"Well, no, I don't think he has; but he would have liked that one--about the Christian warfare, because we have been speaking about it lately."

And then he went on to tell about the reading on Sunday night, and about Hobab and all that had been said about the "good warfare" and "the whole armour," and how interested Frank had been. He told a little, too, about their conversation on the way to the station, and Mr Inglis could not but smile at their making "soldiers" of all the neighbours, and at their way of ill.u.s.trating the idea to themselves. By and by David added:

"I wish Frank had heard what you said to-day about victory. It would have come in so well after the talk about the 'soldiers' and fighting.

He would have liked to hear about the victory."

"Yes," said his father, gravely; "it is pleasanter to hear of the victory than the conflict, but the conflict must come first, Davie, my boy."

"Yes, papa, I know."

"And, my boy, the first step to becoming a 'soldier' is the enrolling of the name. And you know who said 'He that is not for me is against me.'

Think what it would be to be found on the other side on the day when even Death itself 'shall be swallowed up in victory.'"

David made no answer. It was not Mr Inglis's way to speak often in this manner to his children. He did not make every solemn circ.u.mstance in life the occasion for a personal lesson or warning to them, till they "had got used to it," as children say, and so heard it without heeding.

So David could not just listen to his father's words, and let them slip out of his mind again as words of course. He could not put them aside, nor could he say, as some boys might have said at such a time, that he wished to be a soldier of Christ and that he meant to try. For in his heart he was not sure that he wished to be a soldier of Christ in the sense his father meant, and though he had sometimes said to himself that he meant to be one, it was sometime in the future--a good while in the future, and he would have been mocking himself and his father, too, if he had told him that he longed to enrol his name. So he sat beside him without a word.

They had come by this time to the highest point of the road leading to Gourlay Centre, at least the highest point where the valley through which the Gourlay river flowed could be seen; and of his own accord old Don stood still to rest. He always did so at this point, and not altogether for his own pleasure, for Mr Inglis and David were hardly ever so pressed for time but that they were willing to linger a minute or two to look down on the valley and the hills beyond. The two villages could be seen, and the bridge, and a great many fine fields lying round the scattered farm-houses, and, beyond these, miles and miles of unbroken forest. David might travel through many lands and see no fairer landscape, but it did not please him to-night. There was no sunshine on it to-night, and he said to himself that it always needed sunshine. The grey clouds had gathered again, and lay in piled-up ma.s.ses veiling the west, and the November wind came sweeping over the hills cold and keen. Mr Inglis shivered, and wrapped his coat closely about him, and David touched Don impatiently. The drive had been rather a failure, he thought, and they might as well be getting home. But he had time for a good many troubled thoughts before they reached the bridge over the Gourlay.

"To enrol one's name." He had not done that, and that was the very first step towards becoming a soldier. "He that is not for me is against me." He did not like that at all. He would have liked to explain that so as to make it mean something else. He would have liked to make himself believe that there was some middle ground. "He that is not against me is for me." In one place it said that, and he liked it much better. He tried to persuade himself that he was not against Christ. No, certainly he was not against Him. But was he for Him in the sense his father meant--in the sense that his father was for Him, and his mother, and a good many others that came into his mind? Had he deliberately enrolled his name as one of the great army whom Christ would lead to victory?

But then how could he do this? He could not do it, he said to himself.

It was G.o.d's work to convert the soul, and had not his father said within the hour, "It is G.o.d that giveth the victory?" Had he not said that salvation was all of grace from beginning to end--that it was a gift--"G.o.d's gift." What more could be said?

But David knew in his heart that a great deal more could be said. He knew great as this gift was--full and free as it was, he had never asked for it--never really desired it. He desired to be saved from the consequences of sin, as who does not? but he did not long to be saved from sin itself and its power in the heart, as they must be whom G.o.d saves. He did not feel that he needed this. If he was not "for Christ"

in the sense his father and mother were for Him, still the thought came back--surely he was _not_ against Him; even though it might not be pleasant for him to think of giving up all for Christ--to "take up his cross and follow Him," still he was not "against Him."

Oh! if there only were some other way! If people could enlist in a real army, and march away to fight real battles, as men used to do in the times when they fought for the Cross and the possession of the holy Sepulchre! "Or, rather, as they seemed to be fighting for them," said David, with a sigh, for he knew that pride and envy and the l.u.s.t for power, too often reigned in the hearts of them who in those days had Christ's name and honour on their lips; and that the cause of the Cross was made the means to the winning of unworthy ends. Still, if one could only engage sincerely in some great cause with all their hearts, and labour and strive for it for Christ's sake, it would be an easier way, he thought.

Or if he could have lived in the times of persecution, or in the times when Christian men fought at once for civil and religious freedom! Oh!

that would have been grand! He would have sought no middle course then.

He would have fought, and suffered, and conquered like a hero in such days as those. Of course such days could never come back again, but if they could!

And then he let his mind wander away in dreams, as to how if such times ever were to come back again, he would be strong and wise, and courageous for the right--how he would stand by his father, and shield his mother, and be a defence and protection to all who were weak or afraid. Bad men should fear him, good men should honour--his name should be a watchword to those who were on the Lord's side.

It would never do to write down all the foolish thoughts that David had on his way home that afternoon. He knew that they were foolish, and worse than foolish, when he came out of them with a start as old Don made his accustomed little demonstration of energy and speed as they came to the little hill by the bridge, not far from home. He knew that they were foolish, and he could not help glancing up into his father's face with a little confusion, as if he had known his thoughts all the time.

"Are you tired, papa?--and cold?" asked he.

"I am a little cold. But here we are at home. It is always good to get home again."

"Yes," said David, springing down. "I am glad to get home."

He had a feeling of relief which he was not willing to acknowledge even to himself. He could put away troubled thoughts now. Indeed they went away of themselves without an effort, the moment Jem hailed him from the house. They came again, however, when the children being all in bed, and his father not come down from the study, his mother asked him about old Tim's funeral, and the people who were there, and what his father had said to them. He told her about it, and surprised her and himself too, by the clearness and accuracy with which he went over the whole address. He grew quite eager about it, and told her how the people listened, and how "you might have heard a pin fall" in the little pauses that came now and then. And when he had done, he said to her as he had said to his father:

"I wish Frank had been there to hear all that papa said about victory,"

and then, remembering how his father had answered him, his troubled thoughts came back again, and his face grew grave.

"But it was good for you to hear it, Davie," said his mother.

"Yes," said David, uneasily, thinking she was going to say more. But she did not, and he did not linger much longer down-stairs. He said he was tired and sleepy with his long drive in the cold, and he would go to bed. So carrying them with him, he went up-stairs, where Jem was sleeping quite too soundly to be wakened for a talk, and they stayed with him till he went to sleep, which was not for a long time. They were all gone in the morning, however. A night's sleep and a morning brilliant with sunshine are quite enough to put painful thoughts out of the mind of a boy of fourteen--for the time, at least, and David had no more trouble with his, till Miss Bethia Barnes, coming to visit them one afternoon, asked him about Mr Bent's funeral and the bearers and mourners, and about his father's text and sermon, and then they came back to him again.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Miss Bethia Barnes was a plain and rather peculiar single woman, a good deal past middle age, who lived by herself in a little house about half way between the two village's. She was generally called Aunt Bethia by the neighbours, but she had not gained the t.i.tle as some old ladies do, because of the general loving-kindness of their nature. She was a good woman and very useful, but she was not always very agreeable. To do just exactly right at all times, and in all circ.u.mstances, was the first wish of her heart; the second wish of her heart was, that everybody else should do so likewise, and she had fallen into the belief, that she was not only responsible for her own well-being and well-doing, but for that of all with whom she came in contact.

Of course it is right that each individual in a community should do what may be done to help all the rest to be good and happy. But people cannot be made good and happy against their own will, and Miss Bethia's advances in that direction were too often made in a way which first of all excited the opposition of the person she intended to benefit. This was almost always the case where the young people of the village were concerned. Those who had known her long and well, did not heed her plain and sharp speaking, because of her kindly intentions, and it was known besides that her sharpest words were generally forerunners of her kindest deeds. But the young people did not so readily take these things into consideration, and she was by no means a favourite with them.

So it is not surprising, that when she made her appearance one afternoon at the minister's house, David, who was there alone with little Mary, was not very well pleased to see her. Little Mary was pleased. Even Aunt Bethia had only sweet words for the pet and baby; and happily the child's pretty welcome, and then her delight over the little cake of maple sugar that Miss Bethia had brought her, occupied that lady's attention till David had time to smooth his face again. It helped him a little to think that his father and mother being away from home, their visitor might not stay long. He was mistaken, however.

"I heard your father and mother had gone over to Mrs Spry's; but I had made my calculations for a visit here just now, and I thought I'd come.

They'll be coming home to-night, I expect?" added she, as she untied her bonnet, and prepared herself to enjoy her visit.

"Yes," said David, hesitating. "They are coming home to-night--I think."

He spoke rather doubtfully. He knew they had intended to come home, but it seemed to him just as if something would certainly happen to detain them if Miss Bethia were to stay. And besides it came into his mind that if she doubted about the time of their return, she would go and visit somewhere else in the village, and come back another time. That would be a much better plan, he thought, with a rueful glance at the book he had intended to enjoy all the afternoon. But Miss Bethia had quite other thoughts.

"Well, it can't be helped. They'll be home to-morrow if they don't come to-night; and I can have a visit with you and Violet. I shall admire to!" said Miss Bethia, rea.s.suringly, as a doubtful look pa.s.sed over David's face.

"Violet is at school," said he, "and all the rest."

"Best place for them," said Miss Bethia. "Where is Debby?"

"She has gone home for a day or two. Her sister is sick."

"She is coming back, is she? I heard your mother was going to try and get along without her this winter. That won't pay. 'Penny wise and pound foolish' that would be," said Miss Bethia.

David said nothing to this.

"Better pay Debby Stone, and board her, too, than pay the doctor.

Ambition ain't strength. Home-work, and sewing-machine, and parish visiting--that's burning the candle at both ends. That don't _ever_ pay."

"Mamma knows best what to do," said David, with some offence in his voice.

"She knows better than you, I presume," said the visitor. "Ah! yes.

She knows well enough what is best. But the trouble is, folks can't always do what they know is best. We've got to do the best we can in _this_ world--and there's none of us too wise to make mistakes, at that.

She got the washing done and the clothes sprinkled before she went, did she? Pretty well for Debby, so early in the week. Letty ought to calculate to do this ironing for her mother. Hadn't you better put on the flats and have them ready by the time she gets home from school?"

"Mamma said nothing about it," said David.

"No, it ain't likely. But that makes no difference. Letty ought to know without being told. Put the flats on to heat, and I'll make a beginning. We'll have just as good a visit."

David laughed. He could not help it. "A good visit," said he to himself. Aloud he said something about its being too much trouble for Miss Bethia.

"Trouble for a friend is the best kind of pleasure," said she. "And don't you worry. Your mother's clothes will bear to be looked at.

Patches ain't a sin these days, but the contrary. Step a little spryer, can't you! We can visit all the same."