V
“I can’t—” said a very old man with a peaceful face—now wearing a somewhat startled expression— “I can’t quite believe you are serious, Mr. Sewall. The people are all expecting you—they will come out to hear you. I have not preached for—“ he hesitated— ”for many years. I will not say that it would not be—a
happiness. If I thought I were fit. But——”
“If I were half as fit,” answered Sewall, gently, “I should be very proud. But I’m—why, I’m barely seasoned, yet. I’m liable to warp, if I’m exposed to the weather. But you—with all the benefit of your long experience—you’re the sort of timber that needs to be built into this strange Christmas service. I hadn’t thought much about it, Mr. Blake, till I was on my way here. I accepted the invitation too readily. But when I did begin to think, I felt the need of help. I believe you can give it. It’s a critical situation. You know these people, root and branch. I may say the wrong thing. You will know how to say the right one.”
“If I should consent,” the other man said, after a silence during which, with bent white head, he studied the matter, “what would be your part? Should you attempt—”
he glanced at the clerical dress of his caller— “to carry through the service of your—Church?”
Sewall’s face, which had been grave, relaxed. “No, Mr. Blake,” said he. “It wouldn’t be possible, and it wouldn’t be—suitable. This is a community which would probably prefer any other service, and it should have its preference respected. A simple form, as nearly as possible like what it has been used to, will be best—don’t you think so? I believe there is to be considerable music. I will read the Story of the Birth, and will try to make a prayer. The rest I will leave to you.”
“And Him,” added the old man.
“And Him,” agreed the young man, reverently. Then a bright smile broke over his face, and he held out his hand. “I’m no end grateful to you, sir,” he said, a certain attractive boyishness of manner suddenly coming uppermost and putting
to flight the dignity which was at times a heavier weight than he could carry. “No end. Don’t you remember how it used to be, when you first went into the work, and tackled a job now and then that seemed too big for you? Then you caught sight of a pair of shoulders that looked to you broader than yours—the muscles developed by years of exercise—and you were pretty thankful to shift the load on to them? You didn’t want to shirk—Heaven forbid!—but you just felt you didn’t know enough to deal with the situation. Don’t you remember?”
The old man, with a gently humorous look, glanced down at his own thin, bent shoulders, then at the stalwart ones which towered above him.
“You speak metaphorically, my dear lad,” he said quaintly, with a kindly twinkle in his faded blue eyes. He laid his left hand on the firm young arm whose hand held his shrunken
right. “But I do remember—yes, yes—I remember plainly enough. And though it seems to me now as if the strength were all with the young and vigorous in body, it may be that I should be glad of the years that have brought me experience.”
“And tolerance,” added William Sewall, pressing the hand, his eyes held fast by Elder Blake’s.
“And love,” yet added the other. “Love. That’s the great thing—that’s the great thing. I do love this community—these dear people. They are good people at heart—only misled as to what is worth standing out for. I would see them at peace. Maybe I can speak to them. God knows—I will try.”
