“Thanks, my good lad,” said the clergyman, placing a silver piece in his hand.
“Good,” repeated Mark to himself; “he little knows to whom he is speaking.”
“It would be tedious to you, Charles, to remain beside me while I am sketching,” said Mr. Ewart; “you will enjoy a little rambling about; only return to me in an hour.”
“I will explore!” replied the young lord gaily; “there is no saying what curiosities I may find to remind me of the pilgrims of former days.”
And now the clergyman sat alone, engaged with his paper and brush, while Mark watched him from a little distance, and communed with his own heart.
“He said that he knew the one, only way by which sinners could be accounted righteous—righteous! that must mean good—before a holy God! He knows the way; oh, that he would tell it to me! I have half a mind to go up to him now; it would be a good time when he is all by himself.” Mark made one step forward, then paused. “I dare not, he would think it so strange. He could not understand what I feel. He has never stolen, nor told lies, nor sworn; he would despise a poor sinner like me. And yet,” added the youth with a sigh, “he would hardly sit there, looking so quiet and happy, if he knew how anxious a poor boy is to hear of the way of salvation, which he says that he knows. I will go nearer; perhaps he may speak first.”
Mr. Ewart had begun a bold, clever sketch,—stones and moss, trees and grass were rapidly appearing on the paper, but he wanted some living object to give interest to the picture. Naturally his eye fell upon Mark, in his tattered jacket and straw hat, but he forgot his sketch as he looked closer at the boy, and met his sad, anxious gaze.
“You are unhappy, I fear,” he said, laying down his pencil.
Mark cast down his eyes, and said nothing.