CHAPTERIII.Itwas a beautiful morning in spring, with blue sky, living air, springing grass, and singing bird; but William Thorburn had not left his house that morning, and the door was shut.Mrs. Fergusson trod the wooden stair that led to the flat above his with slow and cautious step; and as she met her boy running down whistling, she said, “What d’ye mean, Jamie, wi’ that noise? Do ye no’ ken wee Davie is dead? Ye should hae mair feeling, laddie!”The Corporal, whose door was half open, crept out, and in an under-breath beckoned Mrs. Fergusson to speak to him. “Do you know how they are?” he asked in a low voice.“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I sat up wi’ Mrs. Thorburn half the night, and left Davie sleeping, and never thocht it would come to this. My heart is sair for them. But since it happened the door has been barred, and no one has been in. I somehow dinna like to intrude, for, nae doot, they will be in an awfu’ way aboot that bairn.”“I don’t wonder—I don’t wonder!” remarked the Corporal meditatively; “I did not believe I could feel as I do. I don’t understand it. Here am I, who have seen men killed by my side. I have seen a single shot cut down half our company.”“Is it possible?”“It is certain,” said the Corporal; “and I have charged at Pampeluna—it was there I was wounded—over dead and dying comrades, yet, will you believe me? I never shed a tear—never; but there was something in that Captain—I mean the boy”—and the Corporal took out his snuff-box, and snuffed vehemently. “And what a brave fellow his father is! I never thought I could love a Radical; but he was not what you call a Radical; he was—I don’t know what else, but he is a man, an out-and-out man, every inch of him; I’ll say that for him—a man is William Thorburn! Have you not seen his wife?”“No, poor body! It was six o’clock when she ran up to me, no’ distracted either, but awfu’ quiet like, and wakened me up, and just said, ‘He is awa’;’ and then afore I could speak she ran doon the stair, and steekit the door; and she has such a keen speerit, I dinna like to gang to bother her. My heart is sair for her.”They both were silent, as if listening for some sound in William Thorburn’s house, but all was still as the grave.The first who entered it was old David Armstrong and his wife. They found Jeanie busy about her house, and William sitting on a chair, staring into the fire, dressed with more than usual care. The curtains of the bed were up. It was covered with a pure white sheet, and something lay upon it which they knew.Jeanie came forward, and took the hand of father and mother, without a tear on her face, and said quietly, “Come ben,” as she gave her father a chair beside her husband, and led her mother into an inner room, closing the door. What was spoken there between them I know not.William rose to receive old David, and said, “It was a fine spring day.” David gave a warm squeeze to his hand, and sat down. He rose and went to the bed. William followed him, and took the cloth off the boy’s face in silence. They both gazed on it. The face was unchanged, as in sleep. The flaxen curls seemed to have been carefully arranged, for they escaped from under the white cap, and clustered like golden wreaths around the silvery forehead and cheeks. William covered up the face, and both returned to their seats by the fireside.“I never lost ane since my ain wee Davie dee’d, and yours, Willie, was dear to me as my ain,” exclaimed the old man, and then broke down, and sobbed like a child.William never moved, though his great chest seemed to heave; but he seized the poker and began to arrange the fire, and then was still as before. By-and-by, the door of the inner room opened, and Jeanie and her mother appeared, both of them composed and serene. The same scene was repeated as they passed the bed. Mrs. Armstrong seated herself beside her husband, and Jeanie placed a large Bible on the table, and, pointing to it, said, “Father,” and then drew her chair near the smith.Illustration: William never movedWilliam never moved, though his great chest seemed to heave.David Armstrong put on his spectacles, opened the Bible, and selecting a portion of Scripture, reverently said, “Let us read the Word of God.” The house was quiet. No business on that day intruded itself upon their minds. It was difficult for any of them to speak, but they were ready to hear. The passages which old David selected for reading were 2 Samuel xii. 15-23, Matthew ix. 18-26, and John xi. 1-44. Having closed the book, he said, with a trembling but solemn voice, “God, who doeth all things according to the counsel of His own will, has been pleased to send us a heavy affliction. ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away!’ May He enable us to say at all times, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ For whether He gives or takes away, He is always the same in love and mercy. If He takes away, it is but to give something better, for He afflicts us to make us partakers of His holiness. Our wee one is not dead; he only sleepeth.” Here David paused, but recovering himself, said, “Yes, his body sleepeth in Jesus till the resurrection morning. He himself is with Christ. He is alive, in his Father’s bosom. Oh, it is strange to think o’t, and hard to believe! but, blessed be God! it’s true, that—that—Jesus Christ, who sees us, sees him, and sees us thegither, ay, enoo!—” continued David thoughtfully, like one pondering on a new truth; “this very minute we are all in His sight! Oh, it’s grand and comforting; our wee Davie is in the arms of Jesus Christ!” A solemn silence ensued. “The bonnie bairn will never return to us, but we shall go to him, and some o’ us ere lang, I hope. Let us pray.” And they all knelt down, and a true prayer, from a true heart, was spoken, from suffering parents, to Him “of whomthe whole familyin heaven and earth is named.”To David’s surprise and great satisfaction, he heard William utter Amen to his prayer, which included honest confession of sin; expressions of thankfulness for mercies, enumerating very many mercies, among others, the great gift of their child, thus taken away, with thanks for all he had been, and for all he then was; with trustful petitions for grace to help them in their time of need.That afternoon Dr. M‘Gavin called, and manifested quiet, unobtrusive, but most touching sympathy. His very silence was eloquent affection.“I’m proud to meet wi’ you, sir,” said old Armstrong, after the Doctor had been seated for a while. “Although I’m no’ o’ your kirk, yet we’re baith o’ ae Kirk for a’ that.”“With one Father, one Brother, one Spirit, one life, one love, one hope!” replied the Doctor.“True, sir, true, sir, our differences are nothing to our agreements, Doctor.”“Our non-essential differences arise out of our essential union, Mr. Armstrong. If we differ honestly and conscientiously as brethren, I hope it is because we differ only in judgment as to how to please our Father, and our Eldest Brother. Our hearts are one in our wish to do Their will. For none of us liveth, or dieth even, to himself.”“Ay, ay, Doctor. So it is, so it is! as the auld saying has’t, ‘The best men are but men at the best.’ We maun carry ane another’s burdens; and ignorance, or even bigotry, is the heaviest ony man can carry for his neebour. Thank God, brighter and better times are coming! We here see through a glass darkly; but then face to face. We know only in pairt; then shall we know even as we are known. We must be faithful to our given light, and serve Him, and not man.”“There are differences among living men,” replied the Doctor, “but none among the dead. We shall only agree perfectly when we know and love as saints, without error and without sin.”“I mind,” said David, warming with the conversation, and the pleasure of getting his better heart out—“I mind two neighbours of mine, and ye’ll mind them too, gudewife? that was Johnnie Morton and auld Andrew Gebbie. The tane was a keen Burgher, and the tother an Antiburgher. Baith lived in the same house, though at different ends, and it was the bargain that each should keep his ain side o’ the house aye weel thatched. But they happened to dispute so desperate about the principles o’ their kirks, that at last they quarrelled, and didna speak. So ae day after this, as they were on the roof thatching, each on his ain side, they reached the tap, and sae looking ower, face met face. What could they do? They couldna flee. So at last Andrew took aff his Kilmarnock cap, and, scratching his head, said, ‘Johnnie, you and me, I think, have been very foolish to dispute as we hae done as to Christ’s will aboot our kirks, till we hae forgot His will aboot ourselves; and so we hae fought sae keen for what we ca’ the truth that it has ended in brither fechting against brither. Whatever’s wrang, this canna be richt, if we dinna love. Noo, it strikes me that maybe it’s wi’ the Kirk as wi’ this hoose: ye’re working on ae side and me on the other, but if we only do our wark weel, we wull meet at the tap at last. Gie’s your han’!’ And so they shook han’s, and were the best o’ freens ever after.”“Thank you, Mr. Armstrong, for the story,” said the Doctor. Then looking to the bed, he remarked, “Oh, if we were only simple, true, and loving, like little children, would we not, like that dear one, enter the kingdom of heaven, and know and love all who were in it, or on their way to it?”“I’m glad I have met you, Doctor,” resumed the old elder. “It does ane’s heart good to meet a brother who has been a stranger. But if it hadna been for his death noo, we might never have met. Isna that queer? God’s ways are no’ our ways.”“God brings life out of death,” replied the Doctor, “and in many ways does He ordain praise from babes and sucklings, whether living or dead.” Was not “wee Davie” a home missionary to the dissenting elder and Established Church minister? “And now,” continued the Doctor, “with your permission, good friends, I will read a short psalm and offer up a short prayer before I go.”They thanked him, and he read the 23rd Psalm. His only remark was, as he closed the Bible, “The Good Shepherd has been pleased to take this dear lamb into His fold, never more to leave it.”“And may the lamb be the means of making the auld sheep to follow!” added the elder.When the prayer was over, Jeanie, who had hardly spoken a word, said, without looking at the Doctor, “Oh, sir, God didna hear our prayer for my bairn!”“Dinna speak that way, Jeanie woman!” said old David softly, yet firmly.“I canna help it, father; I maun get oot my thochts that are burning at my heart. The minister maun forgie me,” replied Jeanie.“Surely, Mrs. Thorburn,” said the Doctor; “and it would be a great satisfaction to me if I could, from what God has taught me from His Word, and from my experience of sorrow, be able to solve any difficulty, or help you to acquiesce in God’s dealings with you; not because youmust,but because yououghtto submit; not because God haspower, and therefore does as He pleases, but because He is Love, and therefore pleases always to do what is right.”“But, oh, He didna hear our prayer; that’s my battle! We were maybe wrang in asking what was against His wull.”“Not in the way, perhaps, in which you expected, Mrs. Thorburn; yet every true prayer is verily heard and answered by Him. But He is too good, too wise, too loving, to give us always literally what we ask; if so, He would often be very cruel, andthatHe can never be. You would not give your child a serpent, if in his assurance he asked one, mistaking it for a fish; nor would you give him a stone for bread?”The Doctor paused.“When Nathan, the Lord’s prophet, telt King David that his child must die,” said Armstrong, “yet David even then prayed to the Lord to spare his life, and I dinna doot that his Father in heaven was pleased wi’ his freedom and faith.”“Right,” continued the Doctor, “for I am sure we cannot trust Him too much, or open our human hearts to Him too freely; let us always remember, too, that when God refuses what we ask, He gives us something better—yea, far more than we can ask or think. He gave your dear child for a time; and if He has taken him away, can you, for example, tell the evil, the misery, which may have been prevented? How many parents would give worlds that their children had died in infancy! And you could not wish for more than your child’s good, and so God has thus far literally heard that prayer. He has done so by taking your child to Himself. Your precious jewel is not lost, but is in God’s treasury, where no thief can break through and steal;thatis surely something.”“Oh yes, sir, it is!” said Jeanie; “but yet it’s an awfu’ blank! Ilka thing in the world seems different.”“I’m jist thinking, Jeanie,” said Mrs. Armstrong, “that it’s a comfort ye ever pit yer een on Davie, for there’s puir Mrs. Blair—John Blair’s blin’ wife, ye ken—when she lost her callant, May was a year, she cam’ to me in an awfu’ way aboot it, and what vexed her sae muckle was, that she never had seen his wee face, and that she could only touch and han’le him, and hear him greet.”“Puir body,” remarked Jeanie, “it was a sair misfortun’ for ony mither that—an’ yet—But I’ll no’ think aboot it; ilk ane has their ain burden to carry. Noo, minister, let me speir at you, sir: Will I never see my bairn again? and if I see him, will I no’ ken him?”“You might as well ask whether you could see and know your child if he had gone to a foreign country instead of to heaven,” replied the Doctor. “Alas! if we did not know our beloved friends in heaven, earth in some respects would be dearer to our hearts! But then, ignorance is not possible in such a place of light and love.”“It wadna be rational to think so,” remarked William, speaking for the first time, though he had been listening with great interest to the Doctor.“But,” continued Jeanie, with quiet earnestness, “will our bairn aye be a bairn, Doctor? Oh, I hope so!”“Dinna try, Jeanie dear,” said David, “to be wise aboon what is written.”The Doctor smiled, and asked, “If your child had lived, think you would you have rejoiced had he always continued to be a child and never grown or advanced? and are you a loss or a gain to your father and mother, because you have grown in mind and knowledge since you were an infant?”“I never thocht o’ that,” said Jeanie thoughtfully.“Be assured,” continued the Doctor, “there will be no such abortions there as infants in intellect and sense for ever. All will be perfect and complete, according to the plan of God, who made us for fellowship with Himself and all His blissful family. Your darling has gone to a noble school, and will be taught and trained there for immortality by Him who was Himself a child, and who knows a mother’s love and a mother’s sorrow; and you too, parents, if you believe in Christ, and hold fast your confidence in Him, and become to Him as little children, will be made fit to enter the same society; and thus you and your boy, though never, perhaps, forgetting your old relationship on earth, will be fit companions for one another for ever and ever. Depend upon it, you will both know and love each other there better than you ever could have done here.”“My wee pet!” murmured Jeanie, as the tears began to flow from a softened, because happier, heart.William hid his face in his hands. After a while, he broke silence and said, “These thoughts of heaven are new to me. But common sense tells me they maun be true. Heaven does not seem to me noo to be the same strange place it used to be. My loss is not so complete as I once thought it was. Neither we nor our bairn have lived in vain.”“Surely not,” said the Doctor—“‘Better to have loved and lost,Than never to have loved at all!’You have contributed one citizen to the heavenly Jerusalem; one member to the family above; one happy spirit to add his voice to the anthem before the throne of God!”“Lord, help our unbelief!” said Mr. Armstrong; “for the mair I think o’ the things which I believe, the mair they seem to me owre gude news to be true!”“The disciples, when they first saw Christ after His resurrection,” said the Doctor, “did not believe from very joy.”“We think owre muckle o’ our ain folk, Doctor, and owre little o’ Him. But it’s a comfort that He’s kent and loved as He ought to be by them. I thank Him, alang wi’ them that’s awa’, for all He is and gies to them noo.”“And for all He is and does, and will ever be and do, to every man who trusts Him,” added the Doctor; “our friends would be grieved, if grief were possible to them now, did they think our memory of them made us forget Him, or that our love to them made us love Him less. Surely, if they know what we are doing, they would rejoice if they also knew that, along with themselves, we too rejoiced in their God and our God. What child in heaven but would be glad to know that its parents joined with it in the prayer of ‘OurFather’?”“If wee Davie could preach to us, I dare say, sir, that micht be his text.”“Though dead, he yet speaks,” replied the Doctor.Yes, the boy was yet a home missionary, drawing the hearts of that household to God.The Doctor rose to depart. “By-the-bye,” he said, “let me repeat a verse or two to you, Thorburn, from a poem which I am sure you will like. It expresses the thoughts of a parent about his dead girl, and which have already in part been poorly expressed by me when your wife asked me if she would know her boy:—‘She is not dead—the child of our affection,But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ Himself doth rule.‘In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,She lives, whom we call dead.‘Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child;‘But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,Clothed with celestial grace,And beautiful with all the soul’s expansionShall we behold her face.’”“Thank ye, sir, thank ye,” said Thorburn; “and ye’ll no’ be offended if I ax ye to gie me a grip o’ yer han’.” And the smith laid hold of the Doctor’s proffered hand, so small and white, with his own hand, so large and powerful—“God reward ye, sir, for we canna! And noo, Doctor,” the smith continued, “I maun oot wi’t! Since ye hae been so kind as gie us that fine bit o’ English poetry, I canna help gieing you a bit o’ Scotch, for Scotch poetry has been a favourite reading o’ mine, and there’s a verse that has been dirling a’ day in my heart. This is it:—‘It’s dowie at the hint o’ hairst,At the wa’-gang o’ the swallow,When the winds blaw cauld,And the burns run bauld,And the wuds are hanging yellow;But oh! it’s dowier far to seeThe wa’-gang o’ ane the heart gangs wi’,The dead set o’ a shining e’e,That closes the weary warld on thee!’Fareweel, sir! I’ll expect ye the morn at two, if convenient,” the smith whispered to the Doctor as he opened the door to him.“I’ll be sure to come,” he replied. “Thank you for those verses; and think for your good about all I have said.”That evening, there was a comfortable tea prepared by Jeanie for her friends, and the Corporal was one of the party. Had a stranger dropped in upon them, he would not have supposed that there was sorrow in the house. There is a merciful reaction to strong feeling. The highest waves, when they dash against the rock, flow farthest back, and scatter themselves in their rebound into sparkling foam and airy bubbles. The Corporal told some of his old stories of weariness and famine, of wounds and sufferings, and marches over the fields of Spain from victory to victory. Old Armstrong could match these only by Covenanter tales fromThe Scots Worthies, of battles long ago, but was astonished to find the Corporal a staunch Episcopalian, who had no sympathy with “rebels.” Yet so kind and courteous was the pensioner, that the elder confessed that he was “a real fine body, withoot a grain o’ bigotry.” William, too, had his talk on “the times,” and his favourite topic of reform; while Jeanie and her mother spoke of the farm, and of old friends among the cows, with many bygone reminiscences of persons and things. And thus the weight of their hearts was lightened, and made stronger, along with higher and better thoughts, to carry their burden; but ever and anon there came one little presence before them, causing a sinking of the heart.No sooner had their friends left the house for the night than the smith did what he never did before. He opened the Bible, and said to Jeanie, “I will read a chapter aloud before we retire to rest.”Jeanie clapped her husband fondly on the shoulder, and in silence sat down beside him while he read again some of the same passages which they had already heard. Few houses had that night more quiet and peaceful sleepers than that house, under whose roof, beneath the shining stars of God, those parents and their child reposed.The little black coffin was brought to the smith’s the night before the funeral. When the house was quiet, Davie was laid in it gently by his father. Jeanie stood by and assumed the duty of arranging with care the white garments in which her boy was dressed, wrapping them round him, and adjusting the head as if to sleep in her own bosom. She brushed once more the golden ringlets, and put the little hands in their right place, and opened out the frills in the cap, and removed every particle of sawdust which soiled the shroud. When all was finished, though she seemed anxious to prolong the work, the lid was put on the coffin, but so as to leave the face uncovered. Both were as silent as their child. But ere they retired to rest for the night, they instinctively went to take another look. As they gazed in silence, side by side, the smith felt his hand gently seized by his wife. She played at first nervously with the fingers, until, finding her own hand held by her husband, she looked into his face with an unutterable expression, and meeting his eyes so full of unobtrusive sorrow, she leant her head on his shoulder and said, “Willie, this is my last look o’ him on this side the grave. But, Willie dear, you and me maun see him again, and, mind ye, no’ to part—na, I canna thole that! We ken whaurheis, and we maun gang till him. Noo, promise me! vow alang wi’ me here, that, as we love him and ane another, we’ll attend mair to what’s gude than we hae dune, that—oh, Willie! forgie me, for it’s no’ my pairt to speak, but I canna help it th’ noo, and just, my bonnie man, just agree wi’ me—that we’ll gie our hearts noo and for ever to our ain Saviour, and the Saviour o’ our wee Davie!”These words were uttered without ever lifting her head from her husband’s shoulder, and in low, broken accents, half choked with an inward struggle, but without a tear. She was encouraged to say this—for she had a timid awe for her husband—by the pressure ever and anon returned to hers from his hand.The smith spoke not, but bent his head over his wife, who felt his tears falling on her neck, as he whispered, “Amen, Jeanie! so help me, God!”A silence ensued, during which Jeanie got, as she said, “a gude greet,” for the first time, which took a weight off her heart. She then quietly kissed her child and turned away.Thorburn took the hand of his boy and said, “Fareweel, Davie, and when you and me meet again, we’ll baith, I tak’ it, be a bit different frae what we are this nicht!” He then put the lid on mechanically, turned one or two of the screws, and then sat down at the fireside to chat about the arrangements of the funeral as on a matter of business.After that, for the first time, William asked his wife to kneel down, and he would pray before they retired to rest. Poor fellow! he was sincere as ever man was, and never after till the day of his death did he omit this “exercise,” which once on a day was universal in every family whose head was a member of the church, and I have known it continued by the widow when her head was taken away. But on this the first night when the smith tried to utter aloud the thoughts of his heart, he could only say, “Our Father—!” There he stopped. Something seemed to seize him, and to stop his utterance. Did he only know how much was in these words, he possibly might have said more. As it was, the thoughts of the father on earth so mingled, he knew not how, with those of the Father in heaven, that he could not speak. But he continued on his knees, and spoke there to God as he had never spoken before. Jeanie did the same.After a while they both rose, and Jeanie said, “Thank ye, Willie. It’s a beautifu’ beginning, and it wull, I’m sure, hae a braw ending.”“It’s cauld iron, Jeanie woman,” said the smith, “but it wull melt and come a’ richt.”The day of the funeral was a day of beauty and sunshine. A few fellow-tradesmen and neighbours assembled in the house, dressed in their Sunday’s best, though it was visible in one or two that the best was the worse of the wear. The last thing a Scotch workman will part with, even to keep his family in food, is his Sunday clothes; and the last duty he will fail to perform, is following the body of a neighbour or acquaintance to the grave. All were dressed with crape on their hats, and had weepers on their coats—the Corporal wore, besides, a medal on his. The smith, according to custom, sat near the door, and shook each man by the hand as he pointed to a seat. Not a word, of course, was spoken.When all who were expected had assembled, the Doctor, who occupied a chair near the table on which the Bible lay, opened the Book, and after reading a portion of it without any comment, he prayed with a fervour and suitableness which touched every heart. This is our only Scotch burial service. The little coffin was then brought out, and was easily carried. The Corporal was the first to step forward, and saluting the smith by putting his hand to his hat, soldier fashion, he begged to have the honour of assisting. Slowly the small procession advanced towards the churchyard, about half a mile off; and angels beheld that wondrous sight, a child’s funeral—wondrous as a symbol of sin and of redemption; of the insignificance of a human being as a mere creature, and of his magnificence as belonging to Christ Jesus.As they reached the grave, the birds were singing, and a flood of light steeped in glory a neighbouring range of hill; while overhead, the sky had only one small, snow-white cloud reposing in peace on its azure blue.When the sexton had finished thegrave and smoothed it with his spade, William quietly seized it, saying, “Gie me the shool, John, and I’ll gie him the last clap mysel’,” and he went over again the green turf carefully with gentle beats, and removed with his hand the small stones and gravel which roughened its surface. Those who stood very near, had they been narrowly watching him, which they had too much feeling to do, might have observed the smith give a peculiar, tender pressure and clap on the grave with his hand, as on a child’s breast, ere he returned the spade, and with a careless air said, “Here, John, thank ye; it’s a’ richt noo.” Then lifting up his hat, and looking round, added, “Thank ye, freens, for your trouble in coming.” And so they left “wee Davie” more precious and more enduring than the everlasting hills!* * * * *Several years after this, Dr. M‘Gavin, then a very old man, as he sat at his study fire, was conversing with a young preacher, who seemed to think that nothing could be accomplished of much value for the advancement of Christ’s kingdom, unless by some great “effort,” or “movement,” or “large committee,” which would carry everything at once by acoup de main. The Doctor quietly remarked, “My young friend, when you have lived as long in the ministry as I have done, you will learn how true it is, that ‘God fulfils Himself in many ways,’ He is in the still, small voice, and often, too, when He is neither in the earthquake nor in the hurricane. One of the most valuable elders I ever had—and whose admirable wife and daughters and well-doing, prosperous sons are still members of my church, and much attached friends—told me on his dying bed that, under God, he owed his chief good to the death of his first child, the circumstance which accidentally made me acquainted with him. On the last evening of his life, when enumerating the many things which had been blessed for his good, he said to me, ‘But under God it was my wee Davie that did it a’!’”
Itwas a beautiful morning in spring, with blue sky, living air, springing grass, and singing bird; but William Thorburn had not left his house that morning, and the door was shut.
Mrs. Fergusson trod the wooden stair that led to the flat above his with slow and cautious step; and as she met her boy running down whistling, she said, “What d’ye mean, Jamie, wi’ that noise? Do ye no’ ken wee Davie is dead? Ye should hae mair feeling, laddie!”
The Corporal, whose door was half open, crept out, and in an under-breath beckoned Mrs. Fergusson to speak to him. “Do you know how they are?” he asked in a low voice.
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I sat up wi’ Mrs. Thorburn half the night, and left Davie sleeping, and never thocht it would come to this. My heart is sair for them. But since it happened the door has been barred, and no one has been in. I somehow dinna like to intrude, for, nae doot, they will be in an awfu’ way aboot that bairn.”
“I don’t wonder—I don’t wonder!” remarked the Corporal meditatively; “I did not believe I could feel as I do. I don’t understand it. Here am I, who have seen men killed by my side. I have seen a single shot cut down half our company.”
“Is it possible?”
“It is certain,” said the Corporal; “and I have charged at Pampeluna—it was there I was wounded—over dead and dying comrades, yet, will you believe me? I never shed a tear—never; but there was something in that Captain—I mean the boy”—and the Corporal took out his snuff-box, and snuffed vehemently. “And what a brave fellow his father is! I never thought I could love a Radical; but he was not what you call a Radical; he was—I don’t know what else, but he is a man, an out-and-out man, every inch of him; I’ll say that for him—a man is William Thorburn! Have you not seen his wife?”
“No, poor body! It was six o’clock when she ran up to me, no’ distracted either, but awfu’ quiet like, and wakened me up, and just said, ‘He is awa’;’ and then afore I could speak she ran doon the stair, and steekit the door; and she has such a keen speerit, I dinna like to gang to bother her. My heart is sair for her.”
They both were silent, as if listening for some sound in William Thorburn’s house, but all was still as the grave.
The first who entered it was old David Armstrong and his wife. They found Jeanie busy about her house, and William sitting on a chair, staring into the fire, dressed with more than usual care. The curtains of the bed were up. It was covered with a pure white sheet, and something lay upon it which they knew.
Jeanie came forward, and took the hand of father and mother, without a tear on her face, and said quietly, “Come ben,” as she gave her father a chair beside her husband, and led her mother into an inner room, closing the door. What was spoken there between them I know not.
William rose to receive old David, and said, “It was a fine spring day.” David gave a warm squeeze to his hand, and sat down. He rose and went to the bed. William followed him, and took the cloth off the boy’s face in silence. They both gazed on it. The face was unchanged, as in sleep. The flaxen curls seemed to have been carefully arranged, for they escaped from under the white cap, and clustered like golden wreaths around the silvery forehead and cheeks. William covered up the face, and both returned to their seats by the fireside.
“I never lost ane since my ain wee Davie dee’d, and yours, Willie, was dear to me as my ain,” exclaimed the old man, and then broke down, and sobbed like a child.
William never moved, though his great chest seemed to heave; but he seized the poker and began to arrange the fire, and then was still as before. By-and-by, the door of the inner room opened, and Jeanie and her mother appeared, both of them composed and serene. The same scene was repeated as they passed the bed. Mrs. Armstrong seated herself beside her husband, and Jeanie placed a large Bible on the table, and, pointing to it, said, “Father,” and then drew her chair near the smith.
Illustration: William never movedWilliam never moved, though his great chest seemed to heave.
William never moved, though his great chest seemed to heave.
David Armstrong put on his spectacles, opened the Bible, and selecting a portion of Scripture, reverently said, “Let us read the Word of God.” The house was quiet. No business on that day intruded itself upon their minds. It was difficult for any of them to speak, but they were ready to hear. The passages which old David selected for reading were 2 Samuel xii. 15-23, Matthew ix. 18-26, and John xi. 1-44. Having closed the book, he said, with a trembling but solemn voice, “God, who doeth all things according to the counsel of His own will, has been pleased to send us a heavy affliction. ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away!’ May He enable us to say at all times, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ For whether He gives or takes away, He is always the same in love and mercy. If He takes away, it is but to give something better, for He afflicts us to make us partakers of His holiness. Our wee one is not dead; he only sleepeth.” Here David paused, but recovering himself, said, “Yes, his body sleepeth in Jesus till the resurrection morning. He himself is with Christ. He is alive, in his Father’s bosom. Oh, it is strange to think o’t, and hard to believe! but, blessed be God! it’s true, that—that—Jesus Christ, who sees us, sees him, and sees us thegither, ay, enoo!—” continued David thoughtfully, like one pondering on a new truth; “this very minute we are all in His sight! Oh, it’s grand and comforting; our wee Davie is in the arms of Jesus Christ!” A solemn silence ensued. “The bonnie bairn will never return to us, but we shall go to him, and some o’ us ere lang, I hope. Let us pray.” And they all knelt down, and a true prayer, from a true heart, was spoken, from suffering parents, to Him “of whomthe whole familyin heaven and earth is named.”
To David’s surprise and great satisfaction, he heard William utter Amen to his prayer, which included honest confession of sin; expressions of thankfulness for mercies, enumerating very many mercies, among others, the great gift of their child, thus taken away, with thanks for all he had been, and for all he then was; with trustful petitions for grace to help them in their time of need.
That afternoon Dr. M‘Gavin called, and manifested quiet, unobtrusive, but most touching sympathy. His very silence was eloquent affection.
“I’m proud to meet wi’ you, sir,” said old Armstrong, after the Doctor had been seated for a while. “Although I’m no’ o’ your kirk, yet we’re baith o’ ae Kirk for a’ that.”
“With one Father, one Brother, one Spirit, one life, one love, one hope!” replied the Doctor.
“True, sir, true, sir, our differences are nothing to our agreements, Doctor.”
“Our non-essential differences arise out of our essential union, Mr. Armstrong. If we differ honestly and conscientiously as brethren, I hope it is because we differ only in judgment as to how to please our Father, and our Eldest Brother. Our hearts are one in our wish to do Their will. For none of us liveth, or dieth even, to himself.”
“Ay, ay, Doctor. So it is, so it is! as the auld saying has’t, ‘The best men are but men at the best.’ We maun carry ane another’s burdens; and ignorance, or even bigotry, is the heaviest ony man can carry for his neebour. Thank God, brighter and better times are coming! We here see through a glass darkly; but then face to face. We know only in pairt; then shall we know even as we are known. We must be faithful to our given light, and serve Him, and not man.”
“There are differences among living men,” replied the Doctor, “but none among the dead. We shall only agree perfectly when we know and love as saints, without error and without sin.”
“I mind,” said David, warming with the conversation, and the pleasure of getting his better heart out—“I mind two neighbours of mine, and ye’ll mind them too, gudewife? that was Johnnie Morton and auld Andrew Gebbie. The tane was a keen Burgher, and the tother an Antiburgher. Baith lived in the same house, though at different ends, and it was the bargain that each should keep his ain side o’ the house aye weel thatched. But they happened to dispute so desperate about the principles o’ their kirks, that at last they quarrelled, and didna speak. So ae day after this, as they were on the roof thatching, each on his ain side, they reached the tap, and sae looking ower, face met face. What could they do? They couldna flee. So at last Andrew took aff his Kilmarnock cap, and, scratching his head, said, ‘Johnnie, you and me, I think, have been very foolish to dispute as we hae done as to Christ’s will aboot our kirks, till we hae forgot His will aboot ourselves; and so we hae fought sae keen for what we ca’ the truth that it has ended in brither fechting against brither. Whatever’s wrang, this canna be richt, if we dinna love. Noo, it strikes me that maybe it’s wi’ the Kirk as wi’ this hoose: ye’re working on ae side and me on the other, but if we only do our wark weel, we wull meet at the tap at last. Gie’s your han’!’ And so they shook han’s, and were the best o’ freens ever after.”
“Thank you, Mr. Armstrong, for the story,” said the Doctor. Then looking to the bed, he remarked, “Oh, if we were only simple, true, and loving, like little children, would we not, like that dear one, enter the kingdom of heaven, and know and love all who were in it, or on their way to it?”
“I’m glad I have met you, Doctor,” resumed the old elder. “It does ane’s heart good to meet a brother who has been a stranger. But if it hadna been for his death noo, we might never have met. Isna that queer? God’s ways are no’ our ways.”
“God brings life out of death,” replied the Doctor, “and in many ways does He ordain praise from babes and sucklings, whether living or dead.” Was not “wee Davie” a home missionary to the dissenting elder and Established Church minister? “And now,” continued the Doctor, “with your permission, good friends, I will read a short psalm and offer up a short prayer before I go.”
They thanked him, and he read the 23rd Psalm. His only remark was, as he closed the Bible, “The Good Shepherd has been pleased to take this dear lamb into His fold, never more to leave it.”
“And may the lamb be the means of making the auld sheep to follow!” added the elder.
When the prayer was over, Jeanie, who had hardly spoken a word, said, without looking at the Doctor, “Oh, sir, God didna hear our prayer for my bairn!”
“Dinna speak that way, Jeanie woman!” said old David softly, yet firmly.
“I canna help it, father; I maun get oot my thochts that are burning at my heart. The minister maun forgie me,” replied Jeanie.
“Surely, Mrs. Thorburn,” said the Doctor; “and it would be a great satisfaction to me if I could, from what God has taught me from His Word, and from my experience of sorrow, be able to solve any difficulty, or help you to acquiesce in God’s dealings with you; not because youmust,but because yououghtto submit; not because God haspower, and therefore does as He pleases, but because He is Love, and therefore pleases always to do what is right.”
“But, oh, He didna hear our prayer; that’s my battle! We were maybe wrang in asking what was against His wull.”
“Not in the way, perhaps, in which you expected, Mrs. Thorburn; yet every true prayer is verily heard and answered by Him. But He is too good, too wise, too loving, to give us always literally what we ask; if so, He would often be very cruel, andthatHe can never be. You would not give your child a serpent, if in his assurance he asked one, mistaking it for a fish; nor would you give him a stone for bread?”
The Doctor paused.
“When Nathan, the Lord’s prophet, telt King David that his child must die,” said Armstrong, “yet David even then prayed to the Lord to spare his life, and I dinna doot that his Father in heaven was pleased wi’ his freedom and faith.”
“Right,” continued the Doctor, “for I am sure we cannot trust Him too much, or open our human hearts to Him too freely; let us always remember, too, that when God refuses what we ask, He gives us something better—yea, far more than we can ask or think. He gave your dear child for a time; and if He has taken him away, can you, for example, tell the evil, the misery, which may have been prevented? How many parents would give worlds that their children had died in infancy! And you could not wish for more than your child’s good, and so God has thus far literally heard that prayer. He has done so by taking your child to Himself. Your precious jewel is not lost, but is in God’s treasury, where no thief can break through and steal;thatis surely something.”
“Oh yes, sir, it is!” said Jeanie; “but yet it’s an awfu’ blank! Ilka thing in the world seems different.”
“I’m jist thinking, Jeanie,” said Mrs. Armstrong, “that it’s a comfort ye ever pit yer een on Davie, for there’s puir Mrs. Blair—John Blair’s blin’ wife, ye ken—when she lost her callant, May was a year, she cam’ to me in an awfu’ way aboot it, and what vexed her sae muckle was, that she never had seen his wee face, and that she could only touch and han’le him, and hear him greet.”
“Puir body,” remarked Jeanie, “it was a sair misfortun’ for ony mither that—an’ yet—But I’ll no’ think aboot it; ilk ane has their ain burden to carry. Noo, minister, let me speir at you, sir: Will I never see my bairn again? and if I see him, will I no’ ken him?”
“You might as well ask whether you could see and know your child if he had gone to a foreign country instead of to heaven,” replied the Doctor. “Alas! if we did not know our beloved friends in heaven, earth in some respects would be dearer to our hearts! But then, ignorance is not possible in such a place of light and love.”
“It wadna be rational to think so,” remarked William, speaking for the first time, though he had been listening with great interest to the Doctor.
“But,” continued Jeanie, with quiet earnestness, “will our bairn aye be a bairn, Doctor? Oh, I hope so!”
“Dinna try, Jeanie dear,” said David, “to be wise aboon what is written.”
The Doctor smiled, and asked, “If your child had lived, think you would you have rejoiced had he always continued to be a child and never grown or advanced? and are you a loss or a gain to your father and mother, because you have grown in mind and knowledge since you were an infant?”
“I never thocht o’ that,” said Jeanie thoughtfully.
“Be assured,” continued the Doctor, “there will be no such abortions there as infants in intellect and sense for ever. All will be perfect and complete, according to the plan of God, who made us for fellowship with Himself and all His blissful family. Your darling has gone to a noble school, and will be taught and trained there for immortality by Him who was Himself a child, and who knows a mother’s love and a mother’s sorrow; and you too, parents, if you believe in Christ, and hold fast your confidence in Him, and become to Him as little children, will be made fit to enter the same society; and thus you and your boy, though never, perhaps, forgetting your old relationship on earth, will be fit companions for one another for ever and ever. Depend upon it, you will both know and love each other there better than you ever could have done here.”
“My wee pet!” murmured Jeanie, as the tears began to flow from a softened, because happier, heart.
William hid his face in his hands. After a while, he broke silence and said, “These thoughts of heaven are new to me. But common sense tells me they maun be true. Heaven does not seem to me noo to be the same strange place it used to be. My loss is not so complete as I once thought it was. Neither we nor our bairn have lived in vain.”
“Surely not,” said the Doctor—
“‘Better to have loved and lost,Than never to have loved at all!’
“‘Better to have loved and lost,Than never to have loved at all!’
“‘Better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all!’
You have contributed one citizen to the heavenly Jerusalem; one member to the family above; one happy spirit to add his voice to the anthem before the throne of God!”
“Lord, help our unbelief!” said Mr. Armstrong; “for the mair I think o’ the things which I believe, the mair they seem to me owre gude news to be true!”
“The disciples, when they first saw Christ after His resurrection,” said the Doctor, “did not believe from very joy.”
“We think owre muckle o’ our ain folk, Doctor, and owre little o’ Him. But it’s a comfort that He’s kent and loved as He ought to be by them. I thank Him, alang wi’ them that’s awa’, for all He is and gies to them noo.”
“And for all He is and does, and will ever be and do, to every man who trusts Him,” added the Doctor; “our friends would be grieved, if grief were possible to them now, did they think our memory of them made us forget Him, or that our love to them made us love Him less. Surely, if they know what we are doing, they would rejoice if they also knew that, along with themselves, we too rejoiced in their God and our God. What child in heaven but would be glad to know that its parents joined with it in the prayer of ‘OurFather’?”
“If wee Davie could preach to us, I dare say, sir, that micht be his text.”
“Though dead, he yet speaks,” replied the Doctor.
Yes, the boy was yet a home missionary, drawing the hearts of that household to God.
The Doctor rose to depart. “By-the-bye,” he said, “let me repeat a verse or two to you, Thorburn, from a poem which I am sure you will like. It expresses the thoughts of a parent about his dead girl, and which have already in part been poorly expressed by me when your wife asked me if she would know her boy:—
‘She is not dead—the child of our affection,But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ Himself doth rule.‘In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,She lives, whom we call dead.‘Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child;‘But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,Clothed with celestial grace,And beautiful with all the soul’s expansionShall we behold her face.’”
‘She is not dead—the child of our affection,But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ Himself doth rule.‘In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,She lives, whom we call dead.‘Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child;‘But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,Clothed with celestial grace,And beautiful with all the soul’s expansionShall we behold her face.’”
‘She is not dead—the child of our affection,But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ Himself doth rule.
‘She is not dead—the child of our affection,
But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ Himself doth rule.
‘In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,She lives, whom we call dead.
‘In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.
‘Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child;
‘Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;
‘But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,Clothed with celestial grace,And beautiful with all the soul’s expansionShall we behold her face.’”
‘But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace,
And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion
Shall we behold her face.’”
“Thank ye, sir, thank ye,” said Thorburn; “and ye’ll no’ be offended if I ax ye to gie me a grip o’ yer han’.” And the smith laid hold of the Doctor’s proffered hand, so small and white, with his own hand, so large and powerful—“God reward ye, sir, for we canna! And noo, Doctor,” the smith continued, “I maun oot wi’t! Since ye hae been so kind as gie us that fine bit o’ English poetry, I canna help gieing you a bit o’ Scotch, for Scotch poetry has been a favourite reading o’ mine, and there’s a verse that has been dirling a’ day in my heart. This is it:—
‘It’s dowie at the hint o’ hairst,At the wa’-gang o’ the swallow,When the winds blaw cauld,And the burns run bauld,And the wuds are hanging yellow;But oh! it’s dowier far to seeThe wa’-gang o’ ane the heart gangs wi’,The dead set o’ a shining e’e,That closes the weary warld on thee!’
‘It’s dowie at the hint o’ hairst,At the wa’-gang o’ the swallow,When the winds blaw cauld,And the burns run bauld,And the wuds are hanging yellow;But oh! it’s dowier far to seeThe wa’-gang o’ ane the heart gangs wi’,The dead set o’ a shining e’e,That closes the weary warld on thee!’
‘It’s dowie at the hint o’ hairst,
At the wa’-gang o’ the swallow,
When the winds blaw cauld,
And the burns run bauld,
And the wuds are hanging yellow;
But oh! it’s dowier far to see
The wa’-gang o’ ane the heart gangs wi’,
The dead set o’ a shining e’e,
That closes the weary warld on thee!’
Fareweel, sir! I’ll expect ye the morn at two, if convenient,” the smith whispered to the Doctor as he opened the door to him.
“I’ll be sure to come,” he replied. “Thank you for those verses; and think for your good about all I have said.”
That evening, there was a comfortable tea prepared by Jeanie for her friends, and the Corporal was one of the party. Had a stranger dropped in upon them, he would not have supposed that there was sorrow in the house. There is a merciful reaction to strong feeling. The highest waves, when they dash against the rock, flow farthest back, and scatter themselves in their rebound into sparkling foam and airy bubbles. The Corporal told some of his old stories of weariness and famine, of wounds and sufferings, and marches over the fields of Spain from victory to victory. Old Armstrong could match these only by Covenanter tales fromThe Scots Worthies, of battles long ago, but was astonished to find the Corporal a staunch Episcopalian, who had no sympathy with “rebels.” Yet so kind and courteous was the pensioner, that the elder confessed that he was “a real fine body, withoot a grain o’ bigotry.” William, too, had his talk on “the times,” and his favourite topic of reform; while Jeanie and her mother spoke of the farm, and of old friends among the cows, with many bygone reminiscences of persons and things. And thus the weight of their hearts was lightened, and made stronger, along with higher and better thoughts, to carry their burden; but ever and anon there came one little presence before them, causing a sinking of the heart.
No sooner had their friends left the house for the night than the smith did what he never did before. He opened the Bible, and said to Jeanie, “I will read a chapter aloud before we retire to rest.”
Jeanie clapped her husband fondly on the shoulder, and in silence sat down beside him while he read again some of the same passages which they had already heard. Few houses had that night more quiet and peaceful sleepers than that house, under whose roof, beneath the shining stars of God, those parents and their child reposed.
The little black coffin was brought to the smith’s the night before the funeral. When the house was quiet, Davie was laid in it gently by his father. Jeanie stood by and assumed the duty of arranging with care the white garments in which her boy was dressed, wrapping them round him, and adjusting the head as if to sleep in her own bosom. She brushed once more the golden ringlets, and put the little hands in their right place, and opened out the frills in the cap, and removed every particle of sawdust which soiled the shroud. When all was finished, though she seemed anxious to prolong the work, the lid was put on the coffin, but so as to leave the face uncovered. Both were as silent as their child. But ere they retired to rest for the night, they instinctively went to take another look. As they gazed in silence, side by side, the smith felt his hand gently seized by his wife. She played at first nervously with the fingers, until, finding her own hand held by her husband, she looked into his face with an unutterable expression, and meeting his eyes so full of unobtrusive sorrow, she leant her head on his shoulder and said, “Willie, this is my last look o’ him on this side the grave. But, Willie dear, you and me maun see him again, and, mind ye, no’ to part—na, I canna thole that! We ken whaurheis, and we maun gang till him. Noo, promise me! vow alang wi’ me here, that, as we love him and ane another, we’ll attend mair to what’s gude than we hae dune, that—oh, Willie! forgie me, for it’s no’ my pairt to speak, but I canna help it th’ noo, and just, my bonnie man, just agree wi’ me—that we’ll gie our hearts noo and for ever to our ain Saviour, and the Saviour o’ our wee Davie!”
These words were uttered without ever lifting her head from her husband’s shoulder, and in low, broken accents, half choked with an inward struggle, but without a tear. She was encouraged to say this—for she had a timid awe for her husband—by the pressure ever and anon returned to hers from his hand.
The smith spoke not, but bent his head over his wife, who felt his tears falling on her neck, as he whispered, “Amen, Jeanie! so help me, God!”
A silence ensued, during which Jeanie got, as she said, “a gude greet,” for the first time, which took a weight off her heart. She then quietly kissed her child and turned away.
Thorburn took the hand of his boy and said, “Fareweel, Davie, and when you and me meet again, we’ll baith, I tak’ it, be a bit different frae what we are this nicht!” He then put the lid on mechanically, turned one or two of the screws, and then sat down at the fireside to chat about the arrangements of the funeral as on a matter of business.
After that, for the first time, William asked his wife to kneel down, and he would pray before they retired to rest. Poor fellow! he was sincere as ever man was, and never after till the day of his death did he omit this “exercise,” which once on a day was universal in every family whose head was a member of the church, and I have known it continued by the widow when her head was taken away. But on this the first night when the smith tried to utter aloud the thoughts of his heart, he could only say, “Our Father—!” There he stopped. Something seemed to seize him, and to stop his utterance. Did he only know how much was in these words, he possibly might have said more. As it was, the thoughts of the father on earth so mingled, he knew not how, with those of the Father in heaven, that he could not speak. But he continued on his knees, and spoke there to God as he had never spoken before. Jeanie did the same.
After a while they both rose, and Jeanie said, “Thank ye, Willie. It’s a beautifu’ beginning, and it wull, I’m sure, hae a braw ending.”
“It’s cauld iron, Jeanie woman,” said the smith, “but it wull melt and come a’ richt.”
The day of the funeral was a day of beauty and sunshine. A few fellow-tradesmen and neighbours assembled in the house, dressed in their Sunday’s best, though it was visible in one or two that the best was the worse of the wear. The last thing a Scotch workman will part with, even to keep his family in food, is his Sunday clothes; and the last duty he will fail to perform, is following the body of a neighbour or acquaintance to the grave. All were dressed with crape on their hats, and had weepers on their coats—the Corporal wore, besides, a medal on his. The smith, according to custom, sat near the door, and shook each man by the hand as he pointed to a seat. Not a word, of course, was spoken.
When all who were expected had assembled, the Doctor, who occupied a chair near the table on which the Bible lay, opened the Book, and after reading a portion of it without any comment, he prayed with a fervour and suitableness which touched every heart. This is our only Scotch burial service. The little coffin was then brought out, and was easily carried. The Corporal was the first to step forward, and saluting the smith by putting his hand to his hat, soldier fashion, he begged to have the honour of assisting. Slowly the small procession advanced towards the churchyard, about half a mile off; and angels beheld that wondrous sight, a child’s funeral—wondrous as a symbol of sin and of redemption; of the insignificance of a human being as a mere creature, and of his magnificence as belonging to Christ Jesus.
As they reached the grave, the birds were singing, and a flood of light steeped in glory a neighbouring range of hill; while overhead, the sky had only one small, snow-white cloud reposing in peace on its azure blue.
When the sexton had finished thegrave and smoothed it with his spade, William quietly seized it, saying, “Gie me the shool, John, and I’ll gie him the last clap mysel’,” and he went over again the green turf carefully with gentle beats, and removed with his hand the small stones and gravel which roughened its surface. Those who stood very near, had they been narrowly watching him, which they had too much feeling to do, might have observed the smith give a peculiar, tender pressure and clap on the grave with his hand, as on a child’s breast, ere he returned the spade, and with a careless air said, “Here, John, thank ye; it’s a’ richt noo.” Then lifting up his hat, and looking round, added, “Thank ye, freens, for your trouble in coming.” And so they left “wee Davie” more precious and more enduring than the everlasting hills!
* * * * *
Several years after this, Dr. M‘Gavin, then a very old man, as he sat at his study fire, was conversing with a young preacher, who seemed to think that nothing could be accomplished of much value for the advancement of Christ’s kingdom, unless by some great “effort,” or “movement,” or “large committee,” which would carry everything at once by acoup de main. The Doctor quietly remarked, “My young friend, when you have lived as long in the ministry as I have done, you will learn how true it is, that ‘God fulfils Himself in many ways,’ He is in the still, small voice, and often, too, when He is neither in the earthquake nor in the hurricane. One of the most valuable elders I ever had—and whose admirable wife and daughters and well-doing, prosperous sons are still members of my church, and much attached friends—told me on his dying bed that, under God, he owed his chief good to the death of his first child, the circumstance which accidentally made me acquainted with him. On the last evening of his life, when enumerating the many things which had been blessed for his good, he said to me, ‘But under God it was my wee Davie that did it a’!’”