to the enjoyment he was to have to-day, that he could not help feeling a little aggrieved when half their way home had been accomplished without a word.

"Papa," said he, at last, "I wish Frank had been here to-day--to hear your sermon, I mean."

"I did not know that Frank had an especial taste for sermons," said his father, smiling.