“What fashes ye, lad?” he asked. “Are ye in trouble?”
“No trouble now, father. I’ve been to see the meenister.”
“Ay, and what then?”
“He thinks I have a call. I’ve felt it this long while, and—father, shall I go?”
Joseph M’Clean was silent for a moment. Archie was the apple of his eye; to part from the lad would be such pain as he could scarcely bring himself to face; but the ministry—Like Abraham of old, if the Lord demanded the sacrifice, he was ready to give it, so on the altar of his affections he laid his first-born, saying in a broken voice, “The Lord be with you, my son; if it is his will, I cannot deny ye to Him.” And the undemonstrative Scot drew the boy close and folded his arms about him. “I’ll not deny it’s hard to part from ye, Archie, my lad,” he said in a shaking voice.
“But it’ll not be for always, father. I beeta to come back here, maybe.”
“Ay, maybe.”
“Grandfather will help me.”
“He will, and be proud to do it. He was ever at me to encourage ye in the notion. Ye’ll go straight to him, Archie, and tell him I sent ye. Now go tell your mither.”
Between her pride in the prospect of her boy’s becoming a minister and her sorrow at parting with him, Mrs. M’Clean had many tears to shed, but she said nothing to dissuade him from his purpose, and he went forth from her presence comforted.