"You must remember your own story of Anne Ascue and her tortures. How firmly she bore them for the sake of the truth."
"Ah if I were to suffer for the sake of the truth."
"But did not mamma say that a martyr's spirit might be shown even under the common pains of life? God knows how terrified you feel. He sees all your trouble and your fear; and if He see also that you fight with your fear—that you call upon Him in the time of trouble, He will be pleased with your submission and faith; as the clergyman said this morning, 'We may glorify God in the fires.'"
Though Percy was several years older than Willy, it was a great relief to his weary spirit to lean upon the firmer mind of his companion. The difference of age was forgotten—he only saw the Christian comforter and the sympathising friend in the boy. So drawing Willy closer to his side, Percy replied in a sorrowful tone, without raising his eyes, "I fear that I do not glorify God in the fires, and that is one of my worst troubles. After all that I had heard from dear Uncle Presgrave, I seemed to feel some love of what is holy, some desire to serve my Lord. But oh! Willy, all good and happy thoughts wither in the air of this place! I have no one to help me on the way to heaven, no one who cares whether I am in it or not; I am very, very lonely on earth!" Tears rolled fast down his cheeks as he spoke.
"But the Lord loves, and is always watching over you."
"Yes," replied Percy very gravely, "but He must see in me so much to displease and offend Him. Remember, Willy, that He is a just and a terrible God!"
"All of us do wrong often; but, Percy, I should think that few offended so seldom as you do."
"Ah! You do not know," replied the boy, rocking himself backwards and forwards us if in pain. "I have plenty of time to look at my own heart, as I lie day after day, and night after night, with nothing to amuse or to distract my attention. All sorts of faults rise up to my view—you would not believe what I am!"
Willy only replied by a look of surprise. Percy continued to pour out the fulness of his burdened heart. "I hardly ever speak with a being but my uncle and Deborah; and my conscience is always reproaching me with my conduct to them. Towards my uncle I am ungrateful, positively ungrateful. I eat his bread, I sleep under his roof, and yet I cannot love him! O Willy! There must be something very wrong in this heart of mine!"
Willy knew not what answer to make.