"How? you had the Bible with you in India."
"I had," replied Hubert, "and therefore I was the more guilty and responsible for the life I led there. I cannot look upon man without the Bible as I do upon him with: it is the only source from which we can draw a perfect rule of life; and if man has it not, how can he know? Whether he reads it or not is another matter: if he have it at all he is responsible."
"Ah!" said the stranger, "I shall do now; we can talk these matters over together; somehow, I know all this, but yet I cannot get on with it alone. How is your father? is he still living?"
"Yes, and will be glad to see you; I have told him all we know of each other, and he is waiting now for our coming; for, like myself, he thought you would be here to-day."
As Hubert finished speaking, he and his friend rose from his seat and walked to the village; and as they walked along Hubert told him of the devastation that Death had caused in his home, and begged him, as he was the last of his family, to make his dwelling with them.
It was a goodly welcome that met the stranger at Hubert's home; and there was so much peace and happiness, sanctified by that religion which he longed for, that he soon became as one of the family; and by paying a yearly visit to the grave at Dunkeld, where he had buried his loved ones, he lived for ten years with Hubert and his father; and when he died, they mourned the loss of a Christian and a friend, and buried him as he had wished in the grave of his wife and son. Five years more were meted out to Hubert's father, and then they laid him with the dear ones gone before, and carved a simple record upon the stone that covered the grave where he and his wife lay.
"They sleep in Jesus," was all that Hubert told the world of them, and very soon the grass and flowers covered that fond testimony.
Between Hubert and Dr. Martin, in India, a warm friendship continued for many years; it ever cheered Hubert's heart to hear from his distant friend, for he owed him much, and heard from him gladly; but one day, after a longer silence than usual, there came a letter written by a stranger's hand, bearing the unwelcome news that the good man was gone. He had spent a long life of usefulness, and, in the land which had always been the field of his labour, he lay down and died. It was not his lot to hang up his weapons of warfare, and rest upon the laurels he had won; his Master was the King of kings, in whose cause he spent all his life. How could he rest? There was no reward on earth a sufficient recompense for his labours; and though his body now rests in an unknown distant tomb, yet, far away in the city of the great King, he has been crowned with an immortal diadem. How many quiet unobtrusive Christians there are, of whom the world knows nothing, who live to reclaim and guide aright their weak and sinning brethren, and though they live and appear to die unknown, they give to many a dying bed peace, when there would be no peace; and they are often the ten—ay, the five—that save the city.
Hubert was sad at the news of his friend's death, but he knew where he should meet him again, and not as he felt when he remembered the young sinning companion of his youth, the never-forgotten Harris; with a grateful thankful heart he could think of him in heaven, and hope to meet him there.
Once more let us turn to Hubert's home. Young Richard, dear good boy, when he grew to manhood, married the playfellow of his childhood, the orphan granddaughter of the village pastor, and they lived in the old house with Hubert; and when, at last, the veteran's career was ended, they followed him with many tears to the old churchyard, and Richard had that seventh white stone carved to his memory. It is but a simple unemblazoned record of one departed, yet travellers say it is a strange device, that torn ill-used book, and ever and anon some one asks its meaning.