“It’s—you know—I didn’t suppose anybody cared. I’d have been glad to, if I knew how; but you never said a word, and she never even looked at me in particular.”
You could detect something of Nettie’s jealous disposition, but there was more of a real longing for personal help and sympathy which had been withheld. Even Miss Marvin, faithful Christian that she was, had, as too many of us do, looked into the eyes full of eager questioning, wilful defiance, or forlorn hopelessness, but had passed thoughtlessly by the dull, ordinary, well-enough boy.
“She didn’t mean to,—indeed she didn’t,” said Dick, slipping one hand into his friend’s; “and I never supposed you ever thought of the thing; but I have—prayed for you, Rob, lots of times; and only think, if there’s two of us to pray for the rest—oh, I’m so glad you’re really going to try!”
Was he going to? Had he really decided? People of Robert’s temperament seldom fully make up their minds without strong outside pressure. This, Dick’s earnest, taking-for-granted manner had furnished.
Almost before he knew it, they were going in Mr. Forbush’s gate. “Miss Marvin could tell him how, so much better,” Dick said. There seemed no way of backing out, even if Rob had wanted to, and he certainly went home that night more thoroughly in earnest than he ever was in all his life before.
V.
HOW FARMER VANCE REASONED.
“And as he reasoned of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come, Felix trembled.”
Mr. Vance was to take the new class in Sabbath School. He declared it was the most absurd thing ever thought of, but Mr. Sampson insisted. He knew the farmer to be a well-read man, and that, although but a learner himself in Bible lore, he had that quick, keen, sympathetic grasp of human nature which enables one to attract and influence others. Only Will Carter objected. He had supposed Mr. Sampson would take the class himself. What could Farmer Vance, who had only recently begun to attend church, teach a boy well versed in algebra, geometry, and all the ’ologies? Will made extra preparations for that first Sabbath, studied up on Biblical history, primed himself with contemporary events, and fully expected to utterly confound the plain farmer at the outset.
The latter had his hands full, to say the least,—what with the factory boys, to whom everything was new and strange; Tom and his set, who meant to have a good time out of it; stupid Bill Finnegan, indifferent Varney Lowe, and wise Will Carter,—but his ready tact, a suggestion here, an illustration there, a hand upon Jack Mullin’s knee when the latter’s risibles threatened to become unmanageable, a quiet deferring to Will’s gratuitous information, all together, maintained at least a show of interest and order. Very plainly, however, he considered contemporary events of minor importance. Will secretly chafed at the way everything drifted round to the one first, foremost thought,—Christ and Him crucified. Heretofore he had always been able to dodge the practical questions, but Mr. Vance made them all practical. The lesson was in the twenty-sixth chapter of Second Chronicles,—