At the mention of his mother the tears filled his eyes. We were sitting together on the trunk of a fallen tree, and he covered his face with his hands, but I could see that the tears forced their way between the fingers, and that he was sobbing violently. He is only as yet a mere boy, and such emotion is excusable.
At last he looked up.
"I long to be a Christian like her," he said; "over and over again she taught me, during her last days on earth, of the Christ she loved, and who, she said, was ever near her. I have heard all about the faith she loved, yet I am an outcast from it. What can I do?--my father will not let me be baptized, and I dare not oppose his will; yet I sometimes think I ought to chance all, and to die, if death should be the penalty."
"Die? You do not surely think he would slay you?"
"I know he would."
"In that case, my child, your duty seems plain: your Lord calls you to give Him your love, your obedience, and to seek refuge in the fold of His church."
"Ought I to leave my father?"
I felt very much puzzled indeed what to say. I could have no doubt as to the lad's duty; but then his father was his natural guardian, and in all things, save the plain duty of professing Christ, had a claim to his obedience.
"I think," I said at last, "my Alfgar, that when he knew you were determined to be a Christian he would oppose you no longer; that is, if you were once baptized he would tolerate a Christian son as he once did a Christian wife."
"He broke her heart."